Categories
Smart, Nosey, Talkative
May 19, 2010 by NaysWay · 2 Comments
Mooter has a game to show me.
Typically, when Mooter has a game, story, or joke to tell me, it almost always ends badly. The directions are wrong. The punchline is in the wrong place. We’ve gone several hours before she comes to the point of her story.
My mother tells me I was this bad at the same age.
Given how brilliantly I tell stories now, I personally think she’s making it up.
I am eloquent.
No, not really.
So Mooter, God love her, decides she wants to show me this game. What is the name of the game? In Mooter’s world, games don’t have names, not because she wants it this way, but because she has forgotten it.
She starts the game by asking me the month of my birthday.
Then she goes into this crossing of fingers to face, almost like asking for blessings from the holy virgin mother, Mary.
Father…
…Son…
…Holy Goat…
Then she tells me I’ve got it all wrong. She’s not asking for a blessing. She’s counting off the months on her forehead, nose, and mouth.
Alright, kid. You got me. I give up. Why are you pointing at your face? Let’s not do my birthday, let’s do yours. Bless yourself to November. What’s that mean?
“It means I’m nosey, Mom!”
And for October?
“It means you’re SMART!”
Either that, or I’m on Oprah. “YOU get a car! YOU get a car. YOU get a car! YOU get a car!”
Here, I’ll let her explain…
I Thirst
April 7, 2010 by NaysWay · 2 Comments
Have mercy. How can you not love a pug? Greatest creation on Earth.
So says me.
And, probably, only me. I’m fine with that.
After our fiasco with Good Friday, things calmed down around the house long enough for Mooter to inquire about Easter.
What is it. What does it mean. Why did Jesus have to die.
Explaining death to a child is complicated. You know they understand the concept, but you want to explain it in a way that won’t give them nightmares every night for the rest of their lives. Because who wants to blame Jesus when you can’t get any sleep due to the wide-eyed, terrified eight-year-old standing next to your bedside.
The fact that Jesus’ death took place in a time where barbaric procedures were commonplace (and, if you’re Mel Gibson, insanely grotesque), is something my resident flower child cannot understand. This adds to the complication of telling the story.
And I’m sure, by this time, you’re wondering how photos of Bo and the death of Jesus will correlate. Patience grasshopper.
Mooter is a child who likes having stories told to her. The more elaborate, the better. In this case, I have to hold back on my story telling abilities and keep it G-rated. I try the vague approach. At every turn, I was peppered with questions…
Jesus had friends called ‘disciples’. (What’s a diss-eye-poh?) They were his best friends. (What were their names, Mom?) He would do nice things for people like making them better when they were sick, or letting them see if they were blind. But some of the people in the town didn’t like that Jesus was doing those things, and they thought he was a faker. (Oooh. But was he?) He went to court where the judge let the people decide if he was a bad man or a good man. (And they said he was good, right?) They said he was bad and told him he had to die on a cross. (Wait… WHAT?!) But the cross was big like one of the trees in our backyard. (You mean it wasn’t small like the one I made for you when I was in Kindergarten?) And Jesus had to carry the cross up a very big hill all by himself. And they whipped him. (Like when Booger is bad and you pat her on the hand?) And they put a crown on his head. (Like King Neptune on SpongeBob?) And the crown was made of thorns. (Ooh! Like a cactus?) And they pressed it into his head. (But wouldn’t that hurt his brains?) And they put him on the cross with nails in his hands and feet to keep him up there. (But wouldn’t that make his hands and feet be broked?)
And then, he was up there for a really long time and he was really thirsty. (And did he hang out his tongue like Bo Bo does when he’s thirsty?)
Well, I… uh… um… I don’t think… well… um… maybe?
Soon Before Long
March 16, 2010 by NaysWay · 4 Comments
It feels good when I catch up on my blog feeds. Of course, I’m feeling like a loser when I realize how many of them I have. But I live in Ohio, and there’s nothing to do here when it snows. I mean, you could eat. One thing I’ve learned about Ohioans is we’re like bears. Eat and sleep all winter, then fat and hairy by Spring wondering what happened to our waistline.
One of the blogs I read follows a man (I know! A man blogger!). This man is really into life. Seems like a nice enough guy for someone I’ve never met. Recently, his wife passed away. Less than a year later, not only did he date a family friend, but married her.
I’m not one to pass judgment. I mean, I am – I have. But for this particular instance, I kept my mouth shut. My brain had other agendas. He was not aware at the time, but BFam was about to become the victim of a hypothetical…
Me: If I died from some terrifically horrible terminal illness, how long would you wait before remarrying?
BFam: Depends on the situation.
Me: I died. I, your long-suffering, terminally ill wife, after many years of battling the affliction and bearing your many children, died. How long before you took up another wife?
BFam: I don’t know. It really just depends.
Me: On what?
BFam: This is upsetting you. Isn’t it?
Me: What would give you that idea? I just want to know what you’d want to do after my body was barely cold in the ground.
BFam: Well, the mourning period is tricky. Sometimes it takes years, sometimes months, maybe shorter.
Me: SHORTER?!
BFam: What I’m saying is, everyone’s mourning period is different.
Me: How long would yours be?
BFam: A long time. Probably forever. Happy?
Sure, he might be lying to me. I wouldn’t expect that, after I died, BFam would be a widow for the rest of his life. It’s cruel to think you’re off living your afterlife, while your spouse is made to suffer miserable and alone just because you expect him to spend the rest of his days mourning the best thing he ever had.
I kid.
Kinda.
Which leaves me with this question: What is the appropriate time to mourn the passing of a spouse/significant other? I’d love feedback. I’m well aware I may not get any. Everybody too busy Googling booty and big booty girls and big booties.
Shameful.
Cover image: Wedding by ~Ironpaw
History Fail: Part Deux
February 23, 2010 by NaysWay · 2 Comments
Mooter. God love ‘er.
My eldest child is very interested in learning things. No one topic holds her attention. She wants quick and dirty downloads of whatever you can give her. Ever see the (now canceled, as is my luck with things I watch on TV) show Dollhouse? Crazy company downloading personalities and capabilities into memory-less people? Or The Matrix? Yeah, that’s another good one. Well, she’s one of the people letting Morpheus stick plugs into the back of her head.
Quick and dirty, man. There is no other way.
I was a lot like her as a kid, so I totally get it. And it may have transpired into my adult life. Working in Corporate America, I’ve had my fair share of reviews. I’ve been with the same company almost six years, and I have yet to receive a review without the words “needs to slow down and pay attention to detail” in them. If I remember correctly, the same was published on my report cards. I can’t help it. Give it to me fast. Give it to me now. Let’s sort out the details later. Unfortunately, along with my fear of irrational things, this was one of the gems my eldest decided she wanted to suck through her umbilical cord in utero. And, just as my mother experienced with me, asking her to slow down is futile. Her mouth says yes. Her eyes say, “OOH, WHAT’S THAT FUZZY BUNNY BEHIND YOU?!”
One of Mooter’s greatest points of interest is History. Fittingly, for the month of February, she is most captivated with black history. Her sweet, lovable little mind cannot comprehend violence, intolerance, or racism. I love this age: the flowers; the rose colors; the hearts; the L-O-L’s. She’s such a tree-hugging hippy. It’s one of the things I love most about her… and makes me want to lock her in the tallest tower surrounded by moats. And dragons. Lots and lots of dragons. That girl = death of me. But you gotta love ‘er.
Around this time last year, Mooter was just beginning to learn about Martin Luther King, Jr. and by “learn” I mean regurgitating a host of misinformation. I love my kid, but retention is not one of her strong suites. The ease with which she embellishes is so fluid, it would almost make sense for her to just skip college and become a con artist. Maybe her version sounds better. Hell, sometimes it sounds good to me. It’s wrong. But it sounds good. It is one of the reasons I’m almost positive I see a future writer in her. I should know.
This month, Mooter was conflicted with which point in history she wanted to tackle: black people or dead presidents. Given the conversation we had one night after work and school, I’ll let you determine which she chose…
Mooter: Mom. Was Abraham Lincoln shot in the back of the head when he was in a theeter?
Me: ‘Theater’. And yes.
Mooter: Was it the same man that shot Martin Luther King?
Me: [pauses] What?
Mooter: The man. The bad man. He shot Martin Luther King AND Abraham Lincoln. Right?
Me: No, honey. Those were two totally different men. Two totally different times.
Mooter: But why did they shoot Abraham Lincoln? You said they shot Martin Luther King because he was black, and…
Me: Young lady. I said no such thing. I said Martin Luther King was shot because he wanted to change things, and that there are people in the world who want things to stay the same.
Mooter: So why did they shot Abraham Lincoln?
Me: ‘Shoot’, and because he wanted things to change, and –
[In the distance] HI [insert Mooter's real name]! HI, HI! SEE YOU TOMORROW AT SCHOOL!
Mooter: BYE ALEX! BYE SOPHIE! BYE MITCHELL!
Me: [waiting] Um… did you want me to finish?
Mooter: Mom? What’s for dinner?
You’d think that was the end of it, right? I mean, I’ve been blown off by an eight-year-old with the attention span of a sneeze. What more do we have to talk about other than pork chops or chicken? Conversation over. End of the history lesson. Yet another attempt at the mother becoming the teacher ruined. I should be used to this. This, my friends, is parenting a young person at its finest.
A week later over dinner with the entire family…
Mooter: Mom. Our teacher taught us about George Washington for President’s Day. And you know what she said?
Me: What’s that, kid?
Mooter: [pauses] Wait a minute… George Washington was a president, right?
Me: Yes.
Mooter: OK. I knowed where George Washington was born. Want me to tell you? Wait a minute… where do they have the earthquakes at?
Me: California.
Mooter: Right. George Washington was born in… Beverly Hills. Where’s Beverly Hills again?
Me: [in shock] …California, and George Washington was not born in Beverly Hills because there was no Beverly Hills when there was George Washington and you are not going to make me believe your teacher told you that.
Mooter: [loudly] MOM. YES, HE WAS. MY TEACHER SAID!
Me: I don’t care how much you try to pin this on your teacher, she did not tell you that because it’s not right.
Mooter: BUT MOM!
BFam: Seriously, Moo. That’s enough of that. You’re making that up. There was no Beverly Hills then.
Mooter: BUT HE WAS!!!
BFam: Hey! No, he wasn’t and that’s all I want to hear about that. How are you going to argue with people on things you know NOTHING ABOUT?!
Me: I can’t wait to get home. I’m pulling up everything I can find on George Washington and making you read it. I should make you do a book report on it.
Mooter: I don’t need to do a book report. My teacher already told us!
BFam: [insert Mooter's entire government name, and BFam's bulging neck veins, here]!
Mooter: [heartbroken] …but… my teacher –
BFam: ENOUGH.
Booger: Cann’i hah sum mower shokuhnit mulk?
[silence]
Mooter: Well, at least I knowed he was borned in Washington, D.C. Because that’s how he got his name.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how history is driving families apart.
Death, Thy Name Is Snuggie
December 3, 2009 by NaysWay · Leave a Comment
[One month prior...]
Me: Mooter. What do you want for your birthday?
Mooter: [without blinking] I want a Snuggie.
Me: What? Girl, hush. I’m serious now. What do you want for your birthday?
Mooter: [looks confused] Umm…. I am being serious. I want a Snuggie, Mom.
Me: [stops what I'm doing to look at her, making sure I'm getting the joke] No. [pauses] For REAL?!
Mooter: [continues serious look] Yes.
Me: OK, wait. Lemme get this right. You don’t want toys. You don’t want games. You don’t want clothes. You want a big, ugly blanket with holes cut out for your arms. Is that what you’re telling me?
Mooter: [laughs] YES, MOMMY!
Me: OK, see. The laughing is not helping. Look at me. In my eyes… [grabs her face and pulls it to mine]
Mooter: [continues laughing] Y-Y-Y-E-E-E-E-S-S-S-S-S, Mommy. I know what a SNUGGIE IS. I get cold! I need it to keep me warm!
Me: [pauses to ponder] You do realize you’re turning eight… NOT EIGHTY, right?
-
Favorite Posts
