So we’re sitting at the dinner table trying to extract information out of Tall. “Tall, tell me about your day at school,” begins The Husband innocently enough. “Mommy mentioned that the entire first grade is putting on a play.”
“You’re not invited,” snaps Tall. “I don’t want you to come.”
I suppress a grin. Well, at least I’m not a victim of his wrath today.
“Or you,” he says, redirecting his gaze to me. “Neither of you is invited.”
What? What did we do this time?
“Why not?” asks The Husband. “We want to see you in your special play, and we want to take lots of pictures.”
“That’s why,” mutters Tall, “because you’ll embarrass me.” Now he has a worried look on his face, fast-forwarding to his performance, and his Parents Doing Embarrassing Things, things like taking a few photos of their son.
“Wait, Tall, you’re saying you’d be embarrassed if we took photos? Okay, we won’t take any photos.” This is a promise I can keep, as I know I can ask my freighbor to take shots of Tall when she takes some of her own son. Freighbor is a better photographer than me, anyway.
“Mom, I’m not even talking about just photos. You would do other things to embarrass me.”
“Like what?” queries The Husband.
“You know, like, you might call out when everyone is clapping at the end, you might go, ‘Hey! Tall! Great job!’ or something bad like that.” His little brow furrows, thinking of the devastation that would follow if his friends were to witness us complimenting him.
“I get it,” I say. “That’s fine, Tall. We won’t call out or anything. But we are coming to the play.”
He crosses his arms across his chest deliberately. A pout settles on his little round face.
“I have a good idea,” The Husband offers excitedly, “Mommy and I will say all the embarrassing things now, and get it out of the way! That way, on the day of the play, we won’t embarrass you in front of all your friends.”
Tall’s face registers a new look, one I’ve seen before: skepticism. “No. Don’t do that either,” he says firmly.
Too late. The Husband is out of his chair now, waving and pointing. There is much taking of imaginary photos with the imaginary camera. “That’s our son! That’s Tall! Hey, Tall, WE LOVE YOU!! Our son is the best actor and the best singer, and he’s the star of the show! Yay, Tall!” Next, manic applauding and foot-stomping.
I’m sucked in by his faux enthusiasm. “Yay! Yay, Tall!” I echo. “Woo-hoo! Go, go, Tall!” I have morphed into a cheerleader at a football game, “Tall is the one! The best! WE LOVE YOU!!”
Tall’s face is a sunset of reds. “Stop it,” he hisses.
The Husband taps me on the arm. “Okay, since we showed him what we won’t do, now let’s show him how we really will act on the actual day of his play.” The Husband is nodding, sending me mental telepathy messages of my lines.
“Do you know anyone in this play?” I stage-whisper to The Husband.
He shrugs. “Nope,” he whispers back. “Why are we here again?”
MOV
(“Mom On Vaudeville”)
Monday, February 14, 2011
Saturday, February 12, 2011
328. Death, Divorce, Drama, Disease
Yesterday was a depressing day (ah, "Depression"—yet another dreaded “D” word). I met a friend for lunch, and talk turned to the very recent death of her friend (age 40) from Cancer. My mom is also fighting Cancer (well, not so much “fight”—it started out sort of like a tiff, and has now progressed to a full-blown feud). Cancer is a scary prospect: you can do everything right—eat healthy, exercise, quit smoking—and still become a victim of this hideous disease.
That afternoon, I stopped by another friend’s house to drop off a book. She’s in the middle of an unwelcome divorce (I’m sure all divorce is unwelcome, but in her case, I mean she was completely blind-sided). I can imagine God dealing out pieces of people’s fates, like playing cards, and her flipping over the one that read, “Divorce.” Crap, I can see her cringing, I don’t want that card! Let me put it back. I’d rather have “Lose Job” or “Mother-in-law Problems,” instead.
Later, I had coffee with yet another dear friend, who has major issues with her father. I’ve never met him, but from her description, he’s controlling, manipulative, and bossy. He wants everyone to do things his way or not at all. She wants to keep him in her life so her children can know their grandfather, but the whole situation is very draining on her. So the card that God dealt her was “Drama.”
I guess my role yesterday was that of Listener. I tried to be a good listener and a good friend to my pals that needed to vent their sadness, their frustration, their anger. I know many times I am the one complaining, and they are the ones listening. Our roles are fluid, back and forth, listener/ talker/ helper/ friend.
As I was driving home, I started thinking about these bad cards we get dealt, these cards that start with the letter “D.” I don’t much care for this letter and all its corrupt family members: Danger, Demons, Dishonest, Dull, Disaster, Deranged, Drugs, Disappointment, Dogmatic, Dismal, Damage, Dissatisfaction, Dump, Dark, Disreputable, Drudgery, Derogatory, Distant, Dizzy, Disdain, Discrimination, Dumb, Defensive, Disgust, Doom, Disorderly, Dismissive, Drunk.
When I was a flight attendant, I shuddered to hear the relatively mild “D” word: “Delayed.” Once in a while, I’d hear the word “Divert,” as in, “The snow in Denver is so bad, we have to divert our plane, and land in Wichita instead.” Damn.
Now my mind was spinning, thinking about these “D” words. I walked in my front door, set my keys on the table, and hung up my coat. That’s when I saw it: The Husband playing a card game on the floor with the boys. Oh, yeah, I thought, there is a good “D” word after all: Dad.
MOV
That afternoon, I stopped by another friend’s house to drop off a book. She’s in the middle of an unwelcome divorce (I’m sure all divorce is unwelcome, but in her case, I mean she was completely blind-sided). I can imagine God dealing out pieces of people’s fates, like playing cards, and her flipping over the one that read, “Divorce.” Crap, I can see her cringing, I don’t want that card! Let me put it back. I’d rather have “Lose Job” or “Mother-in-law Problems,” instead.
Later, I had coffee with yet another dear friend, who has major issues with her father. I’ve never met him, but from her description, he’s controlling, manipulative, and bossy. He wants everyone to do things his way or not at all. She wants to keep him in her life so her children can know their grandfather, but the whole situation is very draining on her. So the card that God dealt her was “Drama.”
I guess my role yesterday was that of Listener. I tried to be a good listener and a good friend to my pals that needed to vent their sadness, their frustration, their anger. I know many times I am the one complaining, and they are the ones listening. Our roles are fluid, back and forth, listener/ talker/ helper/ friend.
As I was driving home, I started thinking about these bad cards we get dealt, these cards that start with the letter “D.” I don’t much care for this letter and all its corrupt family members: Danger, Demons, Dishonest, Dull, Disaster, Deranged, Drugs, Disappointment, Dogmatic, Dismal, Damage, Dissatisfaction, Dump, Dark, Disreputable, Drudgery, Derogatory, Distant, Dizzy, Disdain, Discrimination, Dumb, Defensive, Disgust, Doom, Disorderly, Dismissive, Drunk.
When I was a flight attendant, I shuddered to hear the relatively mild “D” word: “Delayed.” Once in a while, I’d hear the word “Divert,” as in, “The snow in Denver is so bad, we have to divert our plane, and land in Wichita instead.” Damn.
Now my mind was spinning, thinking about these “D” words. I walked in my front door, set my keys on the table, and hung up my coat. That’s when I saw it: The Husband playing a card game on the floor with the boys. Oh, yeah, I thought, there is a good “D” word after all: Dad.
MOV
Thursday, February 10, 2011
326. You Can't Insult Me Like That
So I’m just leaving the library with Short, when I run into my girlfriend Gina and her toddler. We chat for a couple minutes, I’m genuinely happy to see her, and then it happens. The toddler commits an unspeakable transgression. Well, not so much “unspeakable” as “unrepeatable.” He says something so mean, so vile, that Gina immediately grips his little paw, leans down to him, and says sternly, “No, Bryce! That is not okay! We do NOT call Short’s mommy that word!”
Wait—what word? I didn’t hear what Bryce said. Can your repeat the bad word, Bryce? So I can tell if the word is on my List, too, or if Gina is being overly-dramatic?
Gina turns a Valentine's medley of about 12 shades of red, she is so embarrassed, and starts apologizing profusely. “I’m so, so sorry, MOV, I have no idea where he first heard that word, it’s not a word that Steve and I ever say, I’m so sorry.” She looks like she might cry, like she was the one who said The Word.
I lean in to Gina and give her a semi-hug (she’s trying to wrangle Bryce, who’s trying to get away), and I whisper, “It’s okay, Gina, not a big deal.”
But is it a big deal? What was The Word? Was it of the four-letter variety, the kind of word that one could consider “verbal assault,” and actually take someone (okay, not a toddler) to court over? Was I cussed out by a two-year-old? Or was it something relatively benign, like “poopy-head,” because, let’s be honest, that’s a phrase I've heard bandied around my own house once or twice by a frustrated four-year-old, possibly even as recently as this morning.
Short is grinning, like perhaps he heard The Word in question. Should I ask him what The Word was when we get out to the car? Or would that reinforce the negative connotations of The Word, and now he would run around repeating it at every opportunity?
I decide to go with the three-step approach of Option B: ignore, ignore, ignore. If I simply ignore what Bryce said, maybe everyone (even Gina) will forget it ever happened.
We say goodbye to Gina and Bryce; Short and I pick our books up off the check-out desk, and start to walk out. Short's grin has taken over his little face, he is all Chiclet teeth and chapped lips. He starts giggling to himself.
We get to the car, and I help him with his seatbelt. “I’ve got it, Mommy,” he insists. Then he starts laughing again.
I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. “Short, Short, what is it? What is so funny?”
More laughing. Kicking of the feet to accompany the laughter that is (most likely) at Mommy’s expense. “Bryce said …”
I wait. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. He won’t tell me.
“Bryce said … Bryce called you … a witch!” More giggles. “Isn’t that so silly, Mommy? Because you don’t even have a broom!”
That’s okay, Bryce, I’ve been called worse.
MOV
(“Mama Or Vulgarity?”)
Wait—what word? I didn’t hear what Bryce said. Can your repeat the bad word, Bryce? So I can tell if the word is on my List, too, or if Gina is being overly-dramatic?
Gina turns a Valentine's medley of about 12 shades of red, she is so embarrassed, and starts apologizing profusely. “I’m so, so sorry, MOV, I have no idea where he first heard that word, it’s not a word that Steve and I ever say, I’m so sorry.” She looks like she might cry, like she was the one who said The Word.
I lean in to Gina and give her a semi-hug (she’s trying to wrangle Bryce, who’s trying to get away), and I whisper, “It’s okay, Gina, not a big deal.”
But is it a big deal? What was The Word? Was it of the four-letter variety, the kind of word that one could consider “verbal assault,” and actually take someone (okay, not a toddler) to court over? Was I cussed out by a two-year-old? Or was it something relatively benign, like “poopy-head,” because, let’s be honest, that’s a phrase I've heard bandied around my own house once or twice by a frustrated four-year-old, possibly even as recently as this morning.
Short is grinning, like perhaps he heard The Word in question. Should I ask him what The Word was when we get out to the car? Or would that reinforce the negative connotations of The Word, and now he would run around repeating it at every opportunity?
I decide to go with the three-step approach of Option B: ignore, ignore, ignore. If I simply ignore what Bryce said, maybe everyone (even Gina) will forget it ever happened.
We say goodbye to Gina and Bryce; Short and I pick our books up off the check-out desk, and start to walk out. Short's grin has taken over his little face, he is all Chiclet teeth and chapped lips. He starts giggling to himself.
We get to the car, and I help him with his seatbelt. “I’ve got it, Mommy,” he insists. Then he starts laughing again.
I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. “Short, Short, what is it? What is so funny?”
More laughing. Kicking of the feet to accompany the laughter that is (most likely) at Mommy’s expense. “Bryce said …”
I wait. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. He won’t tell me.
“Bryce said … Bryce called you … a witch!” More giggles. “Isn’t that so silly, Mommy? Because you don’t even have a broom!”
That’s okay, Bryce, I’ve been called worse.
MOV
(“Mama Or Vulgarity?”)
325. Crazy Like A Fox
There comes a point in every relationship when your very future hinges on three little words. In our case, those words were “Fox on armoire!”
The Husband and I were living in California, renting a tiny apartment across from the beach. One night, I was awakened from a deep deep sleep by The Husband turning the lights on full bright, sitting up straight in bed, and yelling at the top of his lungs, “Fox on armoire!”
As you can imagine, this was slightly disconcerting. Would this wild fox try to bite us, or possibly steal one of my favorite sweaters from the armoire? And what, exactly, did The Husband expect me to do about this situation? Shouldn't he be trying to protect me from the fox, instead of the other way 'round?
Yes, I had a job where I dealt with random scenarios every day. I knew what to do if there was a medical emergency, a fire, or if a plane crashed in water. But, all my years of flight attendant training had not adequately prepared me for this moment. I had never dealt with a wild animal on the loose (sure, I’d dealt with a drunk passenger or five, but to my knowledge, they never had rabies).
I decided the first order of business was to actually see the fox. Even though The Husband was screaming and pointing to the (supposed) location of said fox, I did not see a fox. Since the armoire was at an angle in the corner of the room, it was quite possible that the fox had hidden behind the armoire.
The logical part of my brain started to thaw. “Sweetie, uh, do you think it is maybe a cat, and not a fox?” This was way before we owned our cat, but perhaps an errant neighbor cat had snuck in our (closed, locked) window.
“It! Is! A! Fox!” he insisted, adamant. “Right there!”
I rubbed my eyes, willing myself to see whatever it was that The Husband was seeing.
Nothing.
Now the truth was apparent. Not only was there no (mistaken identity) cat, there was no fox either. The Husband was having a nightmare, and as far as I could tell, was actually still asleep even though his (round, crazy) eyes were open and he seemed awake.
“You’re having a nightmare,” I soothed, all the while trying to put my own fast-pumping heart back into my chest. “Go back to sleep, Hon.”
“No, MOV, I’m serious! There’s a fox!” Still pointing.
I got out of bed and turned the light off. “I’m going to bed.”
Four hours later, the alarm went off and the Husband bounded out of bed, cheery and rested. “How’d you sleep, MOV?” he asked sweetly.
“Are you kidding?” I responded tersely. “After you woke me up, screaming ‘A fox! A fox! A fox on the armoire!”
“What are you talking about?” he asked. And then, “You sure have a great imagination.”
MOV
The Husband and I were living in California, renting a tiny apartment across from the beach. One night, I was awakened from a deep deep sleep by The Husband turning the lights on full bright, sitting up straight in bed, and yelling at the top of his lungs, “Fox on armoire!”
As you can imagine, this was slightly disconcerting. Would this wild fox try to bite us, or possibly steal one of my favorite sweaters from the armoire? And what, exactly, did The Husband expect me to do about this situation? Shouldn't he be trying to protect me from the fox, instead of the other way 'round?
Yes, I had a job where I dealt with random scenarios every day. I knew what to do if there was a medical emergency, a fire, or if a plane crashed in water. But, all my years of flight attendant training had not adequately prepared me for this moment. I had never dealt with a wild animal on the loose (sure, I’d dealt with a drunk passenger or five, but to my knowledge, they never had rabies).
I decided the first order of business was to actually see the fox. Even though The Husband was screaming and pointing to the (supposed) location of said fox, I did not see a fox. Since the armoire was at an angle in the corner of the room, it was quite possible that the fox had hidden behind the armoire.
The logical part of my brain started to thaw. “Sweetie, uh, do you think it is maybe a cat, and not a fox?” This was way before we owned our cat, but perhaps an errant neighbor cat had snuck in our (closed, locked) window.
“It! Is! A! Fox!” he insisted, adamant. “Right there!”
I rubbed my eyes, willing myself to see whatever it was that The Husband was seeing.
Nothing.
Now the truth was apparent. Not only was there no (mistaken identity) cat, there was no fox either. The Husband was having a nightmare, and as far as I could tell, was actually still asleep even though his (round, crazy) eyes were open and he seemed awake.
“You’re having a nightmare,” I soothed, all the while trying to put my own fast-pumping heart back into my chest. “Go back to sleep, Hon.”
“No, MOV, I’m serious! There’s a fox!” Still pointing.
I got out of bed and turned the light off. “I’m going to bed.”
Four hours later, the alarm went off and the Husband bounded out of bed, cheery and rested. “How’d you sleep, MOV?” he asked sweetly.
“Are you kidding?” I responded tersely. “After you woke me up, screaming ‘A fox! A fox! A fox on the armoire!”
“What are you talking about?” he asked. And then, “You sure have a great imagination.”
MOV
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
324. HGTV = Crack Cocaine
So I’m watching yet another episode of Selling New York, when I realize, Oh, I’ve already seen this one. It’s the one where that B-list actor wants to buy a downtown loft, but he hasn’t sold his Malibu property yet. That’s okay, I can watch Divine Design. I click over to my TiVo’d list of programs, and select Candace Olson’s lovely show, only to realize … seen it (the hockey player’s basement-turned-rec room). Color Splash? More repeats (beach cottage retreat inspired by a famous Art Deco hotel).
Designed to Sell? I think I’ve probably seen this one, but I can’t remember. Is this the one where the husband refuses to part with all that baseball memorabilia/ clutter? I fast-forward to the last five minutes of the show for the Big Reveal. Huh, no baseball stuff; his hobby is sailing. I guess it was a new one after all.
I scan through the remainder of my TiVo personal menu. TiVo has obediently taped no fewer than 5288 shows for me, all about Houses. How nice of you TiVo, to help support my nasty little habit. I’m figuring out that I have a teeny tiny problem, some might use the word “addiction,” kinder folks would say “affinity.”
When did this happen? It all started when I became a full-time, stay-at-home mom seven years ago. Before I had children, there had actually been a decade-long segment of my life where I chose not to own a TV (essentially, during all of my 20’s). People would say, Don’t you get bored? What do you do? How can you not have a TV? or the one-size-fits-all, You’re crazy.
Oh, if those former friends/ acquaintances could see me now, they’d be so proud. How the pendulum has swung in the other direction!
In my childless and TVless state, I worked three jobs, worked-out, read books (lots of ‘em), socialized, talked on the phone, wrote letters, went out to eat, shopped, travelled, and didn’t much think about what I was “missing” on television. Then along came my new career Being Home with Baby, and my life was transformed. Oh sure, I waited until he was two years old to expose him to Sesame Street, but the onslaught of decorating shows started beckoning to me way before that.
There is just something so enticing about taking a dreary, uninviting room and transforming it with a bucket of paint, new throw pillows, and a black and white photo of a European city. I watch and think, Hey! I could do that!
My tiny house has become a canvas of (failed?) experiments involving paint colors with names like “Barista” and “Tropicana Cabana” and “Sea Life.” People come over, and ooh and ahh politely as I give them the Grand Tour, complete with Before and After photos, my own personal mini-Reveal. At first, these so-called “friends” were laying it on thick, “This looks amazing! What a dramatic difference!” After about two dozen or so people said the same thing over and over and over (and I found out The Husband was not paying them to flatter me and boost my fragile ego), I realized I had a talent: a talent to copy things from TV.
I’m going cold turkey today. No more House shows. I can think of better uses for my time.
If you’ll excuse me, I just made myself a cappuccino, and I’m going to sit down, and peruse the February issue of Elle Décor. And right after that, Traditional Home. And then maybe, if I have enough time, Coastal Living.
MOV
(“Mama’s Obsession, Verified”)
Designed to Sell? I think I’ve probably seen this one, but I can’t remember. Is this the one where the husband refuses to part with all that baseball memorabilia/ clutter? I fast-forward to the last five minutes of the show for the Big Reveal. Huh, no baseball stuff; his hobby is sailing. I guess it was a new one after all.
I scan through the remainder of my TiVo personal menu. TiVo has obediently taped no fewer than 5288 shows for me, all about Houses. How nice of you TiVo, to help support my nasty little habit. I’m figuring out that I have a teeny tiny problem, some might use the word “addiction,” kinder folks would say “affinity.”
When did this happen? It all started when I became a full-time, stay-at-home mom seven years ago. Before I had children, there had actually been a decade-long segment of my life where I chose not to own a TV (essentially, during all of my 20’s). People would say, Don’t you get bored? What do you do? How can you not have a TV? or the one-size-fits-all, You’re crazy.
Oh, if those former friends/ acquaintances could see me now, they’d be so proud. How the pendulum has swung in the other direction!
In my childless and TVless state, I worked three jobs, worked-out, read books (lots of ‘em), socialized, talked on the phone, wrote letters, went out to eat, shopped, travelled, and didn’t much think about what I was “missing” on television. Then along came my new career Being Home with Baby, and my life was transformed. Oh sure, I waited until he was two years old to expose him to Sesame Street, but the onslaught of decorating shows started beckoning to me way before that.
There is just something so enticing about taking a dreary, uninviting room and transforming it with a bucket of paint, new throw pillows, and a black and white photo of a European city. I watch and think, Hey! I could do that!
My tiny house has become a canvas of (failed?) experiments involving paint colors with names like “Barista” and “Tropicana Cabana” and “Sea Life.” People come over, and ooh and ahh politely as I give them the Grand Tour, complete with Before and After photos, my own personal mini-Reveal. At first, these so-called “friends” were laying it on thick, “This looks amazing! What a dramatic difference!” After about two dozen or so people said the same thing over and over and over (and I found out The Husband was not paying them to flatter me and boost my fragile ego), I realized I had a talent: a talent to copy things from TV.
I’m going cold turkey today. No more House shows. I can think of better uses for my time.
If you’ll excuse me, I just made myself a cappuccino, and I’m going to sit down, and peruse the February issue of Elle Décor. And right after that, Traditional Home. And then maybe, if I have enough time, Coastal Living.
MOV
(“Mama’s Obsession, Verified”)
Friday, February 4, 2011
319. Homework Time
Tall’s teacher assigns homework every night. As Tall’s mother, the responsibility falls to me to make sure he gets it done. I take this job very seriously, and I nag him incessantly until he sits down with his pencil and paper.
The high-end kitchen store where I work expects an appearance from me one night per week. On that particular night, The Husband must prod Tall to do his homework. Sadly, I do not have a video-camera set up to film what goes on in my absence. However, I have the next best thing (a vivid imagination), so let’s take a peek:
The Husband: Hey, Tall, your mom mentioned something about homework?
Tall: (silent, watching TV)
The Husband: Whaddya say we order pizza for dinner again tonight?
Tall: Yeah! I love pizza!
The Husband: Uh, wait, there was something your mom asked me to do … what was it?
Tall: Can we play basketball outside for a couple minutes? It’s not snowing that hard.
The Husband: Great idea! Let’s go.
You know what comes next. I come home from work, pour myself a glass of Chardonnay, and watch TopChef. I verify with The Husband that Tall completed his homework. “Yes, we did it first thing.”
The next morning, Tall is scrambling in his typical Before-School-Mad-Dash of getting dressed, and gobbling some breakfast. As almost an afterthought, I say, “Sweetie, where’s your homework?”
He races over to his backpack and pulls out his homework folder. Six worksheets fall out, none of them touched by human hands. He scoops them up. “Oh, no!” he panics, “we forgot to do these!”
We now have approximately four minutes before the bus arrives. I help him start scribbling in the answers.
MOV
(“Mom’s Our Valedictorian”)
The high-end kitchen store where I work expects an appearance from me one night per week. On that particular night, The Husband must prod Tall to do his homework. Sadly, I do not have a video-camera set up to film what goes on in my absence. However, I have the next best thing (a vivid imagination), so let’s take a peek:
The Husband: Hey, Tall, your mom mentioned something about homework?
Tall: (silent, watching TV)
The Husband: Whaddya say we order pizza for dinner again tonight?
Tall: Yeah! I love pizza!
The Husband: Uh, wait, there was something your mom asked me to do … what was it?
Tall: Can we play basketball outside for a couple minutes? It’s not snowing that hard.
The Husband: Great idea! Let’s go.
You know what comes next. I come home from work, pour myself a glass of Chardonnay, and watch TopChef. I verify with The Husband that Tall completed his homework. “Yes, we did it first thing.”
The next morning, Tall is scrambling in his typical Before-School-Mad-Dash of getting dressed, and gobbling some breakfast. As almost an afterthought, I say, “Sweetie, where’s your homework?”
He races over to his backpack and pulls out his homework folder. Six worksheets fall out, none of them touched by human hands. He scoops them up. “Oh, no!” he panics, “we forgot to do these!”
We now have approximately four minutes before the bus arrives. I help him start scribbling in the answers.
MOV
(“Mom’s Our Valedictorian”)
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
316. JINQY
So Tuesday is Game Night at our house and we’re playing a game called “Bananagrams” (where you essentially try to come up with as many words as possible in a crossword-like configuration), when Short lines up his letters and says, “Is this a word, Mommy?”
(Now, Short is four. He knows all his letters, and he can certainly spell his own name and maybe “cat.” But other than that, he lines up his letters in pretty arrangements, and hopes for the best.)
The word in question is “JINQY.” It looks suspiciously like the name of some new computer program. I am ready to tell Short that no, JINQY is not a real word, when I look into his big blue eyes full of optimism. His brother Tall has already scored about 322 words (including “BAMBOOZLE”).
I hear myself say, “Yes, of course, Short, JINQY is a word.”
I feel three pairs of eyes swivel to me. The Husband and Tall say in unison, “It is?!?”
“Yes,” I confirm nonchalantly, “You know when someone jumps out and scares you and you jump a little and go ‘Agh!’?” (here I pause to demonstrate being scared), “well, that’s JINQY.”
Short is suddenly quite impressed with his newly-discovered word-spelling prowess. “JINQY is a word!” he says to himself, smug.
You know what comes next. The evening quickly deteriorates into a JINQY-fest. Tummy doesn’t feel so good? Must have eaten some bad JINQY. Don’t feel like putting on your pajamas just yet? Nope, you’re too JINQY-ied out. Misplaced your homework? Did you look next to the JINQY?
We finally get Tall and Short into bed (after a bedtime story read by Tall, and full of—you guessed it!—even more JINQY references). I lean over to say prayers with Short and I hear him recite them by heart, adding a sweet little line about, “God, please bless all the JINQYs in the world. Amen.”
Yes, amen to that!
MOV
(“Minefield Of Vowels”)
(Now, Short is four. He knows all his letters, and he can certainly spell his own name and maybe “cat.” But other than that, he lines up his letters in pretty arrangements, and hopes for the best.)
The word in question is “JINQY.” It looks suspiciously like the name of some new computer program. I am ready to tell Short that no, JINQY is not a real word, when I look into his big blue eyes full of optimism. His brother Tall has already scored about 322 words (including “BAMBOOZLE”).
I hear myself say, “Yes, of course, Short, JINQY is a word.”
I feel three pairs of eyes swivel to me. The Husband and Tall say in unison, “It is?!?”
“Yes,” I confirm nonchalantly, “You know when someone jumps out and scares you and you jump a little and go ‘Agh!’?” (here I pause to demonstrate being scared), “well, that’s JINQY.”
Short is suddenly quite impressed with his newly-discovered word-spelling prowess. “JINQY is a word!” he says to himself, smug.
You know what comes next. The evening quickly deteriorates into a JINQY-fest. Tummy doesn’t feel so good? Must have eaten some bad JINQY. Don’t feel like putting on your pajamas just yet? Nope, you’re too JINQY-ied out. Misplaced your homework? Did you look next to the JINQY?
We finally get Tall and Short into bed (after a bedtime story read by Tall, and full of—you guessed it!—even more JINQY references). I lean over to say prayers with Short and I hear him recite them by heart, adding a sweet little line about, “God, please bless all the JINQYs in the world. Amen.”
Yes, amen to that!
MOV
(“Minefield Of Vowels”)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)