Tonight R2, C2 and I watch a little of Mary Poppins after baths. C2 enjoyed smashing his naked little bum on my shoulder or grabbing my face and pinching my lips or body slamming himself into my belly (things his sister never did). A couple of times when he was on my shoulder, I kissed the side of his tummy--he clapped his hand over my mouth, put his nose on my nose and said, loudly, "Stop coughing (copying) me!"
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R2 to C2 (both in the bathtub): Hey, rock star! Can you show us some of your music? (Loud, obnoxious air guitar ensues).
This afternoon
C2 to me (he's outside in the back, I'm in the kitchen): Moooooom! Where aaaaare yoooouuu?
Me (I go downstairs to take out the trash and to answer him. He's sitting on the steps): Here I am, sweetie!
C2 (turning half way around. Annoyed. Yelling): I'M SINGING A SONG! (turns his back to me, takes a deep breath, and then, sweetly) Siiident niiiide. Hooody niiiide... [Silent night. Holy night.]
Me (under my breath): Irony abounds.
Last night
Background: At bedtime lately, R1 has been telling R2 stories he makes up about Pippy the detective. She solves all sorts of mysteries. R2 loves these stories.
R2 and C2 were playing in the tub with lots of bubbles. R2 said to me: Mom, we have a mystery! We need Dad to help us solve it.
Me (somewhat offended): Why do you need Dad? (I wanted to add, "I'm just as smart as he is, you know! Humph!")
R2 (with the R1 smirk on her face): He knows Pippy's phone number.
Me: Oh.
Day before yesterday
Background: When my siblings and I were young, our Mom made up Mr. Ferd, the owner of a work farm where naughty children do all the work. He was known to troll neighborhoods, waiting for parents to flag him down to send their misbehaving little ones away with him for a work stint (the foil of the ice cream man). I don't think any of us ever really believed in him completely because Mom had her own special brand of smirk on her face whenever she leveled the threat; nevertheless, there was power to the very idea of a Mr. Ferd. So much power that all of Mom's grandchildren know about Mr. Ferd (from their own parents, no less!), some of them believe, some don't--or at least they say they don't. Whenever I bring him up, R2 proclaims that he's not real, and, of course, adds a little stamp of her foot for proper emphasis.
A couple of days ago, I was in rare (or, not-so-rare) form--grumbling and growling about way too many things. R2 was good natured about all of it. She didn't get ruffled, she gave me my space...sort of. After a while, though, she'd had enough of my complaining and lecturing. She let me finish my sentence and then said, with the wry smile she inherited from her dad, "Mom. I think I'm going to send you to Mr. Ferd!"
I was disarmed and freed me from my own peevishness. Isn't that what I'm supposed to do for her?
R2 to C2 (both in the bathtub): Hey, rock star! Can you show us some of your music? (Loud, obnoxious air guitar ensues).
This afternoon
C2 to me (he's outside in the back, I'm in the kitchen): Moooooom! Where aaaaare yoooouuu?
Me (I go downstairs to take out the trash and to answer him. He's sitting on the steps): Here I am, sweetie!
C2 (turning half way around. Annoyed. Yelling): I'M SINGING A SONG! (turns his back to me, takes a deep breath, and then, sweetly) Siiident niiiide. Hooody niiiide... [Silent night. Holy night.]
Me (under my breath): Irony abounds.
Last night
Background: At bedtime lately, R1 has been telling R2 stories he makes up about Pippy the detective. She solves all sorts of mysteries. R2 loves these stories.
R2 and C2 were playing in the tub with lots of bubbles. R2 said to me: Mom, we have a mystery! We need Dad to help us solve it.
Me (somewhat offended): Why do you need Dad? (I wanted to add, "I'm just as smart as he is, you know! Humph!")
R2 (with the R1 smirk on her face): He knows Pippy's phone number.
Me: Oh.
Day before yesterday
Background: When my siblings and I were young, our Mom made up Mr. Ferd, the owner of a work farm where naughty children do all the work. He was known to troll neighborhoods, waiting for parents to flag him down to send their misbehaving little ones away with him for a work stint (the foil of the ice cream man). I don't think any of us ever really believed in him completely because Mom had her own special brand of smirk on her face whenever she leveled the threat; nevertheless, there was power to the very idea of a Mr. Ferd. So much power that all of Mom's grandchildren know about Mr. Ferd (from their own parents, no less!), some of them believe, some don't--or at least they say they don't. Whenever I bring him up, R2 proclaims that he's not real, and, of course, adds a little stamp of her foot for proper emphasis.
A couple of days ago, I was in rare (or, not-so-rare) form--grumbling and growling about way too many things. R2 was good natured about all of it. She didn't get ruffled, she gave me my space...sort of. After a while, though, she'd had enough of my complaining and lecturing. She let me finish my sentence and then said, with the wry smile she inherited from her dad, "Mom. I think I'm going to send you to Mr. Ferd!"
I was disarmed and freed me from my own peevishness. Isn't that what I'm supposed to do for her?
2 comments:
for the record, i totally thought mr. ferd was real.
J5 has tormented his cousins with the concept of Mr. Ferd!
And I LOVE that R1 is making up bedtime stories for your kids. My dad had this whole series of astronaut stories he'd tell us...they were of course hilarious! Looking back? pure magic.
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