Busted

Both Dave and I have come to the humbling conclusion that we do not have the smarts to fool our three-year-old.  Cases in point:

J  A while ago, Ellen lost one of her trains – Toby, the brown square one, to be exact.  We looked for weeks without success, and Ellen mentioned (out of the blue) on several occasions that she really missed Toby and was so sad that he was lost.  So finally, I broke down and bought a new Toby at Target.  Unsure of whether or not this was a wise parenting move, I put him on top of the fridge without showing him to Ellen, and decided to wait it out a little longer.  A few days later, Toby the First miraculously appeared from waaaay under the driver’s seat in the car.  Toby the Second remained on top of the fridge.  Fast-forward to yesterday, when Dave lifted Ellen so she could put something in a high cabinet in the kitchen.  He put her down just as her head was whipping around to check out what she spotted out of the corner of her eye, and he quickly hid Toby in a cupboard.  “Hey Dad, what was up there?” she asked.  “What, you mean this little cup?” he said as he held up something to that effect.  “No, Dad,” she said.  “It was brown and square.  Ack-chally it looked like Toby.”      

J  I often secretly discard of art projects that Ellen brings home from preschool or play time.  We put them up and admire them for a while, and I save a few that are special.  But she has brought home enough art projects to wallpaper our entire house, so I comfort myself with her preschool teacher’s mantra (“it’s about the process, not the product”), and put them in the garbage.  The other day she came running into the living room clutching two projects that didn’t make the cut.  “Mom!” she yelled.  “These aren’t trash!  Did you get confused?”  I just looked at her, feigned utter shock that such beautiful, unique pieces should be disrespected in such a way that made them equal to banana peels and dirty paper towels, and said, “oh dear.  Yes, I must have gotten confused.”  As she carried the projects into her bedroom, I heard her say “it’s okay, Mom.  It was just a acks-dent.”    

J  I dislike folding and putting away clothes.  I think nudists REALLY have that “no laundry” thing going for them.  I admit that on probably more than one occasion I’ve muttered to myself “damn, guess I gotta do a load today” while pulling on my jeans over the last thing in my drawer that passed as underwear – that is, my swimsuit bottoms.  My point here is that because of my laundry delinquency, sometimes sheets, etc. make the transfer from washer to dryer a little too late.  Now, Ellen has an enthusiastic Grammy who makes her enough blankets and quilts and pillowcases that if she were to use them all at once, she could probably sleep rather comfortably under a bridge in the dead of winter.  She might even get a little too warm.  With all these coverlets to choose from, she has taken to sleeping every night with a Curious George blanket, a Disney Princesses blanket, and a quilt with an owl on it.  So, when I tuck her in to bed with her three blankets, she gets to choose how she wants each blanket to be placed on her.  It can “fly” (I toss it in the air and it falls to cover her), “vroom” (I start at the feet and quickly pull it up to the top of her head), or “chuff” (a la the trains on the island of Sodor).  On one particular night after she gave the directive for her trio of blankets to “fly; fly; fly,” I realized that I had committed the mistake of not putting the Disney Princess blanket in the dryer after washing it that day.  There were only two blankets.  Rather than launching into an explanation, I made a command decision.  I flew the Curious George blanket.  I flew the owl quilt.  Then I picked up the owl quilt a second time and flew it again.  Stifling a little smile, I bent over to kiss Ellen’s head, which she lifted off the pillow immediately.  She looked down at her blankets, then put her index finger on each, as though she was counting.  She looked up and said, “Mom, did you just pretend that the owl blanket was the princess blanket?”  There was no way to deny it.  You can imagine my face as I said to her sheepishly, “yes, yes I did.”  “Why did you do that?” she asked.  My only answer: “well, I don’t know.  I guess I felt like being silly.”

Below, there’s a picture of Ellen with two of the three blankets – Curious George and the owl quilt, which you can just barely see under George.  My mom’s dog Piper is on her pillow, which you’ll note is covered with a princess pillowcase.  That Grammy.

P.S.  I always feel a little sorry for Cecilia when I write these posts.  I suppose there will be plenty of chances for her to be the blog post star when she starts talking.  Until then, here is a cute picture of her, just to make it even.