Snow Reality –Goldilocks Version

Cookie watching the snowpocalyse predictions:  YAY! MORE SNOW! MORE SNOW!

Me: If it actually snows that much, Cookie, you can’t play in the snow.  We’d lose you in the snow drifts and would have to come find you in the spring when it all melted.

Cookie: Oh.  Ok.  SOME SNOW! SOME SNOW!

 

This is why kids like you love snow, Cookie:

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…and this is why grown-ups like me hate snow*:

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Don’t grow up too fast, and enjoy the fun parts of life, kiddo.

_________

*Not pictured: hundreds of yellow spots at dog level, traffic jams, hypothermia, subway and train delays, and that grey slushy stuff that tracks everywhere.

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The Demons Have Been Exorcised. Hallelujah!

Mom (singing that horrible song):  Do you want to build a snowman?

Cookie:  No, I’m done.

It’s only taken a travel ban, a missed snowpocalypse, five snowmen, frostbite, and a few lost toes, but hallelujah, the Frozen obsession is gone.

Know Your Enemies

Even though the “historic” snow storm didn’t materialize, working from home is always a blessing …until the sudden realization that someone hates me.  Cookie, do you remember who gave you the recorder/flute thingy for Christmas?  I need to figure out how I wronged that person.  Who gave you the kazoo and the xylophone?   I may have called her fat and/or oinked in her presence.   Who gave you the tambourine and the castanets?    I may have run over that person’s dog.

Do you remember the twins from school who’s parents recently divorced?  Their dad gave them a drum set for mom’s house.

Kids Are Scary

No, I’m not talking about kids being scary in the financial sense (here’s looking at the “day” cares seriously charging college tuition to teach finger painting) or about the awesome and petrifying responsibility of raising another human being that is completely dependent upon me for every little thing (no pressure!).  Kids are actually scary.

Cookie, your Mommy and I often awoke in the wee hours of the morning to a quiet, disembodied voice floating through the monitor.  “Mom-my.  Mom-my.  Mom-my.  Mom-my.  Mom-my.  Mom-my.  Mom-my.  Mom-my.”  You didn’t cry or scream.  You just repeated the words calmly, elongating the sounds and accents eerily, just like ghosts in the horror movies that I’m sure you’ll grow to like.  Somehow at a very early age, you learned that Mommy and Daddy watch you via the baby monitor in your room.  You would stand up, look at the camera, and talk to us. Turning on the view screen of the baby monitor, we would see your face up close to the camera; only, the night vision of the camera doesn’t pick up the whites of your eyes, leaving a black pit where your eyes should be –a cherub face possessed by the demons of the darkest pits of my imagination.  That first time we saw your eyes completely black caused a jump and a scream (a manly scream, I assure you).  We love you, Cookie, but we still jumped very single time afterwards.

Cookie through the monitor:  Thirsty.  Milk.  Please.

*paper*

*scissors*

Me whispering to Mommy: D’oh!  Well, maybe she’ll fall back asleep.

Cookie through the monitor:  No sleep.  Thirsty.  Milk.

To make things worse, you have inhuman hearing.  Your bedroom is all the way down the hall and on the other side of the kitchen, yet you heard Mommy and my conversations in our bedroom with both your and my doors closed.  It always freaked us out to hear you joining our conversations via the monitor.  This, of course, was the first time, so it freaked me out all the more.

Me:  Coming Cookie, I’ll warm up the milk.

Note how well you had me wrapped around your finger, Cookie, and you weren’t even one yet.  I didn’t even speak into the monitor, I just accepted that you could hear me, and if my demon daughter with inhuman hearing needed milk, well, off I went to heat it up.  You obviously heard my response, because you sat down in your crib to wait.

So there I was, sleep deprived and already spooked, standing in the kitchen warming up a bottle of milk, when all of a sudden your toys in the dark living room started talking to each other.  I, of course, jumped three feet up in the air, splashing milk everywhere.  You couldn’t have gotten by me from your bedroom to the living room –you couldn’t climb out of your crib–, but maybe demon babies with inhuman hearing could also fly, so I went to the living room to see… no one.

Great.  Now I had a demon daughter, possessed toys, and spilled breast milk.  Where was I going to find an old priest, a young priest, and a divorce attorney at this hour?

Parenting tip: apparently many baby toys that speak or sound have a slight time delay function where it will speak or sound to regain the baby’s interest a few seconds after the baby last played with it.  On this particular night, however, all of those toys coincidentally and simultaneously had a six hour delay.  That has never happened again.

Genius: Pure, Absolute Genius

Very few people exhibit the driven deviousness that you, Cookie, do on a daily basis.  Whenever I see it, I just have to watch with envious fascination.

At the children’s museum, a one-year old you and a two-year old boy both reached for the same train at the same time.  The boy took the train.  I was about to turn into papa bear on the little rascal, when your mother pulled me back.  She knew better.  You looked around and spotted the boy’s father walk into the room.  You randomly grabbed another toy, a squeaky thing that was absolutely not interesting for you (you didn’t even look at it twice).  You then watched the boy’s father walk over before you handed the squeaky toy to the boy.

Suckered Dad: Aww, Shawn.  Look, she’s sharing with you.  Give her the train.

Shawn shook his head.

Suckered Dad: Shawn, share, or I’m giving you a time out.

You took the train with a triumphant grin.

Some people just have it.  As you know, I occasionally have a guys night out with a few friends of mine.  I don’t go that often (spending time with you is precious), and each of the guys have their own varying levels of participation given work, wives, kids, and other commitments.  We were just having a conversation about freedom and attendance when a friend blurted the strangest thing.

Genius: I’ve given up my season Giants tickets and ordered two season tickets to the opera at the Met.  Two shows a week, every week.  I’m set.

Every other guy in the bar umm… library: Wha?!?

Genius: How do you think I’m here tonight?  They’re watching Aida.

None of My Business, But Thanks

There was a crying infant (three, four months?) in the subway, attended to by a frazzled mother and her friend.  “She’s obviously still thirsty,” said one.  “She can’t be,” said the other, “she finished all of her Dew.”  “Well, give her more,” replied the other.  “Ok.”  The mother opened the infant’s bottle, poured in some of her Mountain Dew, and gave the thing back to the baby.  “I don’t understand why she’s not napping.  Babies are supposed to nap.”

It was like watching a live episode of Springer.  As ignorant as I was about raising an infant, at least I didn’t overload sugar and caffeine and wonder why the tot isn’t sleeping.  I wonder if these parents ever looked at someone else and thought to themselves that at least they didn’t drop the baby.  And maybe those parents looked at the wolf-raised kids and felt better of their little football.  Schadenfreude, the coping mechanism of the clueless.