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).