Show and Tell

My daughter goes to preschool three half days a week. It is one of her favourite places to go. They have recently started Show and Tell at preschool. Two children per day are asked to bring something special from home, preferably something older and near and dear to their little hearts, like a special stuffie or a blanket. They are to give their little classmates three clues, and the children guess what the other children have brought. Because my child belongs to a co-op preschool, I have recently witnessed show and tell first-hand, and it's pretty hilarious. When they are supposed to be guessing a stuffed bear, the kids are guessing things like, "A train set! A chicken! A helmet! A barbeque!" None of it makes sense because they are all four, and therefore, they are all a little bit crazy (and so awesome; they all make me smile). My child is to bring her Show and Tell near the middle of December. This is torturing her. Six or seven times a day she asks me if it's her turn yet. When I tell her she has to wait until the middle of December, she dramatically bows her head. "This is just the worst," she groans.

What she wants to bring for Show and Tell changes often, so I have no idea what she'll be touting come mid-December. What I do know, is that she will not be bringing tonight's idea when it is her turn. Tonight, during snuggle time, she said, "Would it be a bad idea to bring snot for show and tell?"
I shuddered. "Yeah, that's... that's not a good idea at all. Plus, it's supposed to be something really special to you."
"That's true," she agreed. "And the clues would be pretty easy and I don't want anybody to guess."
"What would your clues be?" I asked.
She grinned. "Well, 1. It's yellow. 2. It's in your nose. 3. It comes out when ya sneeze."
"Those are good clues," I admitted.
"Yep." And we dissolved into the kind of hysterical laughter that is contagious, giggling until our sides hurt.

Kids are fantastically weird little people.

Never Stop Lovin' You

Every night, I climb into my daughters bed and we snuggle and talk about whatever she wants to talk about. Last night, just as I thought she was drifting off to sleep, she looked over at me with her little eyes all welled up with tears and asked me, "Mama, when will you stop loving me?"
Alarmed, I wrapped my arms around her and gave her a kiss. "Oh, sweetpea! I will never stop loving you. There is nothing you could do or say that could make me stop loving you. Even when I'm so mad and I yell, I still love you to the moon and back. I will love you forever and ever and always."
She looked relieved. "So, you'll still love me if I punch you in the mouth and knock out all your teeth?"
"Um. Yes? Yeah, maybe don't do that," I said, inching out the bed and leaving her to fall asleep on her own. I heard her cackling as I left the room.

Scratch "Veterinarian" Off Her List of Future Careers

My daughter does not care for most meat. She tolerates pork and abhors beef or chicken. You can imagine my surprise when she laid claim to fish as her favourite food. Her very favourite dinner is "chipfish" which is snapper or cod baked in crushed chips. She would eat it every day if she could. Serve it with broccoli and she's in heaven. Odd little person.

For the past year, we've had a betta fish she named "Simi". Simi was a beautiful fish; red with a blue tinge and a fan tail. Simi liked to be talked to. He would come to the tank and wiggle when you spoke near his tank. He was a good fish. He died last week. My daughter accepted his death with what I thought was grace. Turns out, she's got a cruel streak, this child. Sitting at the dinner table tonight, stabbing her chipfish and shoving it merrily into her mouth, she asked, "Hey, what did you do with Simi when he died?"
"Buried him," I said, which isn't completely true. Truth is, I pitched him with the red gravel, silently apologizing for his undignified send off. It was garbage day the next day, so can you blame me?
"Oh," she said, setting her fork down and grinning. "You should've cooked him. I like dead fish on my plate."

Another good reason to sleep with one eye open.

Why My Husband Should Not Help Label Things

Yesterday, we (husband, daughter and I) went to a u-pick berry farm and had a blast picking cascade berries (cross between a raspberry and a blackberry) and raspberries, filling our tupperware containers to the brim in the hot August sun. We returned home with beautifully stained fingers and the realization that we would need to freeze a boatload of these delicious little gems. After opening the fridge freezer, I realized I'd have to open the little chest freezer in the laundry room for the first time in, uh, a long time. Peering into the icy depths, I discovered that we had a lot of soups and stews that were no longer edible, unless we were all having a hankering for freezer burn.

"Why didn't we eat any of this stuff? And how old is it?" I wondered, pulling out container after container of... something and something else. I peered warily at the label and remembered why we didn't eat any of this stuff. It's because my husband, whom we shall call Joe (this is not his name), had himself a comedy party with my label maker when I asked him to help. I had to throw away:

1. Five containers of "Shit Salad 1924"
2. Three containers of "Leftover Boots 9998"
3. Five containers of "Stuff That Rhymes with Magoo" -undated
4. Two big containers of something he called, "Flibberdy Gibbets"

The sad part about Joe's idiotic labeling system, apart from the gross amount of food waste, is that I really, really should have seen it coming. Two and a half years ago, when we moved the house we're currently in, Joe helped me pack up a few things. When it came to putting the boxes in their appropriate rooms for unpacking, we had no idea where to put the ones he had labeled, because "Crap In a Box" tells me nothing helpful, nor does, "Whiggidy WOO!".

I've learned my lesson now. Three lessons, actually. 1. Don't ask Joe for help if the job allows any sort of creative expression. 2. We don't really need a chest freezer and it's wasting a bunch of electricity and space. 3. Maybe don't make so many leftovers.

I Do Not Care For Bedtime

I feel that a normal and appropriate bedtime for a four year old is somewhere between 7:30 and 8:30, depending on what time said four year old needs to get up in the morning. Anna feels that a normal and appropriate bedtime is never, and that the current ritual of bath, books, teeth and snuggles should be upgraded to a more elaborate dance of bathing with me and having a ten hour rubber duck fight, ninety books, her doing her own tooth brushing, snuggles complete with non-stop talking (her), followed by her reading ninety books on her own, followed by calling me back to her room and lying down with her until she falls asleep, warm little hand possessively cupping my upper breast, a habit leftover from early toddlerhood.

It seems a surprise to her that I'm unwilling to perform her version of Ultimate Bedtime Showdown; every single night, it's a surprise. Most nights, after I've done a few minutes of snuggling and listening, I leave to do exciting things such as cleaning up and folding laundry, whilst listening to the mournful cries and sad tales from Anna's room. Tonight's excuses as to why my child could not possibly fall asleep until 10:45 pm (no joke) were:
1. I miss the friend I played with today (and will likely see in a very few days time)
2. It is dark outside, and I wish the sun would never go away, because dark is stupid
3. Upon me explaining that if it was never dark, the owls would never get to come out and play because owls sleep in the day and come out at night, she tearfully declared that, "I think I hate owls now and this is sad".

That last one there should be proof enough that four year old children are crazy.