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."