Mompers

It's open! Oh at last! It's open! Let's go!

"Where to?" you might well ask. Let's go to . . .

Yep, the girls have been at it again. We had two opening celebrations this week (complete with refreshments) for the two newly opened Dinosaur Museums, one in each non-parental bedroom (we have a fairly fluid assignment of sleeping spaces, so no one really has an assigned room). When they found out I had purchased 5000 sheets of paper at Costco, they lost no time in trying to burn through the supply.

Which bring us to this: the Wooly Mammoth Wall (these are known as "mompers" [monsters] by this little guy)
Here's a sample of the artwork:

Everything's carefully labeled in case you aren't sure what's what:
(Those little triangular things are the plates of a stegasaurus)

We have a few (ahem) non-traditional dinosaurs:

Another wall:

I'd call this the main gallery:
One of my personal favorites, the singing dinosaurs:

The toothpicks are prizes awarded for excellence in drawing. (Note the fish-catching going on, and the little waves splashing up.)

A colorful fellow:

Momper of the Deep:

Wet Momper:

Flying Momper:

T-Rex and child:

And of course no museum is complete without a museum shop. This one sells bracelets fashioned out of pipe cleaners in various sizes:

Pennies go here:

Come visit soon!

His Eye is on the Sparrow (or Junco)

E came to me in a dither yesterday after playing outside for a little while to report that she thought she had found a dead bird. She had indeed. It was most certainly dead. Thoroughly dead. A little Junco from the back yard. Her mind immediately went to the Cedar Waxwing we found on campus last year that apparently was part of a mass kill-off, probably from ingesting ice-melt. So she posited that it had eaten "poison" from a neighbor's yard (neighbors who are notorious for spraying and sprinkling noxious substances on their lawns, sometimes with a down-wind effect on our yard/family/flowers).

Here's the (late) bird:

We wondered briefly what to do with it. They knew not to play with it, since I had told them the story of my bringing home a dead bird as a child and being scolded for bringing a yucky, dead, stiff, no doubt pestilential bird into the house. We decided to bury it in the garden (the circle of life and all that). They wanted to use a push broom. I opted for a spade.

Then the girls wanted to memorialize the poor bird:

Then M's sign got more specific:
The final product:
Tooie decided today he wanted to dig the bird up and "just take a look at it." Fortunately, I distracted him.

Oops.

The phone rang this morning. M brought it to me, and the voice on the other end said, "Is this Dr. So-and-so?"

"Why yes it is," I answered, not without some pleasure in finally, finally, getting my due.

Let's back up just a moment. I am not actually a Dr., but I am only about four chapters of a dissertation shy of being one. (OK, so that's pretty far shy of it, but I could have finished, barring a husband and some children, right? Oh yeah, and some serious writer's block and perhaps a dearth of original ideas.) Anyway, I am at least a bona fide professor, and really, that should count for something.

When I first started my university career, being (a) female and (b) someone who looks young for her age (sometimes by as much as ten years), my students felt they were justified in calling me by my first name . . . which they most assuredly were not (perhaps I don't deserve any respect, considering that dangling modifier I just bunged in there). But even though 32 was old enough to teach, it was not old enough to call them to repentance. There were other problems as well, but let's not dwell on the negative, shall we? Suffice it to say that I've been waiting for years (almost ten, to be exact) to get some respect, in and out of the classroom.

So is it not excusable to react with a blush of pleasure when someone calls me "Dr." of her own accord?

But my joy was short-lived. The woman on the line started talking hospital this and on-call that. I should have known that on New Year's Day, no one would have a literary emergency. I told her that unfortunately I was not that kind of doctor. "Oh," she asked, "are you a nurse practitioner?" I hated to disappoint her, but no, I am not. "I am a professor," I said.

I didn't tell her I'm not even a real doctor of anything. Sic transit gloria big-head.

Nessie

The children have been looking at a book from the library about Scotland (because of their evil Aunt's impending move there), and wouldn't you know--they are all fascinated, absolutely fascinated by . . . the Loch Ness Monster. M has drawn all kinds of pictures (and then hidden them, apparently, because I can't find them now) and has spent most of the day on the couch staring at a fuzzy picture purported to be said monster. E keeps coming up with explanations: "I bet someone carved a big log to look like the Loch Ness Monster and put it out there. Do you think maybe it was a rock? When was the last time anyone saw it?" And Tooie vacillates between longing and loathing: "Do you think the 'cotland Monster has TEEF?" "Do 'cotland Monsters EAT people?" "I think when we go to 'cotland the 'cotland Monster will say [funny voice here] 'oh, I think I will go up and visit Tooie and his family.' "

Everyone wants Aunt to be on the look out for the Loch Ness/'cotland Monster when she gets to Scotland. And then, when she locates it, they want to come and visit it themselves. Tooie's last words before he went to sleep tonight went something like this:

"Will the monster stay up and visit us if we are nice to it?"

Mom (distractedly): "um hmm, probably"

Tooie (with lots of spit): "Then I will be EXtra nice to it when I see it."

Tomorrow M is preparing a letter to send to Aunt with a picture of the monster and the instructions, "Look for this monster in the ocean when you are going to Scotland." Marmot Dad is trying to quash their belief in the beast, but I say if Leonard Nimoy suggested that it was real, well, I'm a true believer.

The Old Christmas Spirit

I was lying down with the girls tonight when I heard a knock on the door. I got up, peeked out the front window, and saw my neighbor's daughter, so I opened the door . . . only to discover that said daughter was proffering . . . a roll of toilet paper. Somewhat stunned, I took it, thanked her, waved to her mother in the car (who hollered out "Merry Christmas!"), and closed the door. There was a little note attached: "Money is scarce and times are hard, so we're giving you this instead of a card." There was more, but I can't bring myself to write it down. I was just given a festive Christmas roll of toilet paper.

Now I know that civilization is on the very verge of collapse.

In other Christmas news, Marmot Dad has been engaging in his favorite holiday pastime, Elf-Like Behavior (ELB). On his latest round, he came home to tell me some of what he had picked up here and there, whereupon I told him what he should have picked up, and where. So he has renamed his ELB "Elf-Like Blunders."

(Note: in all fairness, Marmot Dad's Elf-Like Behavior is generally of the highest quality--he has a knack for stocking stuffers, particularly for little girls, that borders on the amazing.)

Overheard

E goes to ballet classes once a week. This is a nice little ballet studio, run by the woman I took ballet from at the university twenty-some years ago (and she is also E's teacher). I like it because it is low-key, and there is none of the hoochie-koochie dancing that is so popular for young girls in these parts.

There are things, however, that I am not fond of. And I'm not talking just about trying to control the other three kids while E is dancing, although that is a sore trial in my life. I'm talking about Other Mothers.

One mother in particular feels the need to share wildly inappropriate information with me about how her children were planned or not planned and what medications she was taking when they were conceived and on and on and on. I try to smile and nod and mostly plan my next vacation to the Bahamas while she talks to me.

Last week, though, I heard some great stuff from another mother. Her three-year-old daughter was misbehaving, and the mother was trying to get her to stop. This is what she said: "Do you want to lose ten Good-Girl Points? Because if you don't stop, you'll lose ten Good-Girl Points. I'll just take away ten Good-Girl Points."

I ABSOLUTELY LOVE this concept. Except I want to award Bad-Girl Points. To my sister. And when she gets enough, she will have to give me a present. Brilliant.

In other news, the Marmot Babe is the messiest eater we've ever had. EVER. I find food all over the place, on him, his booster seat, the table, the floor, the walls, you name it. On me. Now here's the irony. When he comes in in the morning for breakfast, he looks at his booster seat, which sometimes his overburdened mama has not thoroughly cleaned out the night before. He starts muttering "towel, towel, towel" to himself while he waddles off, looking for all the world like a beaver on its hind legs, to pull a towel out of the drawer, bring it to his seat, and start cleaning it off (in the process getting food all over the floor again, but no matter). Yeah, now he suddenly turns into a neat freak.

In Which I Cease Being a Homeschooler

M is going back to kindergarten! Not at her regular school, though. We came upon an opening at the university lab school where E went. We hope they can keep up with her. She starts Monday, which is about the time my life ends and I have to start hustling across town every day (at least it's a small town).

In the meanwhile, she has been prolific in her literary pursuits. This might be my favorite story yet. May I present

The Dragon With No Wings!

The Dragon With No Wings! A Once Upon a Time Book.

Once upon a time a princess had a dragon for a pet. It had no wings. Have you ever seen a dragon with no wings and no ears? The dragon had spots on him like leopards have spots on them. The dragon's friend had wings but he did not!

The dragon tried to fly but he could not fly.

(picture of dragon falling through clouds--note dotted line indicating falling)

The dragon tried and tried and tried to fly. Again and again and again. But he never could fly. "Oh," he said, "I will never never fly," he said.

(picture of dejected dragon with sad flames)

One day he woke up. He tried to fly again. He could, he could, he could!!! He was so happy he showed all of his friends. "I am so happy I can fly that I came to show you!" said the dragon.

"Oh oh oh I am so happy I can fly now. Oh I can fly fly fly now. Fly fly fly fly fly," he said. "La la la la I can fly now. Fly fly fly. I can fly. I can fly now. Oh oh oh. Hooray hooray hooray!!"

I can fly. Fly fly fly. Now I can fly.

"Yes yes yes I can fly now. Hooray, now I can fly. Hooray hooray hooray. I can fly now. Now now now I can FLY!!!!! Hooray hooray hooray I can fly now!!!" he said.

The End.

Melville, Steinbeck, Hemingway--they got nothin' on this kid. Next, the great American novel by M.

But wait--she does poetry too (she had me and Marmot Dad write some words--I did mine while holding a flailing toddler, which might qualify this as performance art).

There is a place called England where people do their fiction.

Frankly, this is on a par with or superior to most of what passes for poetry in The New Yorker.