fashionista Lizzy

Lizzy sometimes mazes me with her fashion sense. I mean, I don’t know if this is from observation, or what – probably actually more because Belle does this, and that’s her current obsession for imitation – but she prefers the low-slung ponytail. (very fashionable these days in Hollywood) Sometimes I get chastised for putting her ponytail too high. I have to convince her sometimes that it’s as low as is possible to make it.

We went back to the doc today because one of Lizzy's shot sites was swollen and red and hot to the touch. Didn't turn out to be a big deal. But she insisted on stickers, even though it was a brief, routine trip to the doc's office. She picked out one orange and blue Care Bear sticker, and one pink and red Strawberry Shortcake sticker. For reasons I'm not clear on, I always get one. And I have to be wearing it when I pick her up that night from day care, or there will be heck to pay. She held both stickers up to my (purple) pant leg to see which would match better. (I have a black shirt on, so that's a wash.)
Then she handed me the blue and orange one. Nice choice! It's probably causing some puzzlement on the part of my coworkers today, but that's okay.

A recent scene to warm my heart – she said, “Mommy! I’m being Belle.” Because she had been “reading” a book, and she’d put it down, spine open, and she picked it back up to pick up where she’d left off. Belle reads, therefore it’s cool, therefore Lizzy reads.
Disney, I owe ya one.

car vs. bicycle

Each day, Matt and I battle our way from Manassas to Rosslyn, then onto the metro (separately) and to our jobs. We strive to get Matt there on time (by 9), but in truth, it rarely occurs. That stress, on top of all the other stresses -- mostly stupid, political-type interpersonal paranoia stuff that any manager has to deal with -- is a bit much for him these days. So we're really trying to at least get him there on time.

Each day, it feels like we're thwarted by something new and stupid. Of course, we COULD all get up early enough to get out of the house by 7 -- that's pretty much a fool-proof way. But, c'mon! That never happens. Ha! Are you kidding me?!

Today, the sticky spot was Manassas itself. The spot where we merge onto the main road that leads to Hwy. 66 (234) had a lineup of cars as long as I've ever seen it. Unfortunately, Matt was driving -- I usually take the 'morning shift,' but not today -- so he took the "shortcut." It proceeded to take us 15 minutes to get to the highway from there, because we had to wait behind everyone else taking the "shortcut." Honestly! I really do think this is a gender thing. Men will run around a block in circles, just to keep moving. It FEELS like progress, I suppose. I was chuckling to myself that all the folks taking the "shortcut" seemed to be driving trucks, SUVs or work vans. Hmm! Probably not women behind the wheels. But, I try (emphasis on try) to bite my lip. Because it's just like a woman to point these things out. It's also like a woman to hope that, by taking note of them, we can perhaps avoid certain decisions and thus repeating certain mistakes in the future. But I realize how optimistic that is of me. As in ... a snowball has a better chance of not melting.

The commute wasn't so bad after we actually made it to the highway. We dropped Matt off at the usual corner in Rosslyn, where I pull over around the corner behind a legitimate parking space. Not ideal, but it gets me out of the flow of traffic long enough for Matt to hop out. Then I scoot back into the lane, drive around the two parking spaces, and turn right, into our parking garage, which is underneath Lizzy's day care.
Today, I checked for traffic, as usual, then pulled out. Almost immediately, something rapped my window, hard, three times. Two inches from my head. I let out a little shriek. Lizzy said, "What's wrong, Mom?" I saw an irate biker pedaling ahead and away from us. I looked at him incredulously for a moment, my heart pounding, then got mad and blared the horn. He gave the universal gesture for "you could rot in hell for all I care, road hog," glared back at me and rode off to wherever he was going. It really shook me up for the rest of the commute, and I'm trying to sort out why.

I guess that, when it comes right down to it, I hate confrontation. I really do. I mean the sort of confrontation that will a) make someone (whose opinion I care about) mad at me, or b) the sort where I realize that I did something wrong, and it's being pointed out, and I feel a lot of embarrassment and shame. The latter was true today. But I REALLY DIDN'T SEE THE GUY. I have no idea where he came from! And so I feel he's putting me in an impossible position by expecting me to take care of him, and yet ... I just don't know what he wanted me to do differently. SENSE his presence, I suppose.

Here's how it is: I really can see both sides of this issue. The biker was mad at me because, ultimately, he was scared. He's doing the good thing; taking the high road in the sense that he's biking to work. Good for him, good for the environment. In truth, I'm wildly jealous that he has that option. I would give at least a couple of eyeteeth to have that sort of commute. That sort of life. Lizzy and I used to live a half-mile from her day care. It was awesome. Except in bad weather, and I only cared then for her sake, but I digress.

However. Self-righteous little snots like that jerk think that, because they ARE doing such excellent work as stewards of their bodies and the environment, (apparently) they have the right to treat the road/sidewalk/bit of space between stopped cars as their own personal lane. And the right to look scornfully at those who do drive. Well, guess which lane is yours, bikers! That's right -- you don't have one.

This is unjust. I will be the first to agree with you. In Germany, there were bike lanes -- and paths -- everywhere. It was totally awesome. I biked all over the place, and loved it. Then I moved here, and my bike was stolen, and I have no time, and I don't bike. Nor would I, in Rosslyn. Because, as I said -- it's freakin' DANGEROUS. I looked around for traffic of all sorts this morning, as I do every morning. Granted, I don't think "biker!" most prominently. But bikers expect that somehow I will have some sort of all-seeing radar for them. They come whipping around a corner going 20 mph. I can only do a head check so fast, dude. And sometimes my daughter is distracting me. Sometimes something else is distracting me.

Bottom line: Open message to bikers. If you're whipping around on busy streets, particularly during rush hour, you are ON YOUR OWN to make sure you're safe. I will not -- cannot -- help you. I can't see you, you see? And you scaring the bejeebers out of me by banging on my window is not going to endear yourself to me.

I know that some sort of rules for bicyclists exist. I have wondered what they are ever since I moved to D.C. When I lived in Cleveland Park, I usually confined my biking to the paths of Rock Creek Park. Occasionally, I tried biking through neighborhoods, but it felt too much like taking my life in my hands. Should I have been on the sidewalk? Seemed like it was for pedestrians. The road? Heck no. Drivers are nuts, and they just don't care. So ... where was I supposed to be?

As we were pulling into the parking lot, Lizzy was quizzing me about what had just happened. I, trying to get a handle on my bitterness and fear, feebly explained that bikers AND cars think they have rights to the road, and sometimes it's not so safe for both of them to be there. "He could've pushed our car over!" Lizzy said, after I told her that I'd shrieked because the biker knocked on the window. "Well, no, honey, he couldn't have. He just wanted me to know he was there," I said. "But it scared me."
"Oh -- maybe he was scared, too," she said.

Yes, darling. You have it exactly right.

Lizzy pincushion

The shots heard 'round the clinic...

Lizzy had her 4-year-old doc checkup yesterday. No fun was had by all. I usually try to mentally prepare her for things -- told her about it two weeks ago -- but the panicky reaction I got prompted me to let it drop until yesterday morning. And I didn't really go into the shot portion until the nurse came in with the needles. Shots just stink. I told Lizzy: No one likes them. Not even grown-ups! Shots are no fun.
She ended up getting five. One flu, and four others that have acronyms of uncertain origin. Poor baby. She cried, "Take it out! Take it back out!" each time the nurse stuck her. I cannot imagine how their little bodies can handle fighting off five (or more; some shots are combined) separate germies at once. It's amazing.
She's doing fine today, but she smells kinda funny. Maybe it's the new shampoo. She will very animatedly tell you all about her shots, how many, etc., if you ask her. She's fixated on the fact that (told us by the nurse) she will be getting shots again when she's age 12. The nurse and I figured this would sound like a long time off. Not for Lizzy. For her, it's horrifying, the thought of having more shots! In EIGHT YEARS, darling. We got into an elevator this morning on our way to day care. The building is 12 stories high. She pointed at the button for the 12th floor, and said, "That's how old I'll be when I get shots again." Yeesh.

In other Lizzy health news, the doc couldn't see one of her ear tubes. AGAIN. Well, she did have a bad cold a week or two ago, so we're due for the inevitable ear infection. If I had a thousand bucks for each ear infection she's had in her lifetime, I might even be able to pay off our wedding debt! (oops, tmi.)
Could it be possible that she needs a third set of ear tubes? Please, Lord, no. I've heard of other kids who had five or seven sets. WHAT ... Incredible. With each passing germ, I keep hoping that means it's one less that she'll have later in life. I have no idea if that germ ideology is true, but it makes me feel a little better.

Thank goodness that ear infections and colds are the worst of her problems, though. We are truly blessed.

great weekend

I feel like I just had a vacation -- complete with, "Do I REALLY have to go to work tomorrow?" feeling as Sunday evening progressed. Such a lovely few days off.

It felt like a little break from the everydayness of life. We had zero social obligations. Don't get me wrong -- I love to do things and see friends, but I think Matt and I are still both doing the wedding detox thing. Perhaps I say that in each blog entry. I don't know. In any case, it felt so fresh to have a few days with nowhere to get to.

Matt's dad stayed with us for a couple of nights. Not long at all. We did Thanksgiving at Matt's uncle's house, as we have each year since Lizzy's been born. And maybe before that. It's really starting to feel like an annual event, anyway. I figure, since I can't be with my own family, I might as well feel good about having a tradition of some kind with someone's. (and, no, I'm still not at the point where I can embrace all of Matt's family as my own. Sorry. Just not there yet.) We ate a lot, we sat around some, then we left.

Matt and I kicked around the idea of doing a little midnight shopping that night. We heard a mall in Ashburn was opening at 12:01 a.m. for Black Friday. We don't really have much that we have to buy; it just sounded like an adventure. (and, yes, I feel slightly wicked and materialistic regarding all of this. Just so you know.) But we didn't end up doing it. I did get up at 5:30 and drive around at 6 a.m., just to see what folks were up to. The line at Best Buy when we drove by the night before (at about 9 p.m.) was unreal. People had lined up at STAPLES, for crying out loud, by the next morning. Crazy! What the hey do you buy at Staples that's worth getting up early for? Fire sale on office chairs? Rock-bottom prices on laser-printing paper? Baffling.
I went to Macy's and bought some stuff. I technically stood in line, because I arrived right at 6 a.m. and waited a good 20 seconds before the Macy's employee technically unlocked the door. She looked slightly alarmed to see the dozen of us who stood there, pointedly not forming a line. "It's cold out here!" she said. Really, it wasn't. But, okay. The employees in general looked a little shell-shocked to be there so early. It was kind of a hoot, I'll admit. I'd tell you what I bought, but then Matt might read it. Although, some might point out that I've given him enough surprises for one lifetime. :)

That evening, we ran some errands, ate at Pizzeria Uno (PIZZA TO DIE FOR, one way or another! My arteries are still feeling it), then tried to find the Centreville-area drive-through light show. We ended up going miles down a rutted dirt road. Oops. We caught it the next night. Pretty cool, I guess. Lizzy got a charge out of it. Though sometimes I wonder if she's kind of pretending to be excited, because we're pretending to be excited for her benefit. If you know what I mean.

That day, we took our annual drive into Old Town Alexandria to do a little shopping and walk along the pretty streets and see some pretty lights. I love it there. I've been there a billion times, and I love it each time. We're guaranteed to see 40 or 50 doggies with each visit, so we have Lizzy count. Keeps her occupied all evening. She talks about them nonstop for the rest of the night. I'd tell you what we bought there, too, but then my parents might read it.

And I had a new little Creative Memories adventure into the wee hours of Sunday night, but I can't really tell you about THAT, either. My (deleted reference to specific relatives) might read it.

Sheesh. Blogging around Christmastime sure is difficult.

I do run, run, run

The cool part: I got up a little earlier than usual, even, this morning and ran a 5-k race!
The sad part: I am most proud of that 'running' the race bit. Because I don't run. I don't enjoy it. It hurts. It's hard. I have friends who love it, and I admire them for it and envy them a bit, but it is not for me.
Today, though, was a little different. I'm not sure why.
This is the second year I've done the So Others Might Eat Thanksgiving Turkey Trot. My cubicle neighbor and friend here at work asked me if I wanted to do it last year. We walked it with her roommate. We actually walked so slowly that I got sore from the lack of movement, if that makes any sense at all. My muscles weren't even being engaged.
This year, we decided to push ourselves a little and actually RUN some of it. Bits here and there. I know! We are so daring. Really going out on a limb there.
But she caught a bad cold -- probably the one I had all of last week -- and couldn't make it. So I was on my own. I wish she'd been there, but I had a different experience this way. I didn't know what to do with myself, once I'd registered, so I walked around eavesdropping on people and just generally looking around. Trying not to get sucked down into the mud bog that this particular part of the Mall grass was quickly becoming.
I saw Adrian Fenty, D.C.'s newly minted mayor. My gosh -- I think the guy's younger than I am. He seems a decent fellow. Good luck, Mr. Fenty! You have a challenge ahead of you, and I ain't talkin' about this 5k race.
I saw lots of dogs, and some kids in strollers. I wonder if Lizzy would like to go with me next year? The 6:30 a.m. wakeup time and 45-degree weather would not win her over.
We were ushered to the starting line -- 2,000 of us participants -- and I heard a guy behind me say, "Well, it's 8:28 -- looks like this thing isn't going to start on time." Then the starting horn sounded. Off we went! As soon as the pack moved, that is.
One thing I like about this little jaunt is that it's a down-and-back track, so you get to see the frontrunners hauling back toward you at some point. It shows me what people who actually run move like. (They move fast.) I haven't run (or walked) any other race, so I have no point of reference, but I get the impression that this is about as low-key as it gets. My out-of-shape self felt right at home.
I told myself I'd start running, and stop when I wanted to. I suppose a lot of running is physical, but for me it's almost purely mental. I think to myself, "I could stop now! I could stop soon! When can I stop?" I do this right away, as soon as I start. I told myself to let go of this mentality as much as possible -- to go at my own pace, to not let anyone's pace intimidate me, and just keep moving. It was okay if it was slow. And I enjoyed it! Not like doing the treadmill at home, that's for sure. I couldn't tell how far I'd gone, which was also helpful.

In seventh grade, we had to run a mile-plus in P.E. class, once a week. At the time, I thought this was the most horrifying request possible. By this time, I was already a three-sport athlete, if you can call a 7th-grader that with a straight face. But running! Puh-leeze! Not for me. I remember my dad telling me that I should be able to run the whole thing, no problem. Sure, if I was a superhero! I think I ran a lap, then walked. I got a C-minus for that part of the class. I just had no use for it. I'm not sure why I didn't let it challenge me more. Now, I realize that a mile is nothing. Heck, three miles is nothing, too. I mean, I'm not choosing to go out and run it, but if I had to, for class or whatever... I have no idea why I let mental barriers like that hold me back sometimes.

Anyway, as I ran, I was revisited by many conversations with my dad, or coaches, or friends who run. Things they've told me over the years. I think I spend so little time alone that my mind goes on overdrive when it gets the chance. Things like, "It's all about breathing. Pace your breathing with your stride." And Hebrews 12, about pressing forward, running the race, etc.
I began to think about all those metaphors that a race brings to mind. How we all start from the same place, but -- not really. There is a front row of runners, and they're probably better at running, anyway, and they will have greatly improved odds. I cheered a bit inside, actually, when someone who clearly was way back in the pack went huffing by me occasionally. (or did they start late? I have no idea why they'd have that much steam, but have been behind me.) Someone was beating the odds!
And, after all that, it's just fun to be in downtown D.C., near all the monuments and such. It happens so rarely these days.
And then I came across what must have been the only open Starbucks near Metro Center, at just the time it opened, on my way to work afterward. That, plus the serious endorphin rush I was experiencing, made for a great start to a Thanksgiving, work or no work.

Happy Turkey Day, y'all. I'm really thankful for you, my friends and family. I'm feeling that this year more than ever, and I don't take the chance to say it enough.

Theological debate between 4-year-olds

It's always fascinating to hear what that little brain will spit out next.
This morning, on our way in on Hwy. 66, Lizzy says:

"My friend Erin said that God told us to be friends with everyone.
"But I told her, No -- God just tells us to love everybody.
(pause to gauge Mommy's reaction)
"I think I'm right."

Granted, there are subtleties here that I would have plumbed, had she been a little older. But I think I know what this stems from. Lizzy's in a class with kids who are almost a year younger than herself, in most cases, and a year makes a big difference at that age. She's been telling me about a little girl who apparently trails along after her, wanting to do whatever Lizzy does and always asking if she's Lizzy's friend. (not Erin; a smaller girl. Erin's one day younger than Lizzy.)
Matt and I have been counseling Lizzy to tell the poor girl that, yes, she's Lizzy's friend. I'd prefer to say, look, just be decent to her, okay? Just be nice. Friend is an important distinction to give someone, I think. Not to be given too lightly. But, she's barely four. I don't think she quite grasps the difference. So -- just tell her she's your friend, Lizzy. Just give her that happiness.

What I did say: "Well, Lizzy, maybe you were both right. Maybe when God says to love everyone, He means to be everyone's friend."
"Oh," said Lizzy. "Maybe so."

What does it mean to a 4-year-old, to be someone's friend? What does it mean to a 35-year-old?

It's interesting to see Lizzy pondering God's love, and what He asks of us, in the same ways that I do. I often don't think I know much more than she does -- sometimes, I'm convinced I know less. She's always ready with a hug when someone's not feeling well; when someone's feelings have been hurt, or they're having a bad day. (unless she caused it and she's mad at that person, and that's another story.) I usually feel helpless when someone's hurting. It seems like I've known a fair number of folks who have been hurting incredibly deeply lately. I pray, but it seems ... it seems like not enough. And, what should I say? Something that sounds, even to my ears, trite and unhelpful? Or nothing? It's not like I can change things. Not these sorts of things. But when I just sit or stand there, I feel so useless. Like it looks like I don't care. But when I've never been through what they've been through, what do I have to offer?

God, please teach Lizzy and me to love other people really well. Those we like, and those we don't. Because You did say to love everyone. Help us know what that looks like. I often don't have any idea. And sometimes I do, but it's really hard. Please help us overcome our selfish natures. Teach us to be better reflections of you. Help me to do the things I tell Lizzy she should do. To practice what I preach.
Amen.

if Jesus went to the dark side,

this is what it would look like:



and, no, I don't really have permission to use this photo in this way. Please do not tell on me. Enjoy this photo now, until this production company hunts me down and hurts me.

Useless Kate trivia fact of the day: I am PRACTICALLY RELATED to Jesus! I know. Amazing, but TRUE. You see, my cousin dated his cousin (follow the link) for a couple of years in college. (she went to the hated University of Washington, but I try not to hold it against her.)
It's so incredible. You may have my autograph when next we meet, if you desire.
For FREE.

the next generation

I realize that I've been blogging about nothing but Lizzy witticisms lately. And, that sort of sucks. But maybe it's better than no blogging at all? (since you're reading this, I assume you agree.)

Matt's eager to establish a family tradition of selecting one Hallmark ornament per person for our tree each year. Our poor little tree (yet to be purchased this year, which I would hope is obvious -- I will unreservedly call you nuts if you have your tree up already, unless you are a department store, and then I sigh and say, well, I'm used to it from you -- but NO CAROLS until after Thanksgiving) is already heavily laden with Kathe Wohlfahrt goodies collected on my many trips to Germany's uber-touristy Rothenburg. We're going to have to buy progressively bigger and bigger trees. Yes, we COULD refrain from putting them ALL on the tree, but what fun is that?

We were passing through Manassas Mall last night -- always a frightening venture -- and saw that the Hallmark store had its ornaments out. Hooray! So, we checked them out. Did a little prep work to let our potential selections simmer in the backs of our brains before making a final, irrevocable choice -- The Ornament of '06.


Matt and I always teeter between our favorite pop culture crap -- for instance, I have soft spots for Star Trek, the Wizard of Oz and Raggedy Ann and Andy, and Hallmark seems intent on developing at least one new version of each of these annually -- and Matt digs the Star Wars, etc. But there are some lovely nostalgic ones, as well. And old favorites such as Snoopy and the gang. It's tough. You'd think Lizzy would have the toughest time, but she settled decidedly on a really cute one -- it's Dumbo, taking a bath.

I have one or two Trek ornaments already -- THEY WERE GIFTS, people -- but this year's is kind of awesome. As I was rooting around for the photo to show y'all, I noticed that it has shimmery lights! As if someone is actually being transported! Ooooh cool!!!!!
The version in the Hallmark store originally had three people standing on the transporter pad, but the middle dude had been broken off at the shins. Looks like a messy transporter accident, or maybe an officer ran afoul of the Klingon mafia. Nevertheless, Lizzy thought it was cool.

"Look, Mom!" she said, excitedly. "It's the Wiggles!"
Aiiieeeee. They DO look like the Wiggles. Why has this never occurred to me ... Now I feel even worse about my love of things ST:TNG.

(and tomorrow, if blogger feels like adding the photo to this post, I shall show it to you. Drat!)

I'm a Maisel, part II

Matt and I have been talking, in a joking fashion, about what exactly it means to be a Maisel, in the general sense. What comes to mind, in the Maisel family, when, say, 'You're such a Maisel!' is said? (if it ever is. This is mostly theoretical, people.)

We decided that the Maisels -- with some exceptions, of course -- are generally two things: Bright and thrifty. Always on the lookout for a good deal. There's also a lazy streak, but it affects some and not others.

I think my favorite Maisel story thus far is about one of Matt's uncles. (his parents both hail from big families) One of his uncles, whose children are now teens, used to buy cans of food for a nickel or a dime each. If a can's label came off, the grocery store would toss the label-less cans in a big shopping cart, and hope folks like Matt's uncle K. would give them at least a few cents for them. Something's better than nothing, I guess. So uncle K. would bring home the can, and they'd open it up and have Mystery Vegetable for dinner. Sometimes the game backfired, and it would be, say, dog food. Legend has it that Uncle K. got so good at this that he could identify the contents of the can before he opened it -- just by weighing it in his hand and shaking it. I hear this story each Thanksgiving, which is the one time of year (except for those years in which Matt and I get married) I usually see the Maisel clan all at the same time.

I recently proposed a plan that Matt considered so impressive, he thought even his dad would find it Maiselish. (his dad is pretty much the ultimate arbiter of things creatively thrifty.) Matt and I were talking about Christmas gifts -- one of our pre-Christmas traditions is turning out to be that we both vow to spend very little on gifts. Considering that, on one Christmas, we were about to buy a house; the next Christmas, we had just bought a house; the next Christmas, we had just gotten married -- it's a good plan, in theory. There are always lots of monetary reasons to take it easy on Christmas presents. But it's a plan that seems to fall along the wayside as the holiday approaches. Matt wants so badly for everyone to "have a good Christmas" -- and, sadly, that seems to translate directly into, "people get lots of money spent on them for gifts" -- that he spends far more than he vowed he would. I admit that I'm not immune to this tendency, myself.

To get back to the story: Matt's mom really likes getting gift cards. Which is fine with us! They're easy to get; she likes them; she loves to shop; she shouldn't be spending her own money; everyone's happy. The downside to gift cards -- if you don't find them a tacky gift in the first place. I know that some do -- is that you can't find, say, a gift on sale, or pretend that it cost anything other than the EXACT DOLLAR AMOUNT that you're giving. Really, you might as well give cash. I suppose you could argue that giving a gift card shows you know where the person likes to shop, so that conveys some thoughtfulness. In any case, as I said, I'm fine with the concept of gift cards. I like to give other things when possible, but sometimes a gift card makes sense.

Earlier this year, Matt's mom received a settlement of sorts, and went hog-wild with spending it. I will say this -- the woman is generous, when she can be. She showered Matt and me with the gifts she probably had wanted to get us for Christmas the previous year, but couldn't afford to. It was fairly ridiculous, all the stuff she gave us.
One thing she gave me was a gift card to a new linens store that opened near us. She wanted me to check it out, and have a little something to spend in there. A very lovely gesture. I never did make it in there, though.
Lo and behold -- this same store appeared on her Christmas gift card wish list. I told Matt about it, and suggested that maybe I should just give her back the card. Did he think she'd notice?

His eyes widened, then a smile crept across his face. Grinning broadly, he said, "Wow. Re-gifting to the ORIGINAL GIVER. That is truly a Maisel move."

Uh, yay for me?

Anatomically correct

Yes, boys and girls. We have definitely reached that age.

The age where the differences are greater than "Princesses are smelly and stinky!" (from one 3-year-old in Lizzy's class. Lizzy's response: "No! Princesses are smelly and YUMMY!")

The differences are greater than, "My favorite colors are pink, purple and white. His favorite colors are brown and black."

My friends, we have definitely reached the, "Boys have penit-zes! Girls don't," stage.

Lizzy shouted out this little gem on Monday evening as we wended our way not so swiftly through rush-hour traffic. I was driving. As usual, I pause; glance questioningly at Matt, whose smirk confirms that I heard our little darling correctly; and say, "What was that, sweetie?"

She reiterated her stance, and I said, "Oh. Yes, I guess they do." and sat and waited for the moment to pass. After I thought for a minute, I queried: "Who told you that, Lizzy? Where did you learn that?" She must've realized that she said something a little strange for Mommy and Daddy, because she said, "Uh, nobody. I learned it all by myself."
Oh. How comforting.

It's not that I want to keep my daughter in the dark, as it were, about things of that nature. I wouldn't even mind talking to her about it. It's just that I don't want to have that kid -- you know the one. The one who parrots everything he or she has learned to the grandparently neighbor, or the childless couple who just isn't amused, or the very worst possible person and place to reveal this. It's my own fault -- Mom said I was forever doing this to her when she was trying to socialize with people after church when I was small. And I remember why -- I wanted her attention! My mom was cool, and she was MY mom, but she wasn't paying attention to me, so something had to be done about that.

Anyway. I don't want to have that kid. If it comes at the cost of keeping her ignorant... Oh, well! (I refer you to the "Oh my God" post of a few posts ago... Etc.)

So. The next morning, Tuesday, was her birthday. Matt had (finally!) gotten up and gotten into the shower, and I was downstairs doing something or other, when Lizzy woke up. (I heard about all this later) She trotted into the bathroom, pulled aside the shower curtain a little, peeked in at Matt, and said: "I'm four years old!" Apparently, he sensed it coming, and managed to turn strategically away from her. But she was a bit too clever. She sneaked quickly to the other end of the shower curtain, tucked it aside, and said: "You have a penis!" and pointed at Matt's groin. Out she ran, and Matt stood there and thought, "Yes. Yes, on both counts."

There's just no holding down a bright little mind, I guess. Four years old -- watch out. I can't believe I have a 4-year-old. It's blowing my mind.

Anatomically correct

Yes, boys and girls. We have definitely reached that age.

The age where the differences are greater than "Princesses are smelly and stinky!" (from one 3-year-old in Lizzy's class. Lizzy's response: "No! Princesses are smelly and YUMMY!")

The differences are greater than, "My favorite colors are pink, purple and white. His favorite colors are brown and black."

My friends, we have definitely reached the, "Boys have penit-zes! Girls don't," stage.

Lizzy shouted out this little gem on Monday evening as we wended our way not so swiftly through rush-hour traffic. I was driving. As usual, I pause; glance questioningly at Matt, whose smirk confirms that I heard our little darling correctly; and say, "What was that, sweetie?"

She reiterated her stance, and I said, "Oh. Yes, I guess they do." and sat and waited for the moment to pass. After I thought for a minute, I queried: "Who told you that, Lizzy? Where did you learn that?" She must've realized that she said something a little strange for Mommy and Daddy, because she said, "Uh, nobody. I learned it all by myself."
Oh. How comforting.

It's not that I want to keep my daughter in the dark, as it were, about things of that nature. I wouldn't even mind talking to her about it. It's just that I don't want to have that kid -- you know the one. The one who parrots everything he or she has learned to the grandparently neighbor, or the childless couple who just isn't amused, or the very worst possible person and place to reveal this. It's my own fault -- Mom said I was forever doing this to her when she was trying to socialize with people after church when I was small. And I remember why -- I wanted her attention! My mom was cool, and she was MY mom, but she wasn't paying attention to me, so something had to be done about that.

Anyway. I don't want to have that kid. If it comes at the cost of keeping her ignorant... Oh, well! (I refer you to the "Oh my God" post of a few posts ago... Etc.)

So. The next morning, Tuesday, was her birthday. Matt had (finally!) gotten up and gotten into the shower, and I was downstairs doing something or other, when Lizzy woke up. (I heard about all this later) She trotted into the bathroom, pulled aside the shower curtain a little, peeked in at Matt, and said: "I'm four years old!" Apparently, he sensed it coming, and managed to turn strategically away from her. But she was a bit too clever. She sneaked quickly to the other end of the shower curtain, tucked it aside, and said: "You have a penis!" and pointed at Matt's groin. Out she ran, and Matt stood there and thought, "Yes. Yes, on both counts."

There's just no holding down a bright little mind, I guess. Four years old -- watch out. I can't believe I have a 4-year-old. It's blowing my mind.

Halloween

Here are Matt and me, looking absolutely nothing like Cyclops and Jean Grey:


I had plans to dye my hair red, at least, for the night (and subsequent month), but didn't have time for the execution. A pity. I think the dollar-store sunglasses, and electrical tape, are especially fabulous elements.
As you can see, Nicole Richie insisted on being in the photo.
Thus ends the celebrity ridicule portion of this post.

We went to a party right before this that was a bajillion times more fun -- the annual wine tasting at Chez Pete and Jackie! Yummy.
I must say, I did add "flippy cup" to my arsenal (three) of known drinking games at Matt's friends' party. (A note to mom -- I did not drink at all. Seriously. I drove shortly thereafter.)
I got home at 1:15 a.m., which I note only because I was later told it was about a half-hour after Lizzy had gone to bed. Hmmm. Could this have ANY connection to the meltdown she had the next afternoon at her friend's birthday party?