The Blind Leading the Blind

A conversation from our ride home from preschool:

M: Brooke says purple in a funny way. She says "puhpol." (NB: M and E both say purple as "paypul.")

E: Well, she just talks different from us. She's little. (She's older than M.)

M: But she says paypul like puhpol.

E: No she doesn't. She says paypul.

M: No she doesn't. She says puhpol.

E: No she doesn't. She says paypul.

M: Mommy! E's contradicting me!

And here is E's take on everything in the world. We went for a walk tonight with the girls riding bikes. They are not allowed to ride their bikes across streets but have to get off and walk across. Sometimes M doesn't want to, so we tell her to watch how E does it and follow her example. Tonight Marmot Dad was trying to get M to hustle on off her bike and across the road and was trying to throw in some positive reinforcement along the way, so he said, "here, get off your bike and we'll walk across the road and you can be an example for your sister." At which point said sister cried out, shocked and appalled, "No! No one has to be an example for me, ever! I am ALWAYS an example for EVERYONE ELSE!"

So there you have it.

She also informed me that "preschool is so pleasant when Sam and Averie aren't there."

Tooey is getting good at walking, although he needs to start bending his knees.

True Stories

So, many years ago, before E was born, Marmot Dad had a dream that he was holding a little Mongolian boy in his hand and the boy's name was Tajil (or Tadjil, or Tagil, or what have you). We called E Tajil until she was born. Last Saturday I was asked to go to a law conference dinner to help host some of the international guests. I was initially seated at a table with three Mongolians. And one of them was named . . . Tajil. No kidding.

A few weeks ago my ditsy neighbor was over in our yard asking her daughter how school had gone. Daughter said that she was not allowed to eat her marshmallows for a snack at school because they were a sugary snack and their class is not allowed to have sugary snacks at their snack time. Neighbor says, "Marshmallows? I didn't know they had sugar in them." Flabbergasted, I reply, "marshmallows are ALL sugar, and a little bit of gelatin." "Oh great, that's all my two-year-old eats." Sigh. Sad but true. I saw someone over at said neighbor's house a few days ago measuring for an appraisal. I was hoping they were getting ready to sell, but no, they took out a second mortgage to finance the opening of a jewelry store. But we figure either way we win: if the shop does well, they'll move into a big fancy house in a big fancy neighborhood. If it does poorly, they'll move back to Idaho.

Another true story: E ate fish and liked it. Hallelujah. She even asked for some for breakfast.

And finally, E and M have discovered a new favorite game: ponies go to college. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.

The Wrong Trousers

(This is for those of you who do not read my sister's blog. If you don't, you should. At least read her version of this story.)

So Marmot Dad comes home last night looking like the cat who swallowed the canary, having stopped at D. I. and scored a great pair of second-hand pants. (May I just mention, and don't you deny it Marmot Pa, that said Dad is a little obsessed with pants. And T shirts. He never seems to have enough of them and always wants plenty of backups.) Anyway, he triumphantly throws them at me to show me, I suppose, that he is as good a dumpster-diver/garage-saler/second-hander as I am (ha ha ha ha ha as if). I check the size (to make sure I don't have to hem them, because we got him some pants at D.I. about six months ago that needed nothing but a little hem and I STILL haven't gotten around to it). They say "18." I say, "These are women's pants." He denies it vociferously. They were in the men's section, he claims. So what if they were, I counter. These are a "pretty plus" women's size. My sister backs me up. He tries them on. Now I must honestly admit that if I didn't KNOW they were women's pants, I would probably not notice anything amiss. But they do make his posterior a little . . . more . . . rounded. And he himself admits that he noticed that the pockets were in sort of a weird place, and the zipper was a bit shorter than normal. "I did notice that," he says, as if to defend himself.  I guess it's good to know that we can do his shopping at Lane Bryant from now on. And let the record show that I have actual photos of him wearing a hideous pink shirt and (horribile dictu) pink shorts (thankfully not at the same time).

Today (new topic) is Tuie's birthday, sweet baby. He took three steps today for the first time and has been his usual sweet self. Except that he thinks he's too big for his high chair (keeps standing up) and want to drink from a cup (which he does badly).

M, on the other hand, was apprehended writing her name in ballpoint pen on her very lovely and nice pink pants. I wasn't sure whether to praise or blame, since she was writing her name on her pants and doing a very nice job of it. After all, she's only three. I toyed with the idea of letting her put on the last letter, the only one she lacked. She explained that "I couldn't find the tag." Cryptic. Then I realized she had seen me write E's name in permanent ink on the tags in the extra set of clothes I sent to her school.

As for E, she told me today that "Hunter is a boy I just HATE." I explained that we could not really like people but we shouldn't hate them. She justified: "Well, I hate him, but I try to be nice to him." 

Out next door neighbors got a trampoline. It's getting me down.