Category Archives: Those Conversations

The gems. The reason you’re hear. The pearls that come out of the mouths of children. The moments that have us rolling on the floor with laughter… and forgiving the little dudes for everything.

Of boys, girls, oblivion, awareness and frustration; (or why women think men don’t understand them)

It goes like this:

I.

Flora: Sophia just can’t stand Cinder, she says. Remember that time we were all playing grounders, and Cinder kept tagging her out? She still remembers that, and she just hates him.

Cinder: Who’s Sophia?

II.

Flora: Tammy hates Cinder. She’s so mad about the time the boys stole our shoes–remember?–and buried them in the gravel. She’s sure Cinder took her boots. She just hates him.

Cinder: Who’s Tammy?

III.

Flora: I think Emily kind of likes Cinder. She says she doesn’t, but she’s always asking me what he’s doing and if he’s coming out and stuff. Yup, I think she likes him. What do you think of Emily, Cinder?

Cinder: Who’s Emily?

Meanwhile, Cinder’s not-quite-three-year-old brother has a different attitude:

IV.

Jane: For heaven’t sake, Ender! What are you doing?

Ender: I throwing gravel at that little girl. And I go push her over. Hee hee hee.

Jane: I know–I saw. Why? Why? Why would you do that?

Ender: Because she so pretty. (Pause) I do it again!

V.

Ender: We sit here, Mama. Come sit here.

Jane: OK, sure. Why are we sitting here?

Ender: So I look at that girl. See? She’s so pretty!

VI.

Jane: In the car, dude!

Ender: My friend Izzy! I go give her hug, ok? And kiss. And tell her she’s so pretty.

VII.

Ender: Where we going, Mama?

Jane: We’re going to see our friends Victoria and Elizabeth and Loch and Baby M…

Ender: Oh, I love Baby M. I hug her and kiss her, and wrestle her and hug her…

Jane: I know, dude. Go easy on the wrestling, okay? I don’t think she likes it.

Ender: Oh, she likes it. She so pretty. She loves me too.

And then, there’s this:

VIII.

Cinder: Mom? You know how Creeper and Paulo and all those guys keep on talking about girls and stuff now?

Jane: Um, yeah?

Cinder: Well, I’m not really into girls at all. But… I’m starting to think boobs are really cool.

Oh, boy.

Flora

MOST POPULAR POSTS

My current personal favourite: The Authoritative New Parents’ Guide to Sex After Children (of course… what else.)

Serious: When toddlers attack (surviving “That Hitting Things”) • Searching for strategies for Sensitive Seven • Five is hard: can you attachment parent an older child • It’s not about balance: Creating your family’s harmony • 10 habits for a happy home from the house of chaos and permissiveness • The ultimate secret behind parenting: it’s evolution, baby

Funny: Floor peas • The rarest song of all • Sarcasm, lawn darts, and toilets  • What humanitarian really means  • The sacrifices mothers make for their children (Warning: grossness factor uber-high)  • It’s all about presentation  • Anatomy talk, now and forever  • Want to hear all the swear words I know?  • Of the apocalypse, euphemisms and (un)potty training  • Mom? Have you noticed I’ve stopped…  • Poisonous Volvo

How you know he’s his mother’s son…

I.

Sean: Ugh, it’s time for this test tube full of Scope to go.

Jane: No! Not in the sink over the dishes! It’s got urine in it!

Sean: You let Cinder keep a test tube full of urine next to our wine glasses? For how long?

Jane: It’s not full of urine, it only has a little bit of urine in it–it’s mostly mouthwash. And isn’t the point here that I stopped you from pouring it over our dishes, which if you had done, would have had you rushing out to buy new dishes before our next meal?

Sean: You are so my son’s mother.

Yup. To that end, I offer more proof:

II.

Sean: Is this test tube in the sink the urine test tube?

Cinder: I don’t know. There are lot of test tubes in the house. Odds are good someone peed in one of them at some time.

Sean: Someone?

Cinder: Well, ,when I say someone, I mean me. But if it makes you feel better, I don’t remember peeing in any test tubes recently.

Ender: I do!

Sean: I want my own sterilized kitchen. And none of you can ever come in.

Well. This is why I didn’t tell him about The Floor Peas.

Line art representation of a Test tube

MOST POPULAR POSTS

Serious: When toddlers attack (surviving “That Hitting Things”) • Searching for strategies for Sensitive Seven • Five is hard: can you attachment parent an older child • It’s not about balance: Creating your family’s harmony • 10 habits for a happy home from the house of chaos and permissiveness • The ultimate secret behind parenting: it’s evolution, baby

Funny: Floor peas • The rarest song of all • Sarcasm, lawn darts, and toilets  • What humanitarian really means  • The sacrifices mothers make for their children (Warning: grossness factor uber-high)  • It’s all about presentation  • Anatomy talk, now and forever  • Want to hear all the swear words I know?  • Of the apocalypse, euphemisms and (un)potty training  • Mom? Have you noticed I’ve stopped…  • Poisonous Volvo

Ticklish warriors

Flora: I just don’t understand how I can be this awesome warrior and yet be so ticklish.

And what do you say to that?

English: Happy face

The great thing about being a crappy housekeeper…

I slop dinner on the table–noodles in colander, sauce in the pan it was cooked in, cheese on the grating board it was grated on. Flora spreads the plates. Cinder searches for forks. “Success!” he hollers. “I’ve got five. Although, really, Flora and Ender would be just as happy eating with their fingers.” To prove the point, Ender grabs two handfuls of green beans and stuffs them in his gob. I don’t so much sit down as collapse into the chair. Sean joins us. Looks at the table. At us. And says one of those things for which I love and adore him.

“You made us supper! With the Ender! Oh, thank you!”

“Thank you, Mommy, for wonderful food!” says Ender.

“Supper is brought to you by Cinder,” Cinder announces. “There is no way Mom could have made supper if I hadn’t had a bath with Ender. And I don’t know if you heard what he was doing to me in the bath, but I’m covered with scratches in places no one should ever touch.”

“Thank you, Cinder,” I say, wearily. This all is really funny. A part of me knows it. The rest of me is just too tired.

The assorted slop is well-received. Everyone munches.

“I sorry,” says Ender suddenly. We all look up at him. “I sorry,” he repeats. “Me sit on table.” And indeed, there he is, sitting on the table. I sigh. I suppose I should parent.

“Where should you be sitting, monkey?” I ask. Wearily. I be tired. Is been a long day…

“On chair,” says Ender. “Tee hee hee.”

“I think he’s sitting on the table so he can see what’s in his bowl,” says Sean. “You know, so he can spear the stuff he wants?”

“I’m just happy he’s not throwing it at me,” says Cinder.

“Me too,” I agree. “Let him sit on the table.”

“Can I sit on the table?” says Cinder, starting to levitate his bohunkus.

“No,” I don’t even think about it. I have standards. I do.

“Thank you for wonderful supper, Mommy!” Ender sings out. He knows he’s getting away with something. Gives me a beatific smile.

“And you put away all the laundry too,” enthuses Sean.

(The great think about being a really crappy housekeeper: the least effort on your part is appreciated in spades. Do your kids celebrate when they have clean pajamas in the drawers and clean cups in the cupboard? Mine do. Ha!)

“I did,” I say. I intercept Ender as he tries to stuff two noodles simultaneously into his nose. “Want to know why?” No one really wants to know why, that is clear, but they love me, so they will indulge me.

“I was in the bathroom.” Peeing. I have to pee, you know. And I like to do it alone. Sigh. But it has a price. It means I leave him alone. Just long enough… “And Ender opens the door and comes in. And says…

Mama? I find laundry basket on landing. I throw it down the stairs. Then I jump on it and pee on it. Are you angry?

And so… I folded and put away all the laundry.”

And this is how you know that I really am a crappy housekeeper, because Sean’s immediate reaction:

Um… was it my laundry? And did you fold  and put away the peed-on laundry without re-washing it?

You’ll never know, darling. You’ll never know.

Photo: Woman doing laundry in Chennai, India (Wikipedia)

English: Woman doing laundry in Chennai, India...

Why I blog

I.

Cinder, upon returning inside from a nerve gun fight:

Mom, I just shot Ender in the balls. Now, under normal circumstances, you’d probably be mad at me. But as he was peeing off the balcony at the time, you should just say, ‘Good job.’

II.

Meanwhile, apparently unharmed by the attempted nerf castration, Ender is hiding from me under the kitchen table.

You can’t see me.”

Sure I can. You’re right there.”

You can’t see me because I’m not wearing any pants.”

And that, in a nutshell, is why I blog.

Couch Full of Nerf Guns

Photo (Couch Full of Nerf Guns) by animakitty

MOST POPULAR POSTS

Serious: When toddlers attack (surviving “That Hitting Things”) • Searching for strategies for Sensitive Seven • Five is hard: can you attachment parent an older child • It’s not about balance: Creating your family’s harmony • 10 habits for a happy home from the house of chaos and permissiveness • The ultimate secret behind parenting: it’s evolution, baby

Funny: Floor peas • The rarest song of all • Sarcasm, lawn darts, and toilets  • What humanitarian really means  • The sacrifices mothers make for their children (Warning: grossness factor uber-high)  • It’s all about presentation  • Anatomy talk, now and forever  • Want to hear all the swear words I know?  • Of the apocalypse, euphemisms and (un)potty training  • Mom? Have you noticed I’ve stopped…  • Poisonous Volvo

Growing scientists, or, why it rocks when kids love dinosaurs

Ender discovered dinosaurs a few months ago, and unlike revisiting potty training for the third time (yuck), revisiting dino-mania for the third time just really, really rocks. Regular trips to the amazing Royal Tyrrell Museum of Paleontology in Drumheller are back on the family agenda. Our last trip had Cinder and Flora sharing a lot of “Remember when I was obsessed with dinosaur stories.” Here’s a few of my favourites, from when Cinder was six and Flora three-and-a-half.

On the couch, crawling out from under all the pillows and blankets:

Flora: Where am I?

Cinder: Congratulations! You made it through the mass-extinction!

Flora: But I don’t remember anything about it. Where are my mom and dad?

Cinder: Well, they’re all under the mud over there, see? They thought they were lucky because they survived the asteroid, but ah-ah―the mudslide got them.

Flora: So all my ancestors are dead?

Cinder: Everyone’s ancestors are dead. That’s what makes them ancestors. The important thing is you were born. And look, there are your cousins!

Flora: So some of my family survived!

Cinder: Don’t get comfortable yet―there may be more asteroids coming.

On the floor, playing with K’Nex:

Cinder: Here, Flora, build the Jeep so it can race with my dragster.

Flora: I don’t want to build a Jeep. (Flipping through instruction book.) Oooh! Look―a butterfly. It’s beautiful. Ooh! Stegosaurus. I’m going to make a stegosaurus.

Cinder: Make the Jeep, then we can race.

Flora: I want to make the stegosaurus, so he can play with me and be my friend.

Cinder: Why would you want to make a dinosaurs when you can make something with wheels? Look, see? It’s really cool.

Flora: I have an idea, Cinder―why don’t I make the stegosaurus, and you make two cars, and then my stegosaurus can watch you race? How about that?

Stegosaurus stenops, a stegosaur from the Late...

Back on the couch:

Flora: I forgot how I survived the mass extinction again.

Cinder: Stop asking that―I’ll tell you one more time. You were buried by some rocks during an earthquake. But you managed to crawl out. Now you have to search for food. It shouldn’t be too hard―because of the mass extinction, see?

From Life’s Archives, May 19, 2008, Mass Extinctions and Drag Races

Let the pummelling be: little Caveman explains

Jane: Ender! No! You do not hit Mama! You do not push Mama! You do not pummel Mama! Never! Because frankly, little bum, it’s getting more and more difficult to not whallop you back.

Ender: Oh. Only hit Cinder?

Jane: No! You don’t hit Cinder! You don’t hit anyone!

Ender: But I love when I push Cinder… and then Cinder throw me on bed… and then I hit Cinder… and then Cinder push me… and then I scream… and then Cinder throws me up in the air… I love, love, love it!

Jane: Oh, my cavemen…

Ender: Cinder! Cinder! Bubba! Throw me on the bed! Throw me on the bed!

Cinder: Oh, yeah, little dude? You want some of this? You want some of this?

Ender: Bring! It! On!

…  and a few minutes later, my bed transforms into a WWF wrestling ring.

Cinder: Funky Cinder! Woo-hoo!

Ender: Funky Ender! Woo-hoo!

Cinder: Funky Ender! WHAP! WHAP!

Ender: Funky Cinder! WHAT! WHAP!

Their bodies slam into the mattress. The pillows are flying. They’re laughing, howling, screaming…

Cinder: Funky Cinder will whallop you!

Ender: Funky Ender whallop back!

And the moral of this story gets lost on me somehow…

For a moral, read That hitting thing/When toddlers attack. In the meantime, I need to get ready to stand by for when Ender slams his head into the bedroom wall… or starts to feel that Cinder is outperforming him too much and resorts to biting… and the screaming turns less joyful and more, you know, deafeningly painful and horrid. But until then… I let the cavemen/warriors be.

Let the pummelling be.

It ends with crying, of course it does. And I can see it coming–their energy escalates into psychosis, and they start running back and forth in the hallway, and the doors start slamming, and just as Sean hollers, “Someone’s going to get their fingers slammed in the door!” Ender slams a door into Cinder’s shoulder and Cinder shrieks and pushes him and Ender cries and comes running to me, and Cinder calls him a stupid baby and I reprimand Cinder and Cinder stalks off…

Flora: What happened?

Jane: The boys got too rough with each other.

Flora: Which one did you yell at?

Jane: Sigh. Cinder.

Flora: Why do you always yell at Cinder?

Jane: Sigh. Because it sucks to be the oldest. Because he’s bigger.

Flora: Should I go find him and say you’re not mad?

Jane: That would be great, my little love.

And three minutes later, we’re all in bed reading about Alexander the Great (or not-so-great-and-frankly-insane, as our book puts it). Ender snuggles up against Cinder (punches him once in the stomach for no reason at all).

Cinder: Why do I love this insane creature so much?

Ender: Because I your Bubba!

And that, perhaps, is the moral?

A pillow fight that took place in Lausanne, Sw...

The rarest song of all

I.

One day, we will remember why it is that we don’t go out for dinner much. But inevitably we forget, and we have a, “Hey, we haven’t been out for dinner as a family for weeks–months, actually. Shall we go?”-“Oh, yes, darling, what a great idea!” conversation. And about 10 minutes in, as one of us restrains Ender, while the other apologizes profusely to the waitstaff–or the poor unfortunates seated next to us–and Cinder and Flora clean up the mess, we swear–never again. We are never, ever going out with the toddler, ever, ever again.

(Do not, by the way, share your “Eating in restaurants with toddlers” tips with me. I don’t need them. I had two civilized, distractible, entertainable toddlers who were absolutely amazing in restaurants. Now I have Ender. This, incidentally, is karma, for every time I cast a superior glance at the mother with the freaking out toddler and wondered why she didn’t just bring books, crayons, and funky toys into the restaurant to amuse her child with.)

(The answer to that last query, if you’re eating out with Ender, is that there is no toy that cannot be turned into a projectile, with the right–er, wrong–motivation.)

Anyway–it happened again. We forgot, we were hungry, we went to the restaurant. I’ll spare you the theatrics (although if I could do justice to the spectacle of Ender standing on his head on his chair and then wiggling his butt left-and-right while making farting sounds, I would)–the end-tail of the meal featured Sean putting the Ender into a full-Nelson and manhandling him out of the restaurant while I ordered the desert promised to Cinder and Flora “to go” (sigh),  and Nana paid for the meal, clearly thinking we should be saving our money for therapy. While we wrapped up the meal (tip for dining out with Enders: leave huge tips. Huuuuuuggggggeeeee TTTTIIIIPPPPSSS), Sean occupied Ender in the parking lot of the restaurant. Which meant, of course, playing in the van. Or so I thought.

And you needed all of the preceding so that you could understand this:

Ender: Mama! You back! I peed in the van!

Jane: Oh, that’s great darling. We’re all here, let’s load up and…

Sean: That’s great? He tells you he peed in the van, and you say that’s great?

Jane: I thought he said he played in the van… Oh, Ender, you peed in the van? Where?

Ender: On the seat. Right here! Now I have no pants. You pack more pants for me?

Sean (moaning): Right on the seat. We are never, ever, ever going to sell this van.

(Mostly irrelevant aside: we’re trying to sell the van. Live in Calgary and want a 2009 Pontiac Montana? Have I got a deal for you! Freshly shampooed and everything!)

Ender: Never, ever, ever ever going to sell this van! Because! I! I! I! Peed! On! The! Seat!

II.

So we drive Nana home, scandalize her neighbours by having half-naked Ender prance down the street to her house, and spend a little time letting Ender vandalize her house while Cinder and Flora watch the last part of The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers on Nana’s nice big television screen. And then it’s time to go home–with the Ender partially panted this time, sporting a fashionable doo-hickey fashioned out of a swimsuit. Now, Ender’s not great in the car–that whole restrained-while-sitting-down-when-he’d-rather-be-climbing-on-the-roof thing just doesn’t go over very well–so we generally need to take turns entertaining him, singing with him, playing games with him, and otherwise trying to distract his attention from the fact that he’s strapped into the receptacle of torture (aka the car seat) and, once he kicks his shoes off, unable to pelt anyone with anything for the duration of the ride.

And the preceding (as well as the entire earlier vignette) is all a build-up just for this:

Ender: Can you sing me the P & C song, Mama?

Jane: What? I… I don’t think I know that song, Enderini.

Ender: Oh, it’s a very rare song. I sing it. I! Peed! In! The! Seat! I! Peed! In! The! Seat!

And that, ladies and gentlemen, why we love him beyond all pale of reason, despite everything.

Photo: Ender’s latest potty

2006-2009 Pontiac Montana SV6 photographed in ...

(I know there have been an awful lot of pee stories lately. I apologize. Tis the season, and soon it will pass, and I will never, ever have another potty story to inflict upon you.)

How toddlers share

Ender: Oooh, one more chocolate croissant, yum!

Jane: Oh, yeah, one more. Do you want to share it with Flora and Cinder?

Ender: No. I want to share it by myself.

Ta-dum.

chocolate croissant

The obvious correlation between crying over spilt coffee and potty training

Sean: Ender! Why did you spill Mama’s coffee?

Ender: I not spill coffee. I pour coffee out.

Sean: The question stands: Why? Why? Why?

Ender: I have to pee.

Sean: Of course. Let’s go.

Ender: No. I pee in coffee cup. That’s why I pour coffee out.

it's potty time!

Uh-oh…

Cinder Hey, Mom, know what I just realized? Creeper and I are finally getting to that age where we will be doing all sorts of nutty things and getting into trouble and stuff. Isn’t that great?

Jane: Not quite the adjective I’d go for. And I think you’re a couple of years short of “that age,” myself.

Cinder: But isn’t it great that we’ll each have a buddy to watch our backs as we do the nutty stuff?

Great.

Busy Buddies (film)

A handful of those conversations

I.

Ender: Mama-mama-mama! I peed-peed-peed on the floo-ooor!

Jane: Oh, Ender, I’m going to cry. Why? Again?

Ender: Oh, don’t cry my-mama-mama. I love you! And pee easy to clean up. Not like poopie bum.

II.

Cinder: Mom, [X] needs a secret name for the blog for when you write about him and me. Hey, dude, what do you want your name to be?

[X]: Umm… Farty McFarty.

(This is how you know [X] is a nine-year-old boy.)

Jane: Seriously, you want me to call you Farty McFarty?

(I’m rethinking the strategy of letting the kids pick their own aliases. Flora is pushing Emerald for one of her friends. “Um… how about Emma? Or Emmy?” I counter-offer. No. Emerald or nothing. Fortunately, “Emerald” doesn’t figure in most of my stories. She doesn’t talk much… And if I have to call her Emerald, she won’t ever say anything memorable. It just won’t happen. I try to explain this to Flora. Meanwhile, in the far back seat of the van:)

[X]: What’re you called?

Cinder: Cinder.

[X]: Huh. That’s cool. Cinder. Hmmm. OK, I know. I’ll be Creeper.

Cinder: Yes! Cinder and Creeper! Those are epic!

Epic.

III.

Sean: Jesus, Ender, what are you doing with Mommy’s razor?

Ender: Shaving the whales.

I could explain… but I think you’ll have more fun trying to guess the context.

Shave the Whales

IV.

Why we can’t ever give strangers’ rides in our van:

Cinder: I have a weenie. I have a weenie. Oooh-oooh-oooh, I have a weenie…

Sean: Cinder, I’m very easily annoyed today, and that song is beyond annoying me right now. You have to stop.

Cinder: Just one more time?

Sean: Fine. Just one more time. And then–silence.

Cinder:  I have a weenie. I have a weenie. Oooh-oooh-oooh, I have a weenie… tooooo-niiiiiiiteeeee…

Ender (waking up from a nap and immediately bursting into): I have a weenie. I have a weenie. Oooh-oooh-oooh, I have a weenie… tooooo-niiiiiiiteeeee…

Cinder and Ender in tandem: I have a weenie. I have a weenie. Oooh-oooh-oooh, I have a weenie… tooooo-niiiiiiiteeeee…

Sean: Wow, did Ender ever just save you.

Flora: Why is cute when Ender does it and just obnoxious when Cinder does it?

Jane: Evolutionary survival mechanism.

Flora: What?

Cinder: She means toddlers have to be cute no matter what they do so their parents don’t kill them. One more time, Ender?

Ender: I have a weenie…

V.

No place is safe. Not even Ikea.

Cinder: Hey, Mom? What do you get when you take the “I” out of “AS IS”?

Jane: What do you get when you take the I… Cinder!

Cinder: Aren’t you going to say it?

Jane: No.

Cinder: But the whole purpose of me reading that sign and telling you I could read it was so that you would say “ASS” really loud in a public place. All that reading, for nothing.

Jane: You read four bloody letters.

Cinder: Just say it. Or would you rather I said it, in my loudest voice ever?

What would you do?

When weird unsocialized homeschoolers go to summer camp…

Jane: So, baby, report. How was it?

Flora: Well, it was ok. There were some good parts.

Uh-oh. We’re talking about dance camp, which she’s been looking forward to passionately. She loved drama camp. Cried when horse camp was over. “It was ok” for what she was expecting to be “the best camp ever” is a lukewarm review. What’s up?

Flora: But the teacher’s kind of mean.

Aha. My blood boils. A mean teacher. I’m ready to rise up and do battle on behalf of my little girl right now! But first, a little due diligence:

Jane: What did she do?

Flora: Well… like, she said we could only go to the bathroom on break. At 10:15, and at lunch, and at 2:30. And I was like, but how does a clock tell you it’s time to go to the bathroom? Shouldn’t your bladder tell you to go to bathroom? And what if you have to go pee at 10:45? Do you pee your leotard?

Um…

Flora: So another girl asked, what if we really have to go in-between breaks. And the teacher said, we have to raise our hand and ask permission. In front of everyone! How humiliating is that? I don’t want to whole class to know I have to pee or poop! Shouldn’t that be private?

Jane: Well, yeah,  but…

Flora: Anyway, I’ve got a plan. I’m going to pee right before I leave home, and then I’m not going to drink anything all day, and I should be okay until the end of camp. Cause that rule sucks.

Oh, my Flora.

Dancer

(The post title is a nod to the blog Weird Unsocialized Homeschoolers (first prize for “Best Name for Homeschooling Blog Ever,” right?), which I like to visit once in a while although blogger Kris’ life and learning approach is quite different from mine. But it’s good to “hang out,” virtually and in real life, with people who challenge your assumptions and make you stretch your horizons, right?)

World War II explained, by seven-year-old

or, why I’m a terrible history teacher…

Flora: OK, I think I finally get why you don’t think the Nazis are ever funny.

Jane: Good.

Flora: There’s just one problem.

Jane: What?

Flora: It’s the name. Nazi, Nazi, Nazi. Rhymes with Patsy… and Klutzy… and… Batzi… it’s just a really funny word. Why did they pick such a funny word for their organization of evil?

Jane: It’s short for National Socialists.

Flora: Well that’s just utterly ridiculous. OK, National, whatever, but socialists? They so clearly weren’t properly socialized. I mean, if they were, they wouldn’t just go around killing people. And I bet that they never even said hello or anything before killing people. They just killed them. Socialists. Ha.

Jane: (Speechless.)

Cinder: Would it make it better, Flora, if they said hello before they killed people?

Flora: I guess not. Nothing would make it better. Not even if they offered cookies.

Cinder: Especially if they were poisoned cookies.

Help.

English: Plateful of Christmas Cookies

“Why do we have new toothbrushes again?”

English: This is used to pee in the bathroom.

I.

The toilet is plugged, and my contact lens case is missing. We suspect the two items are related.

II.

Sean: Jeezus Kee-rist, there is a ton of Lego in this sink drain? What the hell?

Cinder: You have to ask?

Sean: And where’s the little drain protector I put in here to keep this type of thing from happening?

Ender: I put in the toilet this morning. Weee!

III.

I stand in the bathroom, which looks clean, but smells terribly, terribly like pee. I wish I had one of those hi-tech tools for examining the walls. Where is the secret pee spot now? I remember three-year-old Cinder’s glee when he learned that streams of urine could be used to hit targets (“Mom! Look! When I press my penis like this, I hit the top of the garbage can!”) Where is Ender doing target practice? The boy himself wanders in. Plops down on the potty. Then picks it up and dumps it into the garbage can.

“Oops,” he says. “I put pee in garbage can not toilet. Better luck next time.”

Well. One mystery solved.

IV.

Flora: Why do we all have new toothbrushes again?

Jane: You have to ask?

Flora: Oh, Ender! (pause) Mom? You know, at Mimi’s house, they have this thing on the toilet seat to keep it down, so their new baby won’t throw things in the toilet. Why don’t we get one of those?

Jane: We had one of those, briefly.

Flora: We did?

Jane: Yes. It was awful. You and Cinder didn’t know how to work it, so every time you had to use the bathroom, I had to run upstairs and take it off.

Flora: Oh. So you took it off? Where is it now?

Jane: Um… well, I didn’t actually take it off. Ender wrenched it off.

Flora: And flushed it down the toilet?

Yup.

Sunshine of our lives, or, how toddlers survive

Sunshine, morning, so slow, so lazy… do we get out of bed or not? I guess we should. I tousle the toddler’s head.

Jane: Ready to get out of bed, little Ender?

Ender: Ready. Not ready. Ready. OK. Let’s go, Big Mama.

And we roll out, slowly, and fat sweaty hands wrap around my neck, and we gallop down the hallway. Everyone else is up already. I poke my head into the Lego/Computer Room/Sean’s office, where Cinder is already hard at work… er, play.

Jane: Good morning, little love.

Ender: Good morning, little love.

Cinder: Yo, Ender, how are you doing this morning?

Ender: Me happy, little love. But me need to pee.

And we gallop down the hallway the last two feet to the bathroom. Make it. Relief. We poke our heads in through another door. See the Sean.

Jane: Good morning…

Ender: Good morning, our big love.

And kisses and tousles and sunshine. And Ender is ready for a day of action and destruction. There are things to shove down sink drains and toys to put in toilets, there are pictures to scribble on and books to tear up, there are milk jugs in the fridge that need to be poured onto the floor, pots to bang and rearrange, boxes to squash, a dog to terrorize, a fish tank that desperately needs a bar of soap added to it, a sister’s hair to pull, a brother’s Lego creations to destroy, food to smear on walls and throw on the floor, bathwater to drink and pour down the stairs… Oh, it’s a full, full day for an Ender and he lives each minute as fully as possible, and at day’s end, everyone exhausted to bed goes, exhausted by the pace of life set by the Ender.

And Ender falls asleep, exhausted too and so happy and so fulfilled, and already, I can tell from the cast of his eyes and lips as they close, planning the next day’s mischief. And so we all fall asleep too, so we can keep pace with him.

We yell at him, you know. Snap. Complain. Sometimes, run away and hide (even me). But, boy oh boy, we love him. And when he wakes up the next morning, sunshine of our lives, we forget all the “I want to throttle Ender!” moments and just drown in his sunshiney love.

Ender: Good morning, Big Love Mama.

Jane: Good morning, love of my life.

Ender: No. I not love of your life.

Jane: No? What are you then?

Ender: I littlest love in the house.

Jane: Good morning, littlest love in the house.

Ender: Let’s go play. Outside?

Jane: Let’s pee and have breakfast first.

Ender: Let’s pee. Then me put something in toilet. Maybe Lego. Maybe car. Maybe… pee! Hee hee hee hee.

And the day begins anew.

Sun

Sarcasm, lawn darts and toilets

Lawn Dart - Value Village, Vancouver, BC

 

Cinder: Mom! Ender put the lawn darts in the toilet!

Jane: Oh, great.

Ender: Great!

Cinder: Mom? Did you forget that two-year-olds don’t understand sarcasm? Cause he now thinks that you think that him putting the lawn darts in the toilet was great.

Jane: Oh, great.

Cinder: You know I understand sarcasm, right?

Jane: Yup.

Cinder: Do you think it’s appropriate to be sarcastic with your loving son who’s only trying to be helpful?

Oh, great.

Cinder: Mom? I think Ender just put your contacts in the toilet. No, false alarm, he put your contact lens case in the toilet. He put your contact lenses down the sink drain. Jeezus, this drain is disgusting. Oh, he’s shoved a bunch of Lego in here too…

Jane: Cinder? I asked you to watch Ender, why are you just standing there, letting Ender put things in the toilet?

Cinder: You asked me to watch him, you didn’t ask me to stop him from doing stuff.

Jane: Oh, great.

Cinder: Isn’t it?

Great. Just great. Where’s my sarcasm sign?

PS, they weren’t the *illegal* lawn darts as featured above. They were the perfectly safe–unless you flush them down the toilet–bean-bag bottomed lawn darts. Just so you don’t think I’m totally negligent.

Photo credit: HeyRocker, Lawn Dart – Value Village, Vancouver, BC

The sacrifices mothers make for their children

Cinder: Mom? There’s something really gross that you probably don’t want to hear that I really want to tell you.

Jane: These are the sacrifice we mothers make for our children.

Cinder: Does that mean I can tell you?

Jane: Yes. Shoot.

Cinder: You’re kind of weird.

Jane (under her breath): People in glass houses… (outloud) That’s what you wanted to tell me?

Cinder: No. You distracted me.

Jane: Shoot. Gross me out.

Cinder: OK, here goes. First, you have to start with throw-up. You know? Vomit? Puke?

Jane: Uh-ha…

Cinder: Then you need a hollow poop.

Jane: A hollow poop?

Cinder: Yes, to put the vomit into. What’s the matter? Are you going to throw up?

Jane: No, I’m just… trying NOT to visualize a hollow poop. Go on.

Cinder: OK, so you put the throw-up in the hollow poop, and then you cover it all with mucus. Like, nose mucus and snot, that kind of thing.

Jane: Ugh.

Cinder: And then you need a container. Like a yoghurt container, or, you know, that French Vanilla ice cream container we have? That would be perfect.

Jane: You need a container…

Cinder: Yeah. To put the mucus-covered poop ball into.

Jane: Of course.

Cinder: And then… ok, this is the gross part…

Jane: The gross part is just coming now?

Cinder: Yeah. Ok, so where was I? Throw-up–in hollow poop–mucus–in a container. Yeah?

Jane: Yeah…

Cinder: OK, and then you pee on it. And then you cover it up, and leave it for a year.

Jane: Yeah?

Cinder: Yeah. So, anyway, if I did all that, do you think after a year, it would sprout Life?

Pause. This, you all of course know, is a parenting test. Is there an answer to this question with which a) I do not squash his scientific enthusiasm and penchant for asking bizarre questions but yet b) do not end up with an ice cream container containing vomit, shit, snot and urine stored somewhere in our house for 365 days. Can she do it, ladies and gentlemen, can she do it?

Jane: It would stink to high heaven. Would you keep it in your bedroom?

Cinder: That’s it! Cinder’s patented stink bombs! We’re going to be rich!

Jane: Dude! Where are you going?

Cinder: To eat the ice cream.

Oh, hell.

Flourless chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream

Cinder: But I probably won’t do the experiment.

Oh, good. Oh, wait. Did I just get played?

What “humanitarian” really means

Cinder: What does humanitarian mean? Is it someone who eats only humans?

Sean: Um… what?

Cinder: You know, like vegetarian means someone who eats vegetables?

Sean: No. It’s someone who… cares a lot about humanity—about humans.

Cinder: Oh.

Pause.

Cinder: Well, that makes a lot more sense.

Menschenfresserin by Leonhard Kern, 1650

 

If 10-year-old boys designed our currency…

Sean: You know what a good job for Flora would be? Designing coins for the Canadian mint.

Flora: Yeah, that would be pretty cool. I bet I’d be good at that.

Cinder: Please, please, please, if you do get that job, please, please, please design a coin with a penis on it.

Flora: Um… how about if I design a coin with your face on it?

Cinder: No, do one with a penis.

Flora: You’d be more famous if I designed a coin with your face on it.

Cinder: I’d rather be famous for my penis.

Zeus help me.

Front image of million dollar royal canadian m...