cat named pig

But I do have to share this brief exchange . . . . 

Siena: What’s that smell?

Mama: I don’t know. Can you describe it? Is it the French toast, or my coffee?

Siena: No, it smells like lavender with spices.

[Mama is relieved that it’s a good smell, considering the possibilities in our house. . . .]

Siena: No, actually I think the smell is Poop Washington. [Much giggling.] Poop Washington French Toast. 

It was probably just a matter of time, and I knew we’d hit this stage at some point — Siena has discovered the entertainment value of Potty Talk. Why say what you really want to say, when you can insert the word poop at least three times into a sentence? Instead of “Here, Elliot, come get the ball,” it’s so much more fun to say, “Here, Pooper B. Pooperton, come get the POOP BALL!” With the last two words being almost totally obscured by hysterical laughter because you just said “poop ball.” And that is some funny poop stuff.

So we’ve been hearing a lot of poop talk lately. And I thought hard about this, because I don’t really want to tell my kids there are words they can’t use. I curse like a sailor when I’m not parenting or writing* . . . so, not that often anymore, actually. But drop a gallon of milk in front of me and you’ll hear some pretty strong language.

I try to set a good example in front of the kids, but I’m not perfect. And I don’t want to be a hypocrite. There’s also the fact that I just don’t care all that much if they say “poop” or “butt crack” (which is another phrase that never fails to elicit hysterical laughter these days). I figure, if they’re that obsessed with talking about this stuff, they’re going to regardless of what I try to do. To be honest, I think they should be able to use whatever words they want to express themselves, as long as they don’t A) use their words to hurt somebody or B) get in trouble at school/get labeled as a “bad kid”/make me look like a “bad parent.” So basically, don’t use the potty talk or other bad words in public and we’ll be fine.

But all that gets kind of tricky to explain in preschool terms. The solution I came up with was to tell Siena that she can say those things in our basement, or in the bathroom for actual bathroom-related reasons, but not anywhere else.

This means our dinner conversation is free of the poop-talk, but Siena still has an outlet for it in our house. It means I am less likely to be embarrassed at the park or at her school, and it means she is less likely to offend people or get in trouble. So far, it seems to be working, although it will be interesting to see if the recent onslaught of Potty Talk Obsession will change things.

In addition to the Potty Talk, Siena’s vocabulary in general is expanding rapidly. Recent words she’s busted out include hysterical, hilarious, coincidence, ignoring, devouring, and vicious. Unfortunately, vicious was first used in the following sentence:  

“My poop was vicious!”

….. 

*I don’t want to read this in five years, or have my kids read it, and be like WTF? All I did was swear back then! But I think swearing can be humorous, and expressive, and sometimes cathartic. Especially when cleaning up a giant mess.

Dear One-Year-Old, 

Why would you eat chalk? Why, after the first bite, wouldn’t you be like “Gah! This tastes like . . . chalk!” and then spit it out, never to put it in your mouth again? Why?  

Also, please stop knocking things over. I guarantee you will live longer.

Thanks, 

Your Loving Mother  

Just came across this photo from a couple weeks ago:

That’s Elliot, pajama shirt and no pants (but sun hat! because of global warming!), helping sweep up after Daddy mowed the grass. He’s taking a break here, but he loves that broom. Siena loves the broom, too, and has decided that sweeping off the patio will be her job for the summer. She takes it very seriously, frequently telling me she “feels good about doing it.” Which is fantastic, because I feel good about her doing it also. I wonder if she would feel equally great about making dinner, or taking out the trash?

Good thing we’re giving both kids an early start in pants-less yard work. Here is two-year-old Siena, helping Matt:

The lyrics to “Hush, Little Baby” as it is sung in the catnamedpig household:

Hush, Little Baby, don’t say a word

Mama’s (Daddy’s)* gonna buy you a mockingbird

If that mockingbird don’t sing

Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring

If that diamond ring turns black

Mama’s gonna buy you a hacky-sack

If that hacky-sack loses its beans

Mama’s gonna buy you a new pair of jeans

If that new pair of jeans gets all hole-y

Mama’s gonna buy you some guacamole  

*****

*Lyrics courtesy of Matt, or Daddy, but I am using the name “Mama” in the song as that is how I just sang it to Elliot. I must say, it worked like a charm. Matt developed this particular wording when Siena was about Elliot’s age; neither of us has any idea how the actual lyrics go, but we think this version works nicely. What better way to drift off to sleep than with visions of delicious guacamole dancing in your head? I can’t think of anything more soothing, personally. Maybe bagels with cream cheese. . . .

If you had asked me two weeks ago, just out of curiosity, what my top three favorite possessions were, I probably would have answered something like this: 

1. My engagement/wedding ring.

2. My MacBook laptop. (OK, our MacBook, but I think of it as MINE, ALL MINE. . . MY PRECIOUS. My beautiful white wireless connection to a world where no one screams at me about the food on their plates, or lack thereof, or WHY CAN’T WE GO TO THE PARK AGAIN YOUARENOTMYFRIEND.) 

3. The necklace Matt and Siena gave me for Mother’s Day last year, my first Mother’s Day as a mother of two. The beautiful and unique necklace that gets compliments from random strangers every single time I wear it, that made me feel pretty even last spring when I had a two-month-old permanently attached to my breast and my hair was falling out in clumps and twenty-some extra pounds of loose skin hung like velvet drapery around my mid-section and I couldn’t wear makeup because I was too likely to happy-cry at any given moment. (It’s worth pausing for a moment here to point out that my husband absolutely excels at gift-giving — he consistently picks out the exact thing that I need and covet but would never actually buy for myself. In the case of this necklace, he outdid even himself. It is honestly my favorite gift ever [after the engagement ring], for both its physical gorgeousness and for the fact that it would always remind me of that first Mother’s Day with both my babies.)    

So that would be my top three, if you had asked. And here’s what has happened in the last week and a half:

1. Siena twirled too near the dining table and knocked over Matt’s cup of coffee. Right onto the MacBook. At first, things seemed OK. When it stopped working properly a few days later, my heart sank. I knew it was bad.  And when the guy from the Genius Bar called to tell us they had found liquid damage in some $600 inner heart of the machine, and that it was likely to continue corroding and wreaking havoc until the laptop was completely ruined, I was devastated. Oh, and our warranty? Expired in January. 

2. Today when I was getting dressed, Siena was playing with my jewelry. I asked her repeatedly not to touch anything, to put that back, to please be careful with that stuff. I didn’t lose my patience until I heard something clatter to the floor. “Si-ENA! I asked you not to–” and then I saw that the glass beads of the Mother’s Day necklace had shattered into multiple pieces, while some ten-dollar trinket from Target that I don’t even like hung safely from her hand. 

Siena burst into tears. I called for Matt. He came and carried her downstairs to console her, while I picked up the pieces and cursed. She apologized repeatedly and sincerely when I finally came downstairs, even pointing out that “accidents happen — right, Mama?” It is not lost on me that this was a Mother’s Day gift, an item I would not even possess had I not chosen to have this child and take on the many responsibilities and sacrifices that come with that decision. I get it. Really. 

As I half-joked to Matt later, “It’s like the Universe is trying to send me a message this week or something. Don’t be so attached to material possessions.” But I thought I was already doing pretty well on that one. Didn’t I willingly forego paychecks and retirement benefits because I recognized that this time with my kids was more important to me? Haven’t we cut back on everything possible over the last six months to support that decision? Don’t we ask our families to give us gifts of experiences, like theater tickets or zoo memberships, rather than things? Don’t we structure our whole life around low-key, low-cost ways to have as much fun as possible?

I mean, come on. I just want to put on my pretty necklace that makes me feel good about being a mother, over some stained T-shirt I bought six years ago or whatever else I happen to be wearing, and sit down to check my e-mail once in a while. 

And that, right there, is what sums up this whole experience of being a parent. Even in the areas where you think you’re doing OK, you’re still going to be tested. Just like in my yoga class, I’m going to spend half my time just feeling incredulous at the stretching and contortion being asked of me, and the other half the time thinking this isn’t so bad. And every time I think that, discovering that there are actually three more progressively challenging variations in store. That’s parenting. I think it’s also what they call “growth.” 

By the way, I am totally addicted to yoga. I love it. And the person who wears this face can destroy every single thing I own. It is so totally worth it.

Dear Rolling Stone Magazine:

Thank you for sending me a magazine whose cover prompted my three-year-old daughter to snort and exclaim, “Mama! Why are these girls not wearing any PANTS?!”

I wasn’t sure how to explain that one, nor am I capable of explaining why the cast of “The Hills” was on the cover of Rolling Stone in the first place. (Or how that picture was ever taken without everyone clawing each other’s eyes out.) In fact, I don’t think I could really explain why “The Hills” even exists. Definitely not in three-year-old terms.

Siena’s next move, after tossing the magazine aside, was to pick up one of my bras from the laundry basket in my closet. She tried it on and turned to face me. 

“Now I have even bigger nipples!”

This site needs more cowbell tutu. So here you go: 

Thanks for all the comment discussion on last week’s post about Elliot and the baby doll. We’re always interested in what others (parents and non-parents alike) think about these issues. In keeping with the nostalgia for college that writing brings out in me, I thought about doing a post full of links to research on gender roles and child development. Then again, you guys know how to use the intergoogle too. So for now, I will just post this picture:

Let the Billy Elliot jokes commence.

Research (via intergoogle and also from actual books) is a big part of our my parenting style. It can be reassuring to know that what you are doing has been “approved” by studies that show it to be beneficial. On the flip side, it can be stressful to learn that you’ve been doing something the experts advise against, or even something downright unsafe (using bottles made with BPA; putting drops of liquid mercury on the high chair tray for the baby to play with while you make dinner [don’t worry — I stopped doing that months ago, as soon as he was old enough to toddle over to the knife drawer and keep himself entertained that way instead]).

And then there’s the whole question of how much these studies apply to our specific situation, to our little family’s unique set of values, stresses, and aspirations. In the case of plastic bottles leaching toxins into my baby’s milk? I’m happy to replace all our bottles and sippies with new ones that are BPA-free. We’re out a few dollars and we didn’t take a chance on something that could be dangerous. But with the gender stereotypes issue, it’s not a simple matter of replacing some stuff and hoping the replacement products don’t turn out to be equally hazardous in some other way. It’s a matter of helping our kids figure out who they are as people. The stakes are higher, the research is conflicting, and there is no control group.

So we read the articles, and maybe even a book here and there, and we talk about it. We also just listen to our instincts and look at what seems to be making everyone feel good about themselves. This post covers what we’ve come up with so far.

Matt and I think it’s our job as parents to send consistent, supportive messages that give our kids plenty of room to be as girly or “boy-ee” as they want. If they gravitate to one “side” or the other, we will not be disappointed. Our toys are not black and white to avoid any chance of stereotyping. Our toys are Disney Princess Pink and NBA Orange and John Deere Green, and on most days both kids play with all of them. (And fight over them.)

I just went through their summer wardrobes, and Elliot will be sporting a palette of navy blue and red this year, with lots of neutral khaki shorts and cargo pants. Polo-neck shirts/onesies feature prominently. Siena, on the other hand, will wear one of her five sundresses each day, except in the unfortunate event that they are all dirty simultaneously, at which time she will deign to wear a skirt and pink butterfly T-shirt.

Frankly, my summer wardrobe is not that different from hers. Sundresses are comfortable when it’s hot out. And Matt will go to work each day in a polo shirt and khaki pants. And come home to mow the lawn, while I make dinner in the kitchen. But if we eat dinner outside, Matt will grill. And if I see a spider, I will freak out. Stereotypical behavior abounds, and I don’t see anything wrong with any of those things.

We’re not against toys, clothes and colors that are traditionally associated with one gender or another. We are wholeheartedly against limiting their options. We want our kids to explore everything that catches their interest. We know they’re going to get enough pressure from peers and TV to dress or act certain ways. We don’t want to add to the pressure.

We’re even trying to avoid rolling our eyes when Barbie calls Siena on her princess-pink cell phone, because we don’t want to her to feel like there’s anything wrong with her “girly” interests. As long as “girly” includes playing sports in addition to playing princesses, I think we’ll be fine.

I love how our household has been developing its own little dialect of English as the kids acquire more and more language ability. Elliot has already contributed a few unique pronunciations and variations on words (bob-bob seems to mean “baby,” as he says it whenever he holds a toy baby, sees a real baby or sees his mirror reflection. Siena and I have started saying it too, because it makes us laugh.) But what I really love is Siena’s expanding vocabulary and the colorful touches she adds to our language.

My favorite recently is the way Siena has been using the phrase dance class to refer to anything large in number. (Using it as a synonym for plethora.) Example: yesterday when we were walking to school (and again on the way home from school) we came to a patch of sidewalk completely covered in little seeds from an overhanging tree. 

Siena: “Mama, that is a huge dance class of seeds!”  

Or at lunch the other day, when I gave her a bunch of spinach leaves (for strong ballerina muscles): “Whoa, you gave me a big dance class of spinach!” 

Can’t wait till she has her own blog.