Conversations with Winton about Anatomy

[in bath]
Me: "Winton, don't forget to wash your forehead."
Winton:  "Mummy?" [gesturing to forehead] "is this my forehead?"
Me: "Yes."
Winton: [gesturing to crown of head] "Is this my fivehead?"



[while hugging]
Winton: "Mummy, do you remember when I used to snore on your boobs?"
Me: "Ah . . . Yes."
Winton: "But now your boobs are squashed."

Claraism du Jour

[Clara on Toilet, insisting I wipe her arse.  She's 5.  I shouldn't still be wiping. Anyway.]

Me: "Whew, Clara.  You stink."
Clara: "I don't stink, Mummy.  I'm as tasty as a bunny.  I'm as tasty as baby meat sauce.  I'm as tasty as a buffalo."

Excremental Friday

All before 9 AM:

Cat pee on new couch?  Check.
Child falling down stairs for second time this week? Check.
Other child wiping out dramatically mid-dogwalk? Check.
Stairs faller standing in dog poop on dogwalk?  Check.
Dog barfing in entryway as we try to leave for school/work?  Check.

Home with Defense Animals

This afternoon I am home alone.  By my side, a container of Lysol wipes.
My Doctor says I do indeed have pink eye, and a cold.  I am "extremely contagious."  Sexy, no?  I am moving through my day touching stuff, and then wiping.

I laid down on my bed this afternoon.  My room faces the alley behind our house, and gets the afternoon sun.
I gather Pumpkin (orange) and Pepita (mostly black) have an afternoon routine which involves perching on my window sill, in the sun, side-by-side with identical posture.  They look like a study in color: how the winter sun can look both golden and grey, especially when refracted through cat fur in orange and black.

It appears the two of them also guard the yard, for their window-sill-sitting involves a hefty portion of growling at things in the alley . . . "things" like the U-Haul van that idled in the alley for 20 minutes or so while both cats made themselves ferocious at it (Dog meanwhile was asleep and snoring).

Another cold

This time with what seems to be conjunctivitis, in both eyes.

Though I tend to the hyponchondriacal, the pneumonia (dec-jan), headcold (late jan), and new coldy-icky, itchy symptoms (current) have all been corroborated in the form of xrays, concerned colleagues and visiting job candidates disinclined to shake my hand after looking into my (red, weepy) eyes, respectively.

Someone needs to go all Of Mice and Men on my arse and take me out back to shoot me.

Clash of the Work and Clara Schedules, part gazillionth.

Me: "Clara, we need to decide whether to practice your violin in the morning or the afternoon.  Which do you like?"
Clara: "Morning."
Me: "Ok.  But Mummy is often stressed about getting to work in the morning.  So I'm likely to be more cranky."
Clara: "But I am tired in the afternoon, and very cranky."
Me: "So which would you rather: Mummy cranky or Clara cranky?"
Clara: "Everybody has to be happy when I practice in the morning."

Winton, Big Things

Husband: "Winton, what do you want to be when you grow up?"
Winton: "An airplane"

Next day . . .

Me: "Winton, is there an instrument you want to learn how to play?"
Winton: "Yes.  The trombone."

Clara, Vocabulary

Clara: "Mummy, what are nipples?"
Me: "They are a body part.  They're two of them.  On your chest.  Winton has two as well."
Clara: "And when you have a baby the place around the nipples gets fatter and fatter until the baby is ready to come out."
Me: "Mmm. Well . . ."
Clara: "No, Mummy.  I know that's right.  Stop talking."

Winton: Parent Teacher meeting

"Winton is doing very well.  He only gets upset in cases of perceived injury."

My god, his teachers are fantastic, for this is absolutely true.  Winton, after stubbing his toe, will cry and cry.  When asked "does it hurt?" he'll wail, full of tears, "nooooooooo."

Husband's latest FB update

 Winton: "Daddy, I stepped in Briseis's water." Me: "Oh, try not to do that." Winton: "It's okay. I dried my feet on your bed."

Ah, being at home with a sick kid.

 

 

Winter Blahs and Dramas

I always get a bit depressed in the winter: I don't like the cold.  I feel shut in.

The blah-ness of life is exacerbated by being department chair (too much to think about),  and my recent lengthy bout of pnuemonia which was just last week followed by a minor but demoralizing head cold.

Then there's some familial drama at a distance about which I can do nothing but which makes me wake up with my teeth sore from grinding: my mother (perpetually and hyperbolically ill since the 1980s) is in the hospital, at death's door, again.  She's in Vancouver; I'm in Baltimore; this is not the first time for a near-death scenario by any stretch.  No, I am not going out there.  Yes, I do feel bad. 

In addition my brother, who also has a lengthy track-record for dramatic illness (generally drug related), is also in hospital, also in Vancouver.  (A different hospital; an OD on some new ecstasy w/ a poisonous twist).


At Barnes and Noble this morning (our weekly ritual of treats and books while Husband buys groceries at the Trader Joe's next door), Clara wanted to know how to spell "My light has burnt out,"  a phrase she diligently wrote down on a napkin, with help just for spelling not forming the letters.  She then presented me with the napkin as a gift.  Comment on her night light or perceptive insight into Mummy's mental health?

Clara, Mummy . . . and Winton

Me: Clara, you just shut the bow in the hinge of the violin case.  That's not good for it!
Clara: Oh, go away Mummy.  Go to the basement.
Me [needing a time-out and desperately not wanting to tarnish the fun of violin practice]: Fine.
Winton: Mummy, I'd like to come to the basement with you too please.

I think we all need a good weekend, with extra sleep . . .

Language Acquistion: Whoops

Clara, to her father, upon being chided for not even trying to rest at naptime on a bright, sunny afternoon:
"But I couldn't sleep because of the f*cking sun!"