My daughter’s funnier than I am, anyway

I’m in a mental vacuum this week.

We’re sick.  We’re tired: daylight savings time has messed with the kids’ sleep schedules and left a family of horrific zombies in its wake.  We’re I’m overworked with deadlines in my job.

Fortunately, my daughter is pretty funny.  So she’ll be doing a guest post for me… of sorts… while I get my act together.  It just so happens that I have an entire drafts folder chock full of some of the eclectic tidbits that escape from my four year-old’s mouth.  So here you go:  “Random conversations with Bobo, Part I.”


“But, dad, your finger smells funny when I pull it.”


    “I don’t want to go to Babies ‘R Us.  I want to go to Big Kids ‘R Us!!”


    In an excited voice: “Hey, mom, guess what??  I… uh… ummm…. arrghhhh!  I forgot what I was going to say!!”
    “Calm down, Bobo.  I’m sure it will come to you,” I say.
    “I don’t want to be calm!!” she retorts.  “And I am not going to tell you what it is I wanted to say until you tell me what it is I was going to tell you!”


    “Hey, daddy… how do you spell E.T.?” 


    “What did you learn in preschool today?” I ask.
    “We learned about George,” Bobo answers back.
    “George, who?” I say.
    “You know, George,” she says, rolling her eyebrows like I’m some dolt.  “The one who works with Obama?”
    “You mean George Washington?” I say, finally jumping on the clue wagon.
    “Uh, yeah.”

    In the car: “Um, we could really use a little mood music in here, momma.” 


    After watching Peter Pan with her father:  “Daddy’s going to teach me how to fly, momma!”
    “Really??” I say.
    “Yeah, either that, or I’ll learn how to do it at preschool.”


    I love you to Uranus and back.”  (Seriously, this one never gets old, no matter how many times I tell it.) 


    Bobo, flailing spasmodically in her carseat:  “Hey, momma, guess what I’m doing?”
    “What, Bobo?” I ask.  I’m genuinely perplexed here.
    “I’m playing the air drum, and the air guitar… at the same time!”


    “No more rhymes, dad… I mean it.  Hey, does anybody wanna peanut?”

    This last one has got to be my favorite of all time.  And, perhaps, one of the proudest moments of parenthood to-date.

    You’ve got to admit, the kid has good taste in movies.  And she’s funny.  And a little eclectic.

    I’m thinking she gets it from her dad.

    header 150x150
    The WoW is “eclectic.” 
    Go!  Join! And tell ’em Booyah’s Momma sent you.

    Her nose knows

    My daughter has an innate sense of smell.

    “Ew, what is that smell?” she demanded when she walked into the kitchen the other day.

    “It’s sausage stromboli,” I said, proud of myself for making something for dinner that didn’t come out of a box.  “It’s going to be so yummy!”

    “Well, it smells like zebra poop,” she said, matter of factly.  How she knows what zebra poop smells like, I have no idea.  But in all fairness, I did sneak some broccoli into the stromboli, and it did smell a little less than savory.  Certainly not like zebra poop, mind you.  But a little wonky nonetheless.

    She can also smell human poo from a mile away.  “Mom, Chippy’s diaper smells like poop,” she wailed at me another time.

    I bent over to give my son the sniff test.  Sure enough, Chip’s diaper bulged wonkily.  And there was definitely something festering in there.  “You’re right.  Thanks for telling me, bud.”

    “Thought so,” she said, with an air of satisfaction.  “I told dad, but he couldn’t smell anything, and told me to see if you could.”

    (In our house, this last scenario actually happens more than I’d care to admit.)

    With this refined sense of smell, it does baffle me sometimes as to the things she doesn’t smell.

    Case in point: the other night, I walked into the room where Bobo and my better half were lying on the bed playing a game.  Something smelled positively wonky.  My eyes immediately began to water.  I have no idea how my daughter could stand it in there.

    “Um, who tooted in here?” I inquired casually.  Of course, I already knew the answer.

    “That would be dad,” Bobo answered back, not even bothering to look up from her game.

    Jay giggled silently, and then, in typical dad fashion, tried to point the finger the other way.  “Really?” he said, feigning innocence.  “Are you sure it wasn’t momma?”

    “Mom doesn’t make that smell, dad,” she answered indignantly.  “Momma always smells pretty.”

    As I exited the room, still laughing, the stench trailed after me down the hall.

    And then I figured it out.  It’s clearly not that my daughter can’t smell farts.  It’s just that when it comes to certain smells, her olfactory sense just doesn’t recognize them any more.  Like dad’s flatulence.  Apparently, it’s so rampant in our house, it’s made her poor little nose a little wonky. 

    I take comfort in the fact that she can still clearly smell my farts.  Because, smart little cookie that she is, she recognizes that mine always smell like roses.

    If you don’t believe me, just ask my daughter.  Her nose does not lie.

    Side note: Sadly, I have to ‘fess up.  While my daughter believes I always smell like roses, I know better.  If you read yesterday’s post, you may or may not be surprised to hear that #6 did indeed happen.  As did all of them… except #3.  I never ran with the bulls in Pamplona.  But I have stepped in plenty of poop.  And that’s the honest truth.

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    The WoW is “wonky”

    The birds, the bees, and the elephants

    Since my kids are still little, I figured I had a few years to figure out the best way to broach the topic of the birds and the bees with them.  Apparently, I was wrong.

    My first encounter with “the talk” came a few months back.  It was not planned.  And I was not prepared.

    One warm spring day, we decided to go to the zoo.  Lucky for us, we went during elephant mating season.

    I’d never seen an elephant willy before.  But let me tell you, it was a doozy.  To give you a mental picture:  Elephants are well endowed.  Very well endowed.  Seriously, it was like a fifth leg.

    Seeing the reaction of parents was almost as much fun as watching the act itself.  Almost.  Momma hens rushed to cover their children’s eyes and shoe them away from the scene.  Meanwhile, every single one of the dads lingered, their mouths agape.  Many of the men whipped out cellphones and started taking pictures and sending them to friends.

    As for me?  I couldn’t move.  In a weird way, I have to admit that I was a little transfixed.

    My reverie was short lived.  “What are they doing, Mommy??” one of the kids shrieked.

    Surprisingly, my own daughter had the answer.  “The momma elephant is giving the daddy elephant a piggy back ride!” she exclaimed excitedly.  I’m pretty sure I peed my pants a little when she said that.

    Her comment made some of the moms giggle, and me breath a small sigh of relief.  As I watched the piggy back ride for a while longer, I felt relieved to know I’d temporarily dodged a bullet.  But after a while, Bobo got bored, and we left the elephants to make whoopy in peace while we went off to see the monkeys.  None of which were in heat at the time.

    For the rest of the afternoon, I waited for Bobo to ask follow up questions about the elephants.  Stuff like, “Why do daddy elephants have two trunks?”

    I rehearsed the answers in my head.  The questions never came.  Thank god.  Because, as I mentioned, I was not ready to have that talk yet.  And, I’m pretty sure, whatever answer I gave would have made me feel like a complete and total asshat.

    Here’s hoping I have a few more years left before I have to think about having “the talk” again.  Or, at least until the next time we visit the zoo.

    Kludgy Mom
    #64.  I wasn’t ready for it

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    The WoW is asshat.

    Life’s not always bright copper kettles

    Julie Andrews had it right.  Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens are pretty sweet indeed.

    My daughter has been on a musical kick lately.  It started with Annie, and was quickly followed up by Mary Poppins.  It went downhill for awhile when dad introduced her to High School Musical.  But when I saw one of my favorite movies of all time – The Sound of Music – on sale at the grocery store, I knew I could get things back on the right track.

    I loved The Sound of Music growing up.  I remember it was always on right after Christmas, and it was the one night of the year my parents let us stay up past midnight so that we could watch the whole thing.  The movie conjures up memories of snuggling with my dad by the Christmas tree while we sang along to songs I knew by heart.

    So I was delighted when Bobo took to the movie.  Snuggling in bed while teaching her Do-Re-Mi created a warm fuzzy feeling for me that took me back to my own childhood.

    It wasn’t until the second half of the movie, undoubtedly darker than the first, rolled around that I started to question whether or not it was a good idea.  It was during the scene where they showed some soldiers and the swastika that Bobo asked me, “Who are those men, Momma?”

    Without thinking, I answered back, “Those are the Nazis.”  As soon as I uttered the words, I regretted them.

    Because she immediately countered back with, “What’s a Nazi?”

    I suddenly wished maybe we were watching High School Musical instead.  Obviously, there was no way I was going to explain to my preschooler what a Nazi was.  I fumbled with the answer, and mumbled something about them being soldiers.

    She was satisfied with the answer.  For the time being, at least.

    I, however, was not.

    You see, my daughter understands that most things we see on TV or in the movies are not real.

    She understands that I am not Mary Poppins.  And that one does not simply snap their fingers to clean up their room.

    She understands that cars don’t really fly, ala Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

    She understands that the people in the movies are actors playing a role.  They sometimes wear masks or disguises, but underneath, they are just people pretending to be something that is fantasy.

    So how do I explain to her that some things you see in movies are real?  That horrors happen in life that I won’t be able to explain or justify?  That people like the Nazis actually existed and they were bad, not because they wore a scary mask or evil costume, but because they committed awful, incomprehensible acts against other humans?

    Those are questions I don’t want to address, but I know I will have to eventually.  And, thankfully, she has a few more years of innocence and childhood before we likely have to worry about heavy conversations like that.

    Maybe when she’s 16, going on 17, the question will come up again.  And maybe, by that time, I’ll have a better answer.

    Mama's Losin' It

    The S Word: Sleepover

    Bobo has a new bestie at preschool.

    It thrills me to no end, because she’s naturally a bit shy, and has had a harder time making friends than I would have thought.  Plus, I really like this kid she’s friends with.  And his mom.

    But it took me off guard a bit when she informed me the other night that she and said BFF were talking, and they unanimously decided to have a sleepover.

    This sends me into a tailspin of questions.  Really?  A sleepover?  At four years old?  How did she even learn that word?  Whose house would it be at, anyways?  Are other kids having slumber parties at this age?

    I’m thinking she’s too young.  As am I.  I’m already fighting a losing battle with my first few stray white hairs.  Surely, a sleepover would coax countless more into sprouting forth.

    I’ve seen how the two play off of each other at school.  It’s like watching two little pinballs bounce off of each other in a machine.  My house is not big enough, or padded enough, to contain that madness.   Especially any time remotely close to bedtime.  And it’s work enough wrangling one four year-old into jammies and bed.  Coercing two little pinballs (one of which is not even my own) to brush their teeth and settle down for bed sounds like something for which I lack the patience.

    And did I mention the BFF is a boy?

    Not that it should be a big deal.  I mean, they’re four, for pete’s sake.  But for some neurotic reason, I’m not sure if I’m comfortable with a co-ed sleepover at any age.  Silly, I know. 

    The whole thing has me stumped, and frankly a little more flustered than I probably should be.  I’m kind of hoping she doesn’t bring it up again.

    So I counter-offered, “Why don’t we just start with a playdate?”  Yeah.  That I can handle.

    Plus, did I mention the fact that I like the mom?