Random Pondering of a Child

Somehow I wrote this, but apparently never got around to posting this from about a year ago...  I hope it makes a few of you chuckle...

So, my daughter, Abby shares many of the same idiocries as I do, she is my mini-me.  She is the little female versions of me.  My son, Evan, on the other hand, is very busy.  Busy, of course, being a emphamisim for never being able to stop moving.  My wife, to nobody's surprise, was described as busy when she was a child.  So, he is my wife's mini-me.  Although ironically, it looks like Abby will look like me and have the same build, but will have my wife's height, but Evan will look like my wife and her build, but have my height.  He's bound to be ginormous (a word, by the way, I will continue to use despite popular opinion against it).  So, I better enjoy being able to roughhouse with him now, because he's going to be way bigger than me in a few years...

So, both kids are friggin hilarious.  Evan, who is experimenting heavily with words now, discovered that "Whoa!" is a very descriptive and situationally appropriate word to use in a variety of situations.  For example, if he were to lean over in his booster seat at the dinner table and expell a massive amount of flatulence, the use of a very loud "Whoa!" is very situationally appropriate.  I am quite pleased with his progress.

Abby, is beginning to attempt to use logic to outwit us.  It usually revolves around a flawed reasoning, but she is gaining her Momma's ability to effectively communicate.  If that fails, then volume is usually the next step...  Today, for instance, Abby was taking her antibiotic for her ear infection that decided to rear it's ugly head earlier this week.  She chose to have a chewable tablet, which was great for the first couple of doses.  Now it borders on child abuse, if you take her word on it.  This morning, after getting her breakfast together, I gave her the pill.  She stated she didn't want to take it, she wanted to wait until snack time.  I attempted logic with a 5 year old, stating that since she needs to take it three times a day, it would work best in her system if she spaced them out as much as possible.  When that didn't work, I attempted to use her inability to read most words larger than four letters and stated that it said on the pill bottle that she needed to take it at breakfast.  Her counterpoint was that was that I was a mean Father and that she was going to call the police on me for being mean to her. 

I will admit, if my cell phone was on me, and I wasn't worried about clogging the emergency phone lines, I so would have called 911 and let her talk it out with dispatch.  I could just see that conversation playing out...

"911, what's your emergency?"
short silence...
"Um, hi, my name is Abby and I have a problem.  Um, well, I have a pill, and I don't want to take it, but my Dad says I have to."
another short silence...
"So, your emergency is that you don't want to take your medication?"
"Yeah, it's gross."
(Mental Notes from Dispatcher, "I don't get paid enough for this.")
"If you have a medical condition, then I'm sure you need to take your medication."
"But it's gross and I don't like it."
"Well, if you have a prescription, then you need to take it."
"But I don't want to."
"Well, you need to.  Thank you for calling 911."
"But!"
(Dad) "I told you so!"

I considered calling her aunt, who is a firefighter and a EMT, but again, my phone wasn't handy.  So, I decided to handle the problem like you would with a cat.  Pin her down, shove the pill in and hope for the best, shoving it back in her mouth when appropriate. 

What makes me laugh about the whole experience is the simularity between Abby and people who drink bad coffee.  Most people who drink bad coffee often exclaim, "My god, this is horrible!" as they take another, then another sip.  Abby, however, complained for close to ten minutes how the pill that lingered in her mouth tasted yucky, but absolutely refused to just chew it up and be done with it.  Ironically, just like how I had to treat her like a cat for her pill, she immediately started acting like a cat after breakfast, complete with trying to meow and snuggle up to me.  Apparently the memory of the yucky pill and my making her take it has been forgotten, until the next dose.

Abby, also comes up with some of the most random things to tell us.  Because she is five, and is a girl, naturally she is in love with all things that have to do with princessess.  She referrs to herself as Princess Abby, I'm King Daddy, Liv is Queen Mommy, Evan is Prince Evan, and even the dogs are Lords and Ladies.  She is obsessed with going to pretend balls and gallas.  She'll get dressed up in a hodgepodge of clothing, or simple a blanket and pretend that she is wearing the most beautiful ball gown.  Her take aways from going to balls is this, "If you show up early or late to a ball, you are going to get married."  If this truly was true, this revelation is either going to see a massive attendance shift from eligible ladies going to balls, either to fashionably late, or precisely on-time.  Men, if were aware of this fact, will start avoiding balls with a vengence...

Differences In Opinions

Different perspectives on how tonight went:

Brian's version: Evan had a rough night, I think he was a little over tired today.  He wasn't happy about anything related to the night time routine.  He screamed and tussled with me while trying to floss, brush his teeth, change his diaper and get his pajamas on.  He finally settled in, but wanted Mom to put him to sleep.  He settled down pretty well with Mom, thank goodness.

Evan's version: Tonight is the 902nd day of my existence as prisoner.  Tonight, my chief captor, the one they call "Daddy", combined sleep deprivation with some sort of rope torture, I think he was attempting to tie one end to one of my teeth so he could pull it out.  I managed to successfully maneuver until he obviously became frustrated and gave up.  These small victories are all that keep me going.  Since he was unsuccessful in the rope technique, he proceeded to stuff a bristle covered with some sort of concoction - poison, I am sure, into my mouth.  Despite my struggling, he was able to get in my mouth with difficulty, but I believe that I was successful in managing to spit it all out before it took its toll.  It was gratifying to see that I managed to spit it on his shirt as well, especially in his eye, which caused him to call out in surprise and alarm.  He took a break before the next round of torture and I was able to steel my resolve for what was to come.  Next, he removed what little dignity I had and exposed me while he rubbed a cloth on me with some sort of liquid embedded in it .  I attempted to keep what was left of my composure while he rubbed some sort of cream on my posterior and wrapped me with some sort of mummy wrappings.  I'm sure that if I hadn't struggled and forced him to start over several times, he would have completed his attempt to embalm me and force me into the mummy bandages alive.  Instead, he satisfied himself with forcing me into my one piece prison jumper, complete with textured footing to allow me to some sort of traction when I will attempt to escape his clutches tomorrow.  As my will began to drain from me and I was about to give up, this evening's session ended as he marched me down the darkened stairs to the clutches of the female captor, the nicer of the two, the one they call "Mommy".  Under her tender care, I regained my resolve and had a moment to reflect upon the peace of the evening.  I believe I must be going through some sort of "Stockholm Syndrome", in which I feel genuine affection for the one they call Mommy.  I was returned to my cell and my indoctrination continued with the repetition of books including the most popular types of transportation, acceptable feet types, and a story regarding a caterpillar that overindulges on various types of food, furthering their attempts to make my diet that includes vegetables more palatable.  Exhausted, I was returned to my small bed in the corner of my cell where the toll of the day and waves of exhaustion slipped me into slumber.  I can only hope tomorrow does not bring another of episode of water boarding with deliberate attempts to pour shampoo into my eyes...

Sending Imaginary Friends Home

Recently, Abby was giving me a hard time on a weekend (apparently that's all I write about).  She had just finished breakfast and had just taken forever to eat.  Everytime I reminded her to do her job, she would roll her eyes, roll her head and sigh exceedingly loud, basically anything that she could do to ensure that she got the maximium reaction from me.  Finally, I told her that she needed to buckle down and do her job, or I was going to help her.  She then told me that she couldn't do her job because Snow White kept distracting her.

Now, since I couldn't address the issue directly with Snow White, I threatened to send Snow White home.  Apparently, if I sent Snow White home, then the evil Queen would kill Snow White.

This sent Abby into a fit of hysterics, and after I explained that she needed to do her job and Snow White would be able to stay, this sent Abby into a tear filled drama tornado headed directly to the bathroom to frantically brush her teeth. 

The real question was, should I feel such amusement in my daughter's panic? 

Good thing I didn't mention anything about her imaginary horses...

Dragonitis

So, this is my first attempt at a Blog.  Bear (grrr) with me.

So, recently my daughter, Abby has had some dry skin on her hands.  My beautiful and amazing wife, Olivia came up with the brilliantly idea to put bag balm on her hands and cover them with an old pair of thin gloves overnight.  It works like a charm.  However, when the dryness has progressed to such a point, it will often take a couple of days to properly hydrate her skin back to health. 

Abby, however decided that gloves and horribly sticky stuff that resembles something like some sort of snot-like goo are not a great idea.  Even after Olivia cut out one of her thumbs off the gloves, it still was a struggle to get them on.  Even better was when she would wait until one of her hands was gooed and gloved up when she would fling them at my head and attempt to smear her hands on my face (my favorite). 

Finally, I got tired of it.  I told her that we needed to put on bag balm in order to cure her Dragonitis.  Abby knows that I tend to tease her and make up stories about stuff.  She may be five, but she's not stupid.  Very reluctantly she asked what Dragonitis was.  I told her that Dragonitis is a rare, but curable disease.  If allowed to progress, her skin would turn into scales, she'd grow wings and we'd have her keep her outside with the rest of her imaginary dragons in the Dragon Stable, otherwise she'd sneeze fire and burn down the house. 

To make my case even better, shortly after I introduced the concept, we went to Minnesota Renaissance Festival.  There, a plethora of enthusiasts dressed up in their chosen flavor of costume.  Most were relatively benign and consisted of the wenches and overweight Merry Men of various size, most ranging to obese to grossly obese.  There were a couple of true enthusiasts who either have far too much time on their hands, or a significant lack of female companionship.  One guy had a full dragon costume, completely covering his body, and complete with a head and wings.  I pointed him out to Abby and told him that he was suffering from an advance stage of Dragonitis.  Abby no longer had any reason to doubt me. 

Now, generally speaking, we don't have anymore issues with putting the gloves.  One day when I saw the smearing of the goo on my face to be imminent, I gasped and informed Abby that her Dragonitis is progressing even worse.  She got a concerned look her face and asked me what I meant.  I had her turned around I rubbed against shoulder blades and told her that she was starting to sprout her wings.  I haven't had anymore issues with rubbing bag balm on her hands anymore...