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Something only a daughter could say

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I walked into the bathroom while my daughter was finishing up on the toilet. She said with a smile, “I wiped my back butt. Now I’m going to wipe my front butt.”

I just said, “Okay, honey, great.” How does one respond to that? I mean, besides with laughter?

Along that vein, here are two lines from the PIF vault, a post from 2012 titled, “How to tell you have two boys and a girl.” Read the rest of this entry

Swimming is for the birds

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Our girls are in swimming lessons this summer, and are enjoying it to varying degrees. The oldest has discovered her gills, the middle one is getting there, and the youngest is convinced that land animals were meant to stay there.

About all the instructor can do with her without causing a melt down is dip her ear in the water. He’ll do this several times at each of her turns, but she’s begun dictating terms, letting him know exactly how many times he may dip her royal ear below the surface.

While he held her from behind, she held up three fingers, the back of her hand toward him. Read the rest of this entry

Lettuce eat

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(I know it’s cheesy, but I couldn’t resist.)

One night we were having tacos for dinner, but I didn’t have any lettuce. It’s a bummer to have tacos with no lettuce in my book.

When I heard my husband come home from work, I called out, “Did you happen to bring home any lettuce?”

You know, the leafy green stuff? Yeah, this.

You know, the leafy green stuff? Yeah, this.

It was truly the most random question.

When I walked over to him, I expected to find him confused, ala, “Uh-oh, did she ask me to pick up lettuce on the way home? I don’t remember that.”

Instead he was shocked. Read the rest of this entry

Children and their stuffed animals

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I just witnessed my seven-year-old set her armload of stuffed animals down in the hallway before entering the bathroom. She said to them, “Wait right here for me.”

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This isn’t Ribbity, but his big sister Catherine. I guess you could say I’m feeding the frog addiction. I can never let her eat at a fancy French restaurant. It would be too traumatizing.

My ten-year-old wanted to restuff her frog, Ribbity. I told her, “Unless there’s a hole in him already, I’ll have to open him up.” She said, in a pained voice, “If you do, I don’t want to watch.”

I performed the operation in a separate room while she alternately sat and paced, biting her nails, in the “waiting room.”

At last Ribbity’s operation was complete: restuffed, restitched, and looking like he’d consumed a bottle of steroids. My daughter was teary-eyed with relief. Read the rest of this entry

Desperate times, desperate measures

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I’d been wanting to cut my hair for a while. The words of an old college chum still haunt me when my hair gets to a certain length: “You have a long face, so when your hair is long, too, it draws your face out more and makes you look like a horse.” Sadly, it seems like my face has only gotten longer with age. So, when my hair gets long, too, I look in the mirror and frequently see Weird Al Yankovic staring back at me, only not being funny and entertaining.

So, the hair had to go. I took a shower one morning and, seeing my hair already damp and straight, decided it was time to take matters into my own hands. I grabbed the hair cutting scissors and was determined. But I hit a snag. Looking in the mirror and operating scissors, or just operating scissors when they’re turned back toward your head is harder than it looks in the movies. I was sure I’d end up cutting at a sharp angle by mistake. So, I called in my daughter. Read the rest of this entry