Monday, June 7, 2010

I Think My Kids Are Weird...

I love my kids but there are moments when I think: "Are my kids weird?  Like really weird?"

Please tell me I'm not the only one.  Other people think this too, right?  I mean, I guess it's actually good because I am only normal on paper.  In reality, I am not right.  But presumably you know that already because you read this blog. 

Would you like some examples?

Meow Meow Meow
Last week, while carpooling three kids from our neighborhood to school, Thumbelina (age 7) insisted that all conversations in the van consist exclusively of meows.  Technically, other cat noises were permitted.  Hissing and purring were fine provided they were done well.  She is nothing if not a perfectionist.

Also, I overheard a conversation that went like this: "If you were an animal, what would you be?"  To which Thumbelina responded that she would be an egg-sucking weasel.  Because of how much she loves eggs.  And because weasels can be sneaky and she loves sneakers.

The Darth Vader Prison Shower
I recently found myself hosing off my squealing, giggling 5 year old son with the shower's spray attachment.  While dressed as Darth Vader.  In all black clothes and a plastic mask.  The labored breathing is surprisingly easy to duplicate when you are forced to breathe through 1.5 cm hole in a sweaty plastic mask for twenty minutes.  Why did I do this?  Because the boy was disgusting and he refused to take a bath.  I had only one choice and this was it.  He was so dirty from playing outside and never wearing shoes that I had to use the shower attachment to hose down the tub afterwards.  Because their were twigs and grass and (what I choose to believe were) chunks of dirt all over my tub. 

And now, If I want him to get clean he shakes his head and hands me the black mask. 

What is that Smell?
I am forced to ask this question about fifteen times per day.  Often as result of flatulence.  My kids create enough noxious, explosive methane gas to blow up my house in a fireball you could see from space.  And it smells like they eat nothing but cabbage and bad meat.  The baby has been weaned for about a month and those post-breast milk diapers are unreservedly gag-inducing.  We also have a large, geriatric dog with chronic GI problems.  And that doesn't help.  But you would think they'd have learned to blame poor Woody dog for their olfactory offenses.  You would be wrong.  They take pride in that stink.  They made that stink.  I will never understand this.  They sometimes ask each other to look at particularly special poops in the potty as well.  They have given up on asking me.

The Dynasty Slap
My baby is now 18 months old. She is adorable and cherubic in her appearance. She is truly a sweet little thing. She is also strong willed. When she is unhappy with something, for example - not being allowed to play with steak knives - she screams in anger and then tries to slap you across the face. Not a little slap. A full on, hauls back from third base, Alexis Carrington bitch slap. I should have known. She's always been a slapper.

Nunts and Crunches
I know that all kids hear words and get them wrong.  For two years my kids referred to a certain set of books and movies as the "Narnicles of Chronia" and we never bothered to correct them.  But Thumbelina hears words, thinks she knows what they are and then gives seminars to her younger siblings about them.  Because she is the oldest and therefore knows everything. 

Here's a snippet: "No, Hawk.  That woman is called a NUNT.  They are married to GOD and live in churches but not the kind we go to.  The kind Grandmom in NJ goes to.  Nunts wear those long black dresses so you know what they are.  Grandpa Ned calls them penguins because he went to a school where they were his teachers a long, long time ago in the olden days in NJ and they used to hit him with a ruler.  Because teacher nunts are mean.  Nurse nunts are kind and good.  Mommy said.  Before we were born in a faraway land, Mommy worked at hospital with a lot of them and she said the nurse ones were nice.  They don't hit.  And that's good because if you fell down and broke your leg and had to use crunches to get around and a nunt hit you in the hospital you could fall down again."

Feet on My Face
My son is always putting his feet on people's faces.  Hawk has huge, clammy, moist, slappy boy feet.  They do not need to be on anyone's face.  At least three times a day I have to say: "What do I always tell you about putting your feet on people's face?!" And he says: "I know.  I can't help it!" or "But I have da socks on!" or "But I just put dem near your face..."

Thumbelina once saw an infomercial for Bump-its.  She became obsessed.  So like an idiot, I bought some for her after she had a particularly good week at school.  She now wants to wear them everywhere she goes.  Like school.  Or choir practice.  Or a birthday party at a bowling alley.  When she wears a bump-it, she feels fancy and special.  And a strong urge to accessorize takes over.  For a trip to Walmart, she paired her bump-it up-do with a pair of red wayfarer sunglasses, a rainbow striped sundress and a magenta clutch.  You might think she would look like a little nightmare pageant queen.  Oh no.  She looked like a cross between Dame Edna and the blond chick from the B-52's.  She thinks she looks amazing.

Downward Dog
The baby has a thing for face planting.  It is odd.  She sees something soft: a pillow or blanket or sweatshirt on the floor and she face plants into it.  She turns her small face slightly so she can breathe, squinches up her eyes real tight, and pops her diaper bottom up in the air so that she makes triangle.  Then she starts cooing: "Wheeeerreee-aaarrreee-youuuuuu?"  Because apparently, in this position, she becomes invisible.  

When she is ready to return to a visible state, she usually notifies us by screaming out a high pitched squawk not unlike the noise a seagull would make if it were being torn apart by lions.  This noise has been clinically proven to cause myocardial infarction in otherwise healthy adults.

Oh, hello baby.  You're back.  How charming you are.

What's it All About, Alfie?
As if Thumbelina weren't eccentric enough - the Cap'n gave her a handful of old cd's to listen to in her room.  Things we knew were safe for small ears and didn't listen to much or had uploaded to iTunes.  Her favorite is Burt Bachrach's Greatest Hits.  She can found playing Barbies and signing along with "Do You Know the Way to San Jose?" and "Walk on By".  She has no idea why we think this is so funny.

I actually don't know the way to San Jose. 

You get it now, right?  My kids are awesome and fantastic.  But they're a little weird.  I haven't even gotten into Hawk's obsessions with his tuxedo or Star Wars.  Or how the baby seems to enjoy eating dog food.  With me as their mother, though, this oddness is perhaps unavoidable. 

And I wouldn't want them any other way.

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