Perhaps we're doing something right?

Our latest topic at home is money. E and M are earning some by picking up rocks in the backyard. I've also decided that it's about time to do allowances on a regular basis. So I'm talking to E about an allowance and explaining how it works and all. She wants to know what she has to do for her allowance. I explain that it's not necessarily for work she does, although we expect her to help out around the house, but just for her to save or spend as she sees fit. "But Mommy," she protests, "I just wouldn't feel right about getting money for doing nothing." 

!!!!!!!!!!

"Foster that attitude" says Marmot Dad.

M, on the other hand, toils not, neither does she spin. When we introduced the concept of work-for-pay, she sat at the picnic table while E ran around picking up rocks. M asked a few questions about what things cost, notably bubble gum and lollipops, two things I refuse to purchase. "Aren't you going to pick up some rocks?" I ask. "Well, I'm deciding if I want bubble gum or a lollipop," M answers. She finally decides on a lollipop, which costs $.06 at the local grocery store. So she picks up . . . . 6 rocks, no more, no less.

E is saving up for whatever Disney Princess Polly Pocket toys she might be able to locate and purchase (after visiting a friend who reportedly has an entire closet full, curse the child and her parents). I introduced her to the concept of an auction (which she calls an "option") by scouring ebay for used sets. I'm hoping against hope that some garage sales might come through for us, too. I'm not up on these things. I don't know if they're even still carried in stores. But ebay almost always comes through for me.

In other news, I just heard from M one of our favorite phrases we hear in this household: "E, let's play My Little Ponies with our own human bodies."

Puppy Love

To say Tooie loves puppies is a laughable understatement. He LOOOOOVVVVES puppies (fittingly, he was born in the Year of the Dog). He has supersonic puppy detection hearing and can hear a puppy barking about 5 miles away. He can see puppies out the car window who look like mere specks of dust to me (and keep in mind, he rides backwards in the car).

So we were shopping for a birthday present for a party E and M were invited to (at Chuck E. Cheese, to my GREAT dismay, all fodder for another entry once it's over, I'm sure) and he saw the puppy of his dreams. We brought it home of course. Here he is wearing the puppy and doing his favorite thing, saying goodbye to tissue paper as it gets flushed down the toilet:

Another shot of the same activity:

Running from the Mommy Papparazzi (who can figure out how to spell those Italian words, after all?)

Not even a great puppy backpack can keep you happy all the time when your sentences are only one word long:
As you can see, he likes to wear the puppy for all kinds of activities (like making playdough), and he has to have it in the car, and he prefers to have it at bedtime:
The best part about this puppy? The "tail" snaps on to the back of it and it becomes a BABY RESTRAINING DEVICE!!! What evil genius came up with this??? Yes, I have purchased a baby leash. I figure that once Tooie 2 arrives on the scene I won't have enough hands to deal with kids in the parking lot, and I can't stay home forever, so Tooie's puppy will have to start using his powers for evil and not for good come June.

In other Tooie news, and speaking of evil genius, the boy is a madman in the kitchen. He loves to cook, or should I say "cook." It starts at the sink. He'll announce "water," "cup," "bowl," "poon," and he expects that his wish is your command. Then he fills up the bowl with the cup and stirs vigorously with the poon while muttering "cook cook cook" to himself. Until such time as I hear a loud splashing noise that indicates about five gallons of water have just been poured all over the counter and floor and we move on to another activity.

Like eggs. If any eggs are in sight he yells "egg! crack! egg! crack!" until you let him choose an egg or two and give it a desultory whack against the bowl. Next stop, salt.

Don't leave a whole container of salt on the kitchen counter. This is my only advice for you.

Ditto sugar.

Appliances are his latest love. He adores the salad spinner. He likes to put small toys in it then lie down next to it on the ground so he can watch the inner basket go round and round while he pushes the plunger. The other night, Marmot Dad was making a salad, and Tooie was playing with the spinner. He noticed something was missing, so he ran to the kitchen, got a stool, pushed it over to the salad bowl, grabbed a handful of greens, and ran back to put them in his spinner.

He also just discovered the "food processor" attachment to the blender (yes, that would be the same blender that he broke just last week). He likes to put all the parts together (sans blade) in order and yells "help!" if he can't figure out one of the pieces. Then he pushes the buttons. I let him push the buttons tonight when I was actually using it, and it scared him so badly that he had to run screaming from the kitchen.

It happens that way sometimes to even the best chefs.

I am a soccer mom

E is playing soccer this spring. So far we've mostly loved it, except for two little glitches. The first is the abominable snacks that are apparently expected at the end of every game--so-called "juice drinks" and fluorescent-colored "fruit" leather and other non-food items. We took apples and oranges when it was our turn and were met with shock and disdain from the kids on the team, even though I had spent at least an hour cutting the apples to look like rabbits (a special treat requested by the girls).

The other difficulty is the question of sporting gear. The kids are required to purchase a city jersey, and I actually think it's really nice--reversible so they can be a different color depending on the week, and they can wear the same one until they outgrow it because it's the same for all the age groups. Then there are all kinds of optional gear you can purchase: matching shorts, socks, etc. And THEN there is the specialized gear that I think it's crazy to buy for a four- or five-year-old, like cleats (cleats!). But of course E noticed that she was dressed differently right away, and we've had several tearful moments while I explained that her shoes were just fine and that maybe it wasn't such a great idea to WANT to look like everyone else.

She was pretty much reconciled to her non-matching shorts and her thrift-store shoes, and then this last game (where, I have to say, she played her little heart out and really got into the fray and gave that ball heck) she was apparently talking to her little sartorial-splend-i-fied friend who had all the gear you could have and then some while they were on the sidelines waiting for their turn to get back into the game. Here's what came of that--

On the way home, E says to me in the car, "My friend S says that her shoes are faster than mine."

Mom: "Really? I thought you were running pretty fast out there."

E: "Well, I was, but S says her shoes are faster."

Mom: "Do you think that shoes make you fast? I think it's probably your feet and your legs and all the practice that you do running and playing soccer."

E, thoughtful: "Yeah, shoes couldn't make you go fast. It's your legs. And it's being strong like an oak (one of her favorite expressions from Mulan)."

Mom, trying to change the subject: "So, do you think soccer is fun? Are you glad you're starting to play?"

E: "I think soccer is really fun. Even when people lie to you about their shoes."

Birthday Wishes

We have two birthdays to celebrate, each for a Marmot Uncle. MU #1 turned 32 last week (32? yes?) and we figure he had enough fun celebrating in ROME to last at least until 33 (one can only hope, anyway. We might go to the local gelato place in his honor). MU#2 turns 41 (which I understand is "the new 40") tomorrow. Must have been a curse to grow up with an April Fools' Day birthday. But many happy returns all the same, to both of you. (We did remember Midwestern Marmot Aunt's birthday back in February but apparently marked it with a moment of silence rather than something as festive as a blog entry. Many apologies, MMA. We don't function well in February, what with all the snow and cold and darkness. Makes you wonder why we chose Feb. to get married.)

Theology 101

E's nativity play last week, as reported by Marmot Dad:

"OK little Jesus, it's time to put on your swaddling clothes. You're just the funniest little savior. Now, you need to wear your swaddling clothes to be a good example to all the other babies."

M has her own issues regarding the Holy Family. She insists that Joseph, not God, is the father of Jesus. "Well, Mommy," she explained (patiently, and speaking slowly, for Mommies of somewhat dim intelligence), "the people who are with the baby are the parents. So Mary and Joseph are Jesus's parents. Joseph is his real father. Heavenly Father is just his extra father." Heck, it makes sense to me.

Finally, E got a little ribbon at church a couple of weeks ago that said "I am a Child of God." She loved it and wore it to preschool the next day, although once we got to school she asked me a few times if she ought to wear it into the school. She was afraid that maybe the people at school didn't go to church or believe in Heavenly Father. I assured her that they probably did. But after school we stopped at the city rec center to sign up for swimming lessons and she took it off then (for the same reasons). (Although, let the record show that she had no qualms about asking the kid sitting in the entryway who his favorite princess was. Sure, she'll proselytize for Disney but not for God.) Anyway, I suggested that it would be just fine to wear her ribbon even around people who didn't go to church or whatever, and then if they asked her about she could tell them what it meant and that she went to church etc. etc. etc. Her eyes lit up as she suddenly understood: "like a missionary!" Then she took it one step farther: "When we get home, I'll put on my ribbon, and we can walk to the end of the road, and if I meet anyone who doesn't believe in Heavenly Father I'll tell them about him! I'll be a missionary to the end of the road!" 

(Some of us feel as if perhaps we were missionaries to/at the end of the road at one time.) 

Alas, when we got home and went to the end of the road no one was to be seen, believer or infidel.

. . . but screw your courage to the sticking place . . .

Our little E is positively Shakespearean in her expressions sometimes. Today on the way to preschool we were waiting to make a turn into a parking lot during class break. The college students just walk along without ever noticing any cars that might be about to run them down (like ours), and E finds this very disturbing. "They don't pay attention at all!" she huffs. "That is very dangerous! They could get run over!" Today she found new words to express her exasperation: "they just fix their minds on what they're doing and don't think about cars that might run over them." Fix their minds. She kills me.

More Love

So Marmot Dad passed up an opportunity to broadcast live from Carnegie Hall in June so he would not miss the birth of Marmot #4. True love. (Of course, he also hates to travel, even to as exciting a location as NYC.)