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."