Mad Scientist

Claire's favorite Christmas gift may well be the very cool microscope set that she received from her Nana and Papa. After she and Papa spent much of Christmas morning assembling it and examining various slides, Claire announced that she was planning to study DNA. We, of course, expressed appropriate enthusiasm for this idea. Claire followed up by clarifying that, in particular, she was planning to compare Margot's DNA to cat DNA. We asked her why she'd be doing that. Her answer? "Because it will establish that Margot is a cat."

Organic Milk

Yesterday I was listening to NPR as I got ready for work, and Margot came into the bathroom. The story on the radio was about organic milk, and the farmer being interviewed was explaining how his cows had acres of property to wander over, and various types of grass to munch on. Then a scientist spoke about some anecdotal evidence that omega-3 fatty acids from this sort of healthy, grass-based diet could actually be passed into the milk of these cows. Margot listened to this for a few minutes, looked at me thoughtfully, and then said, "Mommy? Remember when Jane was a baby? And you used to milk her?"

Mommy Guilt

I flew down to Washington, DC on Monday and worked out of my firm's DC office on Monday and Tuesday. Before I left, I talked to the girls about where I was going and how long I would be away. The big girls were primarily interested in whether I would be bringing them any presents when I came back. Jane was mainly concerned with whether I would be on a big airplane or a small airplane. When she was confident that I was, in fact, traveling via a BIG airplane, she didn't have much else to say about my trip.

Until tonight. Here is the phone conversation that we just had:

Me: "Hi Jane, it's Mommy!"
Jane: (muffled sobbing)
Me (cheerfully): "Jane, hi! It's Mommy!"
Jane (sobbing): "I want Mommy."
Me: "Jane, this IS Mommy! I'm calling you from Washington, DC."
Jane (wailing): "I want my other Mommy!!"
Lindsay (in background): "Janie, that IS Mommy. She's calling you on the phone!"
Me: "Jane, honey, this IS Mommy. I'm getting on the airplane soon and I am coming home tonight to see you."
Jane (howling): "Where is my Mommy?"
Me: "Janie, I will be home tonight to check on you once you are in bed, ok?"
Jane: "I WANT MY OTHER MOMMY!! I WANT MY REAL MOMMY!" (Repeat seven or eight times.)

Oh, the unparalleled joys of working motherhood . . .

Truth, or Advocacy?

Don claims that this is simply an example of Margot lobbying for a longer bedtime story, and that there's no truth to it. Let the voters decide.

Lindsay: ''Your dad should be here at 7:00, so we can read one more book - but it needs to be short."

Margot: ''Dad’s not so good at being here early – so, can we read a medium one?''

Jane's Latest

Jane's inexplicable announcement of the day: "We don't talk about my bagina, or my puppies. Because that's private."

(Yes, she's modified "bagiant" to "bagina." We assume that her process of linguistic evolution will eventually result in an ability to correctly pronounce the word.)

Mystery Notes

Mysterious Correspondence

Claire has recently taken to leaving small notes around the house, and then exclaiming in amazement at the discovery that "someone" has left a mysterious letter. Sometimes the notes have no particular recipients, and sometimes there is a clear target audience. The two items at the left, although from an "unknown" author, were addressed to Margot. The first one relates to the differing powers of various Polly Pockets dolls ("Animal Girl" being a sort of superhero-esque Polly Pocket creation of Claire's). Margot's "girls," of course, have inferior powers to Claire's Animal Girl. The second note . . . well, we are not really sure what to make of the second note.

What to Do When You Behave Badly

Margot: "Mommy? Sometimes when I get in trouble . . . I pray to Santa."

Rock the . . . Boat?

Naim & Jane on Election Night

Late last week, Margot finally conceded that she would, in fact, vote for Obama and not Hillary. Claire immediately exclaimed, "Margot, you're not voting! Only grown-ups can vote." Margot turned to me in horror and said, "Mommy, is that right?!" She was bitterly disappointed when I confirmed that it was, in fact, true. I reassured her that Don and I would cast votes for our whole family, and she promptly responded, "Oh. So, when you go in to vote, you need to make five marks for Barack Obama, okay?"

On Tuesday morning, we (amazingly) managed to arrive at our polling place by 7:15 a.m., with all three girls in tow. We had, of course, talked all morning about the fact that we were going to go vote, and how important it was. As we waited in line for nearly an hour, Margot grilled the people around us about their voting preferences, while Claire inexplicably spent most of the time trying to peer through a tiny mail slot in the middle of one of the building doors. Jane maintained her usual level of enthusiasm, excitedly chattering to anyone who would listen. At one point, I heard her cheerfully announce, "We are all going to SPLASH!!"

After a moment of confusion on my part, comprehension dawned. "Not BOAT, " I told her, "Vote. We're voting. There isn't a boat here." She looked slightly disappointed when I explained that voting basically involved making some marks on a piece of paper. She came into the booth with me and carefully watched as I marked my choices. After she'd helped me turn the ballot in, I congratulated her on helping me to vote, and she flashed that adorable, wacky grin. As I picked her up to leave, though, she began wailing, "Mommy, WAIT!! Where are the boats? Where is the water? We want to splaaaaaash!"

Caterpillar for Obama (and Vice Versa)

Caterpillar Girl

This morning Jane and I were looking at some pictures on the computer. She first asked to see her "Obama Girl" video (featured in the "Political Shout Out" post from earlier this month), which is now her favorite thing to watch. She then admired some pictures of herself in her caterpillar suit, which she also happened to be wearing.

A few minutes later, I noticed that she was marching around the study, chanting something. I listened for a moment and realized that she was cheerfully repeating, "Obama for caterpillar! Obama for caterpillar!"  Perhaps our political indoctrination has gone too far?

Hillary for President!

As you all know, Margot has had a hard time coming to grips with the fact that Hillary is no longer a contender for the presidency. We've covered this topic countless times since Hillary lost the primary, but Margot continues to believe (to Claire's unending exasperation) that there's still some possibility that Hillary could win. We were in the car recently, and an election-related news story came on the radio. After listening for a minute, Margot enthusiastically announced, "Mommy, I am going to be so excited if Hillary wins!!"

Does That Hurt?

During a recent car-trip, Claire and Margot were in the backseat playing a game that appeared to be called "Does That Hurt?" As you can imagine, the game is played by repeatedly punching your sister very hard on the leg or arm while saying, "Does that hurt? Does that hurt?" The punchee maintains a forced smile, and insists, "No, it doesn't. Nope, that definitely does not hurt." Within minutes of Don's astute observation that "this game can only end one way -- badly", Margot began howling and tearfully exclaiming, "Owwwww! Ouch!! Oh, that was too hard, Claire!" Claire's response? A measured, "Well. It looks like "Does That Hurt?" just ended."

P.S. I realize that you might be wondering why we let our children play this game. To that, I can only suggest that you spend seven straight hours in a car with them and see whether it has a similar effect on your judgment.

Margot on Pop Rocks

Margot (in sing-song, valley-girl voice): "Mom? I was eating those Pop Rocks? You know, that Grandma sent? And you know what happened? They electrocuted my mouth!"

A Political Shout-Out (for Betsy)

Jane gives her own political shout-out to "all those third graders at Gladys Wood Elementary" . . . and to Delia's mom:

MVI_6878, originally uploaded by Carrie Fletcher & Don Wiest.

Klassic Cape Cod

Don and I were on the Cape this past weekend (without the girls!) for the wedding of our friends Craig and Katie. The wedding was spectacular -- outdoors, at sunset, overlooking the ocean . . . it was truly picture-perfect. The reception was a blast, and the highlight had to be when Craig belted out a really good version of Stevie Wonder's "Signed, Sealed, Delivered" to his bride.
While we greatly enjoyed the natural beauty of the Cape (crashing waves; moody, empty beaches; beautiful foliage; etc.), I think it's fair to say that we enjoyed the cheesiness of the Cape even more. We were overwhelmed by the abundance of what we now refer to as "Klassic Cape Cod" signage. Too late in the weekend, we started snapping photos of our favorite, horrible signs. It got a bit out of control: at one point, I was actually standing out in a downpour to get pictures of both the Mariner Motor Lodge's bold sign proclaiming that it only looks expensive -- and the lodge itself, which, of course, looks cheap as hell. I also stood in the rain to get a photo of this fake bear wearing a t-shirt that, of course, says "Martin." And there is no doubt that "India Big & Tall" (look closely at the tag line) was well worth getting drenched over.

This tutoring sign, though, was the winner of the day. I bet these guys are doing a booming business.

Feetburn

Margot: "Mom, is there any such thing as feetburn?"
Me: "Feetburn? I've never heard of that. What do you think it is?"
Margot: "You know, it's like if you burned your feet? And they were really, really red? And burned? And you'd have feetburn?"
Me: "Ah, of course. That feetburn."

Sports

We spent a lot of time traipsing around in the rain this weekend in order to get to several of the Jamaica Plain Open Studios. Despite the miserable weather, we had a great time (and also managed to be pretty restrained in our art-purchasing.)

Once all five of us were completely drenched, we headed to our local Indian restaurant to grab dinner. Although it's a relatively nice place, there is always a TV playing in the back corner - and those of you who know me will understand that this drives me crazy. Not only is the TV sort of inconsistent with the whole look and feel of the restaurant, but it's also guaranteed to be fodder for some kind of dinner-time battle.

Even when the sound is off and the show is something that's of no possible interest to anyone in our family, there's always at least one girl who simply cannot avert her gaze (and who is rendered utterly unable to eat her food.) This time, it was Margot. She was turning completely sideways in her chair in order to stare, zombie-like, at the soundless Bruins game. I asked her about 26 times to stop looking at the television. In response to the 27th request, she exclaimed, "Mommy, Mommy! I have to keep looking at the TV because there is something really interesting: they are playing golf on ice!!"

Quote of the Day

Margot: "When I grow up, I just want to be a normal person. Like you, Mommy."

Miss Manners

Overheard immediately after Claire was reprimanded for back-talking:

Margot: "Why did Claire get in trouble?"
Me: "For talking in a not-nice way."
Margot: "Yeah, Claire’s not too good at talking nice, huh?"
Claire: "Margot! You’re not good at tying knots."
Margot: "Yes I am."
Claire: "No, you aren’t. You can’t tie a bow."
Margot: "I can. I just don’t let anyone see me do it."

This conversation illustrates so many things about each of them that I don't even know where to start.

How to Drive Your Family Crazy (by Jane)

Jane: "Mommy, I want milky."
Me: "Okay - we'll get it when we go downstairs."
Jane: "I want milky now."
Me: "Hang on for one minute."
Jane: "I. Want. MILKY."
Margot: "Mommy said you have to wait a minute."
Jane: "Margot, I want milky. You want milky?"
Margot: "No."
Jane: "Oh. You like milky? You want milky, too, yeah?"
Margot (with exasperation): "No, Jane, I don't want milk."
Jane. "Yes . . . you want milky."
Margot: "No, I don't."
Jane: "Mommy, Margot wants milky."
Margot: "Jane, stop it! I don't want milk."
Jane: "Yes, you do. Margot wants milky!"
Margot: "I do not want milky!!!"
Jane (pausing): "Margot, you can't have milky."
Margot: "What?"
Jane: "You can't have milky. You don't like milky."
Margot: "Yes, I do too like milk."
Jane: "Mommy, Margot can't have milky, ok?"
Margot: "Jane, I can have milk!"
Jane: "Oh. You can't have any milky, ok? You don't want milky."
Margot: "Yes, I can have milk."
Jane: "You're not having milky."
Margot: "Mom - I want milk. Can I have some milk?"
Me (silently): Is it really only 6:30 a.m.?

Now Playing at 9 Park Lane

All five of us are basically obsessed with YouTube -- even our two-year-old clamors for "more funny bideo!" whenever she sees a computer. I am, however, at least vaguely aware that other families may not sit around browsing YouTube with their kids every single night. So it occurs to me that some percentage of you may have missed what is (in our view, anyway) possibly the coolest ad ever. And yes, I know it's two years old -- but it still gets at least three views per day at our house. Every day.

He Wishes WHAT?

This week, my husband uttered nine words that I can truly say I never imagined would pass his lips: "Man, I wish I could dance like that car." He said this not once, but twice -- and on two different days.

Jane was in enthusiastic agreement, and apparently also wishes her daddy could dance like this car:

Vice Presidential Politics at 9 Park Lane

Near constant political talk continues at 9 Park Lane, and I take a strange pride in the fact that Claire and Margot can easily identify photos of Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton, John McCain, and Sarah Palin. We're still working on Joe Biden, whom Margot insists on referring to only as "Obama's buddy." So, we've been talking a fair amount in recent weeks about the vice presidency, what that job entails, and how Joe Biden and Sarah Palin are the two vice presidential candidates. For Margot, however, the hope of a Hillary comeback remains alive:

Me (holding up Newsweek photo of Joe Biden): "Okay, who's this one?"
Margot: "Um . . ."
Me: "Here's a clue . . . it's Barack Obama's vice presidential candidate."
Margot: "Wait - is it Hillary?!?"
Claire: "Margot, that's not Hillary, it's a man!!"
Margot: "Oh. But, is Hillary going to be the vice president?!"
Me: "No. This is Joe Biden, he's the person who will be the vice president if Obama's wins."
Claire: "Yeah, Margot, that's Joe Biden."
Margot: "He's Barack Obama's vice president?"
Me: "Yes."
Margot: "It's not Hillary?"
Me: "No, it's Joe Biden."
Margot: "Okay."
(pause)
Margot: "Mom, are you sure it's not Hillary?"

Actually, It DOES Sound a Bit Unreasonable

I was at a friend's baby shower this weekend, and she reminded me of one my all-time favorite discussions with Margot. When Jane was an infant, and Margot was probably about three years old, we had a conversation about how babies are born. The girls already knew that babies grow in their mothers' uteruses -- and, although they had not then (and, actually, still haven't) asked how the baby gets into the uterus, Margot had raised the question of how the baby gets out. So I explained to her that the mother would know that it was time for the baby to be born, that the parents would go to the hospital, and that the baby would eventually get out of the mother's body through the mother's vagina. Margot stared at me in dead silence. After about 30 seconds, she said, "Mommy -- how does it really get out?"

Claire, ever the modest one, thought for a minute and said, "WAIT! Do you have to take your underwear off for this?!"

Presidential Politics at 9 Park Lane

With the vice presidential candidates selected and the election around the corner, the always-high volume of political discussion at 9 Park Lane has ramped up a notch in recent weeks. Margot remains a fervent Hillary supporter, and is cheerfully undeterred by the fact that Hillary is not actually running. Although I explained that Hillary is now supports Obama, Margot is not totally convinced. So, many mornings start out with Margot checking in on the political landscape, just in case Hillary may be back in the race.

Claire fancies herself something of an expert on the topic of Hillary's (non)candidacy, and takes each discussion as an opportunity to demonstrate her own political prowess. (This despite the fact that she only recently stopped referring to the general election as the "secondary"- i.e., the one that follows the "primary.")

Margot: "Mom -- is Hillary really for Barack Obama?"
Me: "Yes, she is."
Margot: "Even though he's a boy?"
Me: "Yep."
Margot: "Is Hillary going to vote for him?"
Claire: "Of course she is. All Democrats are going to vote for him. Also, I heard her say 'Barack Obama is my candidate!'"
Margot: "Well, I think I might still vote for Hillary."
Claire: "Margot! You're only five - you can't vote. Only grown-ups vote."
Margot: "Well, is Bush still the president?"
Me: "Yes, he is. He will be until a new president is elected."
Margot: "Will Hillary be the new president?"
Claire: "MARGOT! Hillary isn't running for president any more."
Me: "No, it won't be Hillary. It will be either Barack Obama or John McCain."
Margot: "Oh. Not Hillary?"
Claire: "NOT HILLARY."
Margot: "Well, it might still be Hillary, I think."
Claire: "Hillary is NOT running for president. It's definitely not her."
Margot: "Ok." (Pause)
Margot: "Mom, are you sure that it's not going to be Hillary?"
(Repeat entire conversation 17 times)

Our Ecologically-Challenged Toddler

Ogunquit Beach, Maine: As Don and I relax in our beach chairs and munch our sand-covered beach snacks, Jane sits nearby, cheerfully scooping sand into an orange bucket. Margot glances up from her nine-hour effort to dig a person-sized hole which, when completed, is meant to reveal an entire community of crabs who just happen to be buried under four or five feet of totally packed sand. Observing sister's actions (recall: Jane is scooping sand into a bucket - while at the beach). Margot races over, knocks the shovel from Jane's fat little hand, and screams: "Janieeeeee!! That's not a bucket for putting sand in, THAT IS A CRAB HABITAT!!!"

I am, of course, in favor of protecting crab habitats, particularly where they are at risk of being destroyed by rampaging toddlers. That said, Jane was actually not a complete idiot to have taken the orange bucket for, well, an orange bucket. Not only were there no crabs in the bucket, but there were no crabs anywhere. At all. We'd been there for hours with no sign of a single crab; in fact, I don't think we've ever seen a crab at that beach.

And, if there had been crabs, I'm about 100% certain that Margot would not have been remotely interested in touching - let alone catching - them in order to populate the habitat/bucket. Still, in Margot's defense: once you've established a crab habitat in the hope that some crabs just might show up, you really cannot have people messing with the crabs' ecosystem by adding things like, say, sand.

Overheard on the Orange Line

If you've read the Wiest-ette vocab list, you will know that the term "bagiant" translates, in Jane-speak, to "vagina." The highest and best use of this word requires (a) that it always be shouted and (b) that the shouting be done in a very public setting. While the grocery store has historically been the preferred venue, Jane is not one to be hemmed in by convention. She frequently comes up with other, equally suitable, public places in which to chatter about her private parts. The latest, as reported by our supernanny, Lindsay: a packed subway car on the Orange Line.

Jane (loudly): "Lindsay, you have bagiant?"
Lindsay (whispering, and making weak distraction attempt): "Yes, Janie. Let's sing "Ba Ba Black Sheep!""
Jane: "You like it? Your bagiant goes pee pee?"
Lindsay: "Jane, let's sing a song!"
Jane (screaming): "My bagiant has princesses on it. I SHOW YOU?"

Wow. I'm her mother and I didn't even know that.

Really, Who Doesn't Love Erasure THIS MUCH?

Beach Safety

Yesterday morning we met some friends in Chinatown for dim sum, after which we planned to head up to Maine to get in one last end-of-summer day at the shore. Despite the fact that Claire has never seen (much less been bitten by) a deer fly, she spent much of the morning obsessing over whether these vicious creatures would be present at the beach. And, in a bizarre twist, our early-morning trip to Chinatown actually exacerbated her anxiety about the deer flies. Hanging above our restaurant table was a large photo showing a sort of tropical scene, with a waterfall spilling down into a bright blue lagoon. Claire looked at the picture and immediately announced, with some alarm, that it depicted what could only be described as "a perfect habitat for deer flies." Our attempts to get to the bottom of the deer fly paranoia led to the following conversation:

Claire: "Are there deer flies at Ogunquit Beach?"
Don: "I don't think there will be."
Claire: "I'm really worried about deer flies."
Don: "Why?"
Claire: "Because they use razor sharp teeth to cut into the skin, then they use a sponge-like "mop" to suck blood from their victims."
Don: "Ah."
Claire (pausing): "How big are deer flies, anyway?"

I can only conclude that Claire was worried about some dog-sized creatures with razor-sharp teeth and blood-sucking "mops" chasing our entire family around the beach, puncturing our flesh, and draining our blood. So I'm sure you will be relieved to learn that all five of us managed to escape that dire fate. In fact, we didn't see a single deer fly -- regular- or dog-sized.

I Hate Barbarians

This morning Margot underwent an upper-GI scan, which involved drinking a cup full of barium and rolling around to different positions while a radiologist scanned her digestive tract via x-ray. The test itself was punctuated by much hysteria, screaming, general refusal to participate, as well as multiple demands to be returned home right now. After an excruciating 20 minutes or so, we finally finished. Margot furiously stomped out to the waiting room (because, of course, we had to wait 30 more minutes and then go back for one final set of x-rays). She plopped herself in front of the omni-present hospital waiting room TV, muttering under her breath. I definitely heard the forbidden phrase "I hate" pass her lips, and was compelled to follow up:

Me: "What did you just say?"
Margot, staring at TV: (unintelligible muttering)
Me: "Margot, tell me what you just said."
Margot: "I hate barbarians."
Me: "You hate what?"
Margot: "I hate barbarians."
Me: "Did you say barbarians?"
Margot: "Yes. I. Hate. BAR-BAR-I-ANS."
Me: "What do you mean by "barbarians"?"
Margot: "Mom. I mean barbarians -- the stuff that Dr. Ngo made me drink for the x-ray."

Mommy as Appliance (or Something)

I know everyone talks (truthfully) about how life is never the same after kids. In addition to all of the wonder and joy that comes with having the girls, there has also been what can only be described as a total loss of privacy and, for lack of a better description, ownership: of my time, my attention, my sleep, and, of course, my actual body. I'm not saying this is necessarily bad, but it is a change for a person who had previously operated as an independent being for many years. The perception that I'm sort of collectively owned by my kids is not limited to me; they see the world this way, too. I'm sort of their main chattel.

For example, I find it nearly impossible to take a shower without at least one child (and usually two or three) coming into the bathroom (if not into the shower) with allegedly urgent issues. It's generally something like the following:

Margot: "Mommy, Claire said her Polly Pocket was a robber, but it wasn't really a robber because it was a girl and there aren't any girl robbers and also she said it had a gun and guns are not safe."
Claire (screaming from her room): "She's LYYYYYYIIIIINNNNNNNGGGG, Mom. Ignore her."
Margot (sobbing): "I'm not lying!"
Claire (still screaming): "You are!"
Jane (cheerfully): "Margot's lying! Polly Pockets are robbers!"
Margot: "I'm NOT lying!"
Jane (climbing into shower, fully clothed): "You lying. Mommy, I go in shower with you, ok?"
Margot (still sobbing, but also removing clothes and climbing into shower with 11 Polly Pockets dolls): "Claire, I'm not lying, and I'm not playing Polly Pockets with you any more."
Me (silently): "Really? Do two people -- one of whom is fully clothed -- really need to be in here with me right now?"
Margot (staring intently at me): "Mom!"
Me (with concern): "What?"
Margot: "Is Jane still using those?
Me: "Using what?"
Margot: "Your breasts."
Me: "Um, no. She doesn't nurse any more."
Margot: "Well, what are you using them for, then?"
Me: (silence)

Fair question. Because, really, am I using them for?

Numbers and whatnot

Jane is now just over two years old and has reached a great counting milestone: she can accurately count 1, 2, or 3 objects. This may not sound impressive, but it reflects a significant step over her prior method of counting, which involved pointing at any number of objects and rapidly saying, "1-2-3-4-5!!!" Her Nana, no doubt manipulated by her mathematician husband (a/k/a Papa), decided to see if Jane was ready to go to the next level with her number-related skills.

Nana: "Jane, how old are you?"
Jane (enthusiastically): "I two!!"
Nana: "And how old will you be when you have your birthday?"
Jane: blank stare
Nana: "You are two now, and how old will you be after this?"
Jane: blank stare
Nana (with increased cheerfulness): "You are two, and when you add one more year, how old will you be?"
Jane (with conviction): "Blueberry!"

Superheroes

Claire's obsession with 1970's-era superheroes continues. Not only does she know all of the main superheroes (Spiderman, Batman, etc.), but she's memorized the names and powers of other, lesser-known superheroes and, importantly, superheroines. She's done her best to download this information to Margot, with some amount of success. Don overheard the following exchange on Saturday:

Margot (who's birthday is coming up this week): "Claire, when it's your birthday, I'm going to get you a Hellcat costume."

Claire: "Margot, they're very hard to find. Except probably in New York."

Junior Lawyer?

Our nanny, Lindsay, just emailed me to relate the following conversation with Claire (age 6):

Claire: ''I've decided that anything that makes my body move (excercise), I'm just not going to do.''

Lindsay: ''Well, you need to move your arms to turn the pages when you read books.''

Claire: ''That's why I read outside when it's windy.''

Lindsay (chokes back laughter).

Dialogue with a Two-Year-Old

Margot: "Jane, you're so cute!"
Jane: "I not cute."
Margot: "Cutie, you're such a beautiful cutie!"
Jane: "I not beyoueeful. You beyoueeful."
Margot: "Jane! I'm saying something nice to you."
Jane: "No, that's not nice. I don't like that!"
Margot: "Jane, you don't even know what you are talking about."
Jane: "No, you don't."
Margot: "Jane! That doesn't make sense!"
Jane: "No, I'm not."
Margot: "JANE!! Stop it."
Jane: "No, you stop it."
Margot: "Jane, I'm four -- you are only two. You have to listen to me."
Jane: "Nooo . . . you are not four."
Margot: "Yes, I am!! You're only two."
Jane: "I not two."
Margot: "Yes, you are two!!"
Jane: "No. I am twenty-four."
Margot: "And, you sleep in a crib. I sleep in a big girl bed."
Jane: "No. I don't sleep in a crib."
Margot (now apoplectic): "You do!! Yes you do sleep in a crib!"
Jane: "No. I sleep in a big girl bed. You sleep in a crib."

Note: (anyone who knew my sister, Karen, in her childhood years will recognize this discussion as a more elaborate rendition of "It takes one to be one.")

An Interesting Fact about the Vagina

Margot and Jane were in the bathtub when I heard Margot solemnly intone, in a sort of thoughtful-documentary-movie-narrator voice: "The vagina can hold more water than a university. " I looked over to see her carefully pouring water into an upside down baby doll that had -- for some totally incomprehensible reason -- a perfectly round hole smack in the middle of her nether-regions.

I immediately reported this strange statement to Don, who suggested that perhaps Margot was confusing "university" with "uterus." Putting aside the fact that I think a vagina would actually hold less water than a uterus, I conceded that he might be onto something. I returned to the bathroom and had the following conversation with Margot:

Me: "Hey, Margot. Do you remember the name of the body part where the baby lives when it is growing inside its mommy?"

Margot: "Uh-huh."

Me: "Well, what is it?"

Margot: "Um . . . museum?"

Bad Powder

Claire has recently had a series of, shall we say, "challenging" days at school. The primary problem is her unapologetic refusal to follow a wide variety of instructions given by her kindergarten teacher, Ms. Cable. From what we've been able to gather, her rationale for this behavior seems to be that the sheer unreasonableness of Ms. Cable's requests -- all of them -- literally makes it impossible for Claire to comply.

Yesterday, however, her teacher reported that she had a terrific day. Lindsay, our own personal Super Nanny, praised Claire for working so hard to behave well -- and unwittingly discovered the truth behind Claire's conduct. The conversation went as follows:

Lindsay: ''Claire, I'm so proud that you had a good day today, because I know that yesterday was tough.''

Claire ''I had to have a good day. I ran out of bad powder.''

Bad Mother Incident #257

The other day I dropped Claire and Margot off at school a few minutes before the bell rang to signal the opening of the front doors. Normally go inside with them to their classrooms, but we've been working on independence skills -- we're trying to sometimes let them make the 60 second walk from the front door to their rooms without one of us in attendance. As I dropped them off, I said in my best enthusiastic mommy voice, "The bell is going to ring in a few minutes -- you need to go into school by yourselves like big girls today!"

Later that morning I received a voicemail from my friend Susan (who, being a better parent than I am), had not abandon her own kids at drop off but had stayed to escort them to their classes. She advised that Margot had absolutely refused to go into the building, and that Susan and another friend of our (also named Susan) had chased Margot around outside, pleading with her to go in - to no avail. The second Susan (who is also a more conscientious mother than I am) was particularly alarmed about the possibility of Margot leaving the school grounds altogether and meeting with some kind of foul play. For reasons known only to her, Margot finally agreed to enter the building, but only after the Susans had gone in first.

That afternoon, Margot and I had a conversation about this incident, and I indicated my displeasure with her conduct. She earnestly explained that the reason she would not go into school "with a grown-up" because she needed to go into school by herself.

Which, of course, was exactly what I had instructed her to do.