"Die" Kitty Cow: how my kids slaughter the English language

One late late night about 6 years ago, I was holding a very upset and very distraught infant Ellie. She had been crying for close to an hour and I hadn't the foggiest idea what was the matter with her (there goes Mother's intuition, right?). At one point, I held her up and stared directly into her beet red screaming little face and said "why can't you just TELL ME what's wrong???? I can't wait till you can talk!?!?" Oh, how I've learned to rue those words.

Fast forward a few years, and Ellie has definitely learned how to talk, in fact it's nearly impossible to shut her up. From the time she could smile and wave, Ellie has always been the social butterfly. She said hi to anyone. And when I say anyone, I mean anyone. The lovely old ladies who cooed and fawned over her at the grocery store were gifted with her most charming smiles. But she would also try to jump into the arms of the mildly alarming man who looked like he hadn't bathed in weeks. Her benevolence was never discriminatory. One of the first words she learned after "Mama" and "Dada" was "Hi", and this fascinating new word was applied liberally to every hapless passerby.

Now the English language is a rather difficult language to master, even more so to a small child who has been mostly subjected to a twisted form of English known as Baby Talk. I'm not sure how anyone learns how to talk when they spend the first formative months of their lives hearing, "Ooo's a bwiigg widdle gwirl, oh yessums we are!" So Ellie had the "hi" part down pretty well, but the "goodbye" part was a bit trickier, instead of a clear "bye", we all received a cheery: "die!" I must admit, I secretly loved the looks on people's faces when my 1 year old cheerfully told them to "die" and merrily waved at their somewhat shocked faces. But sometimes it got a bit spooky. One particular time, my sister was putting Ellie down for a nap, and as she was laying down, Ellie was waving and chirping "die, die, die!" to her. No child likes going down for a nap, but wishing death upon the bringer of the nap is pretty extreme.


Due to Ellie's extreme chattiness, Maya's vocabulary is pretty extraordinary for a two year old. When you have a six year old sister that you adore, of course you're going to mimic everything she does, which includes talking continuously. We've been dealing with full sentences for a bit now, which only means I have two girls who talk non stop all day. Last week I was working on animal sounds with Maya, some of them familiar, some of them new:

Me: Maya, what does a cat say?
Maya: Mew
Me: Oh good. Now what does a dog say?
Maya: Woof, woof.
Me: Great. Now what does a chicken say?
Maya: Pot Pie!!!
Me: *uncontrollable snickering*

One guess what her favorite dinner is? Poor chicken.

Bring on the good stuff Mommy!

Now a bit of background on my middle child. Not only does she possess a large vocabulary, she is also the proud owner of an incredible appetite. When she was 4 months old, she began begging for my food. Actually, she wasn't so much as begging as she was trying to launch herself face first into my plate. The child was starving. I normally hold off the solids until the baby reaches 6 months, but she seemed SO hungry that I reluctantly pulled out the nasty rice cereal and prepared for rejection. From what I've heard, most babies hate rice cereal. You insert the gelatinous goodness and they immediately push the foreign-not-breast-milk/formula right back at you.  And I don't blame them, it looks gross, smells gross, and I'm willing to bet it doesn't taste like cherry pie. If you've ever seen rice cereal it's relatively thick, with a consistency like paste and as far as stickiness goes, it can give super glue a run for it's money. Oh yum. So Maya got her first taste of the gluey rice cereal, promptly ate 3 times the recommended serving size and cried when I finally stopped the flow of gooey cereal.

I wasn't joking about the food nose dive.

And she never looked back.

After that, nursing was pretty much an afterthought. Maya adopted the: "forget you Mommy, I've got the good stuff now" attitude. By the time she was around 9 months old she was eating 2-3 bananas and a bagel for breakfast and then turning around and eating just as much for lunch and dinner. Most meals she ate more than I did, sometimes she ate more than her dad. Of course I was mildly concerned that I was raising a small gorilla, but since she never showed any serious primate behavior (besides consuming her weight in bananas) I didn't get too worried. You've heard the phrase: "a bottomless pit"? That was Maya, she was a black hole of appetite disguised as a cute 9 month old baby.  In the past few months, her appetite has finally slowed down, for which I'm extremely thankful. (She's also turned into a rather picky eater, but that's another story for a different time).  I gave birth to three girls, I never bargained for feeding a teenage boy too.

Welcome Home Pumbaa

Only Disney could make something so horrifying look so cute and harmless.

 **WARNING: if disturbing images give you nightmares, close your eyes, scroll down and skip the picture.  It's not a pretty sight**

On an mostly unrelated note, my dad is a hunter. I grew up watching him suiting up for his deer stakeouts. And it was a relatively common occurrence to wake up one winter morning to be told  that there was a deer hanging in the garage (which we raced to inspect immediately). Personally I'm not a hunter. I'm not going to sit in a tree for hours hoping a deer/ wild animal will just so happen to wander by me so I can shoot it. It sounds boring. And cold. But more power to you if you have the patience and several camo parkas. On one of his more recent trips he went to a game preserve and bagged a wild boar. When I heard the news, I was happy for him. I mean great, sounds like fun, it's not my cup of tea but it's not like I would have to deal with the thing, right?

I was also under the impression that a wild boar looked something like Pumbaa from The Lion King. Sure he'd be kinda fat and hairy. But he would have cute little tusks, he'd be generally nice and look like the type who would like singing "Hakuna Matata", maybe even toss in a few dance steps here and there. Obviously I never paid much attention at the zoo when ever we passed by the wild boar exhibits because the non-cartoon version of Pumbaa is UGLY and nightmare inducing. I'm pretty sure he's never even met Wilbur and Babe or maybe he just ate them for dinner. (I don't think he even has a passing acquaintance with "No Worries for the Rest of My Days". Although if you stop and think about it, technically our Not-Pumbaa's days are over and he pretty much doesn't have anything to worry about). I feel pretty betrayed here, is everything Disney taught me a lie?


My dad had the boar mounted and with mild trepidation brought it home. In all fairness, he did warn us that it was rather scary looking and he even promised that he wouldn't hang it in the living room. I told him he was free to hang it in the living room, but I would hang a sheet over it so I wouldn't have to stare at it and if my kids had nightmares, he would be the one who got to wake up and deal with them.

Pumbaa, the Kitty-Cow

My dad walked in the door with the large ugly dead pig and Maya took one terrified look at it and ran as fast as her little legs could carry her to the other side of the room. She peeked out from behind a chair and when she was certain the pig wasn't going anywhere she exclaimed: "A Kitty-Cow!" Since we're pretty much city dwellers, and she hasn't had too much actual face time with cows, I can understand the confusion. But if a kitty cow actually existed outside of my two year old's imagination, I would think it would be kinda cute. Maybe a smallish shaggy version of old Buttercup that has whiskers and likes to purr? Hmm, maybe it's a disturbing animal no matter how you think of it.  I suppose from a 2 year olds perspective, that was as good of a name as any. Thankfully, "Kitty Cow" is not living in my house, he is peacefully residing at a friend's hunting cabin where he is free to give all the deer and cute birds as many nightmares as they want. I stood on the porch and watched our Kitty Cow go to his new home.  I waved gleefully, "die"... errr... bye...Kitty Cow!



Mary must have had a little brother

Nursery Rhymes seem to be a theme lately, last month I was going through my "(Not so) Old Woman in the Shoe" identity crisis and this month Ellie has taken upon herself to revise an old classic. I was sitting peacefully in the living room when I heard Ellie playing the piano and warbling away at the top of lungs. The tune was familiar, Mary had a Little Lamb. However, Ellie must have felt the old fashioned lyrics needed a  modern twist because she definitely edited:

"Mary had a little man, little man, little man!
Oh, Mary had a little man and she threw him in the snow." 

I'm pretty jealous, why didn't I think of those lyrics first?

So I'm curious, do you have any childhood stories of the brutal slaughter of the English language? Or maybe a Kitty Cow or two of your own?

Capitalism and Unclothed Catnaps...

There are a few things on my mind right now, primarily money and nudity. Most of those issues tend to be rather controversial and polarizing, so fair warning :)


The Horrors of (Toddler) Stripping

Picture of innocence, right?

To continue with my day, I arrived home to two out of my three children screaming at the top of their lungs. This is a normal occurrence. First I rescued Kiki from her baby prison and then quickly went to break Maya out of her toddler jail. She had been ominously screaming "Mommy, poo poo, owwie, I wanna get DOWN" repetitively and urgently so I figured that it was time to spring her. When I cautiously opened the door I was greeted by a pathetic scene. Maya was clinging to the bars of her crib, drool running down her face, chin and arms. Tears were pour copiously out of her little red eyes.

And she was stark naked.

Upon further questioning, she explained that she was "all wet mommy" and "diaper 'frew floor". All that came out of my mouth was a semi-hysterical gurgle. I was immediately torn between the desire to either laugh uncontrollably, shout in frustration or run and grab my camera to capture this priceless moment to share with her first boyfriend. Since I still had Kiki squirming and squawking in my arms, I managed to trample all the little bubbles of hysteria that were threatening to escape and gingerly tucked Maya under my free arm and carried both of them downstairs. I quickly threw a fresh diaper on Maya and put Kiki in her chair and ran upstairs to inspect the damage. With her natural propensity for trouble, Maya had not only managed to strip all of her clothes off, but she had thrown everything in arms reach all over the room. And then she wet the bed.

Priorities, priorities...

But I have recently subscribed to the "divide and conquer" method (hey, if it worked for Ancient Rome, then it definitely should work with three little kids right?) My immediate to do list presented itself. Maya was standing in the middle of the living room, hollering that she wasn't wearing any clothes. Kiki was in her chair, also screaming, because she was so hungry that her stomach lining must have been self digesting. And then there was all of the bed linens to change, Maya would need a bath, plus the neglected oldest child was also wasting away with hunger.  I attended to the starving child first, a fact which did nothing more but piss Maya off further. (How dare I leave her naked?) I informed her that she probably should have kept her clothes on in the first place and I would put her shirt on a minute. After the youngest and oldest needs were sufficiently met, I informed Maya that it was bath time. Unfortunately the kid loves bath time, and I feel like I may have positively reinforced the whole bedtime stripping act. (I take off clothes and pee my bed and then get a bath. Yay!) I sincerely hope this doesn't become a repeat performance, because I will not hesitate to pull out the duct tape. By which I mean I will duct tape the diaper, no, I will not duct tape her to the bed, even though that would also solve the clothes problem. Eventually everyone was fed, clothed, cleaned, changed, Lysol-ed and relatively happy. And I have yet another story to add to my arsenal of embarrassing Maya tales. Bring it on First Boyfriend!

Capitalism: they get 'em early

Lately Ellie has shown signs of actually being related to me. I say this with surprise because I apparently have not mastered the art of passing on my genes and my children don't look a thing like me. I'm half Japanese, so I'm of the black hair/dark eyes stock. All three of my children have dirty blond hair and blue eyes. I am routinely asked if I'm their stepmother or if I adopt (No ma'am, I was there. For ALL of it). Although my children look like they belong to someone else, every once in a while, I see a familiar bit of my personality or childhood quirks popping up. (Sleep walking anyone?)

My sisters and cousin's normal lemonade stand.

When I was a child, maybe 6 or 7, I decided that I just didn't have enough money. Now most children sell lemonade or Kool -aid or something a bit more conventional to make a bit of pocket change, but not I. I came up with an ingenious solution. People didn't want boring old Kool-Aid, it didn't last very long anyhow. I would sell... rocks! Rocks last forever! So I spent an afternoon picking up rocks in our backyard and then began my door to door campaign for more money, cup of rocks in hand. I distinctly remember knocking on my neighbor's door. Mrs. O'Brien was really a very lovely old lady who had patiently put up with my "visits" in the past. I explained that I was selling rocks and proudly displayed my stony wares. Believe it or not, the wonderful woman actually bought a rock, never mind the fact that her own yard was filled with the same unremarkable product that I was plying. Perhaps my rock bottom (ha!) price of one penny was just too good to pass up? All in all, I managed to wheedle several soft-hearted old ladies (and my mother) into buying my miraculous rocks. Capitalism at its finest.

Ellie has recently discovered that our backyard is full of acorns that are starting to sprout. They're actually rather cool to look at. After she pulled one or two of them up, I could literally see the little wheels in her little 6 year old mind turning, "Mom, do you want to buy an acorn?" I asked her how much they were and she replied, "Oh Mom, you can buy them for free". Clearly the concept of money, buying and selling hasn't taken root quite yet. We went on a walk in the neighborhood and every single person we met was told they could "buy an acorn for free". I'm hoping that this trend will catch on and Walmart will adopt this pricing policy.

The true selling point is the 6 year old charm

My little entrepreneur took an actual step in the business world today. She acquired a business partner (the little boy up the street), since they already had a compelling product (half sprouted acorns) all they were missing was a slogan and well, money. It turns out her business partner has a much better head for business than Ellie and after they harvested their crops, they began running up and down the street yelling:
Little Boy: ACORNS!
Ellie: FOR SALE!
Little Boy: ACORNS!
Ellie: Hey, you're going too fast!
Little Boy: Ok.. A...C...O...R...N...S.
Ellie: F..O..R  S..A..L..E.
They fixed their price at one for a quarter, or two for two quarters (quite a bargain). And after 30 minutes of pitching their sale, the kids had made $2.00. Color me impressed.

I tried really hard to think of nice tidy conclusion to this rather untidy blog. But try as I might, I can't figure out a single way to tie in confession, my daughter's nap time stripping act and Acorns for Sale. So I give up, draw your own conclusions :)

Secret: Mommy Doesn't Know Everything....

Maya and her infamous head :)

Each child is utterly and completely unique. When I began this adventure called motherhood, intellectually I knew this fact, but somehow I never managed to completely comprehend exactly HOW different each child was. When Ellie was born, I was afflicted with all the worries and joys of a first time mother, each breath was counted, every ear piercing wail meant she was dying and those first gas induced smirks were a certain sign that my child did in fact love me (those smirks still means she loves me). Once Maya made her entrance into the world, I was filled with certain smugness, I had done this once before and survived.... I knew what I was doing. I wasn't going to be that nervous, paranoid, newbie mother any longer. I had earned my mommyhood badge and this second child was going to be a breeze because I definitely knew what I was doing. WRONG.

As it turns out, Ellie was an exceptionally easy baby. She (and I) only dealt with a week or two of sleepless colicky nights and then she rapidly adjusted to her little life with her characteristic sunny disposition. Being a first time mom, I was in no position to appreciate the godsend my first child was. My mother insisted that she was a very easy baby, but out of my infinite wisdom and experience, I thought she was nuts. Didn't she see how much the kid cried?

When Maya made her grand debut, I was utterly confident. After she had had been a permanent resident for 2 weeks, my confidence was shaken. Where was my happy baby? Why wouldn't this new child stop crying? And why in God's name was she constantly soaking my clothes with spit up? Obviously I wasn't as knowledgeable in the mommy area as I had previously assumed. As both kids have grown older and developed very different personalities, I am continually forced to accept that I am (sadly) not omnipotent.


Confessions of a (toddler) drama queen

Ellie is a drama queen. Each and every incident in her 6 year old life is something to write home about (or in her case, proclaim loudly at the top of her lungs to the whole world... preferably from the top of a roof or chair or high object). For example, when Ellie was around 2 or 3, she was routinely sent to her room for some misdeed or another. One particular time, her feelings were especially injured and upon discovering that she was being banished to her room, she stamped her foot, declared "You are not very nice" and promptly fled to her room, sobbing the entire way. A peek into her room revealed her laying face down on her bed, sobbing as though Justin Bieber had cut his hair and her world had ended.  At the ripe old age of three, she was the picture of teenage angst.

I'm scared to see what actual hormones will do to the child.

Ellie has also informed me (quite matter of factly) that when she grows up she is definitely going to marry two guys, Joe Jonas and Michael Jackson. I can guess where the whole Jonas Brother thing came from (we will be cutting down on her Disney Channel consumption). And I'm mildly upset that she didn't at least pick the cute one. (Come on, Ellie... Nick is the only cute one in the entire group!) But I'm completely stumped as to how or why the King of Pop is the unfortunate object of her affections. I tried to explain to her why a relationship with Mr. Jackson just wasn't in the cards for her, but somehow I don't think I made my point clear.

Me: Ellie, I don't think you can marry Michael Jackson, he's dead

Ellie: Oh. But is he married?

Me: Ummm.... no. But honey, he's dead.

Ellie: Oh, that's ok. He doesn't have a girlfriend does he?

Me: No, he doesn't have a girlfriend. But he can't have a girlfriend, he died a few years ago.

Ellie: That's ok. I'm going to marry Michael Jackson.

Me: Ummm.... sure?

I cannot wait to tell this story at her future wedding (which hopefully isn't to A. Michael Jackson or B. a Michael Jackson impersonator). I also pray that she gets over her polygamy thing.


I swear Mommy still loves you...

Injuries, whether large or small, are inevitable in childhood. What is completely  unpredictable is how each child will deal with them. Maya spends a good portion of her day being doctored up from painful encounters with counters, floors, sidewalks and other sharp objects because she hasn't quite mastered the art of coordination (hands, feet, walking, floor... it's alot of work for a 2 year old). But unless the injury is truly serious, most times she just brushes herself off and continues to calmly destroy my house. She even takes vaccines and doctors visits calmly and in stride. On the other hand, Ellie may have inherited a thing or two from her mother.

Fun fact about me: I am a wimp when it comes to needles.

I am convinced the only reason that I've survived childbirth three times is because a wonderful doctor somewhere invented epidurals. When I was 17, I managed to almost cut off my toe with a paper cutter (long story). 14 painful stitches later, the doctor informed me that I would need tetanus shot. I just had sliced my toe and survived the stitches by grinding my teeth and thinking not very nice things about paper cutters and doctors. But the moment they mentioned a shot, I dissolved into tears and begged the nurses to reconsider. Did they really need to? I would be good, no needles please??? I kept up the meaningless promises and shameless begging until they actually gave me the shot. Then I realized, oh, that didn't hurt. God help Ellie if she has kids.

Kiki: You're going to stick what, where?



The differences between my children have never been as clear as it was in today's adventure at the pediatrician’s office.  Ellie began eying me worriedly the moment we set foot in the doctor's office and began pestering me "Mom, I don't have to get shots today, do I? Do I? DO I?" When I reluctantly informed her that she did have to get a few shots, she proceeded to hide under examination table.

Maya excels at the suspicious glares

Words cannot describe the absolute ridiculousness that ensued once the doctor made her appearance, and the necessary shots were trotted out. I must have been extra sleep deprived when I made the appointment, because all three girls were due for shots at the same time. When the menacing trays of vaccines entered the room, Ellie was still cowering under the examination table, Maya was cheerily greeting the nurses and Kiki was spitting up on me. I handed my youngest geyser *ahem* child, off to the male nurse (who looked really uncomfortable with his baby holding duties), and proceeded to coax/ drag Ellie out from the table. Thankfully Ellie is still a rather small child and I am still bigger, because she was clinging to that table leg like a starving leech. Maya was curiously peering around my legs, "Ellie... huh?? Why??? Ellie, owwie?? Huh??" Once my oldest was finally positioned on the table I was faced with another issue, how to get her pants down? It took both the nurse and I several minutes to finally get her ready (she probably scarred every other small child in that clinic... her screams were horrific). She sobbed nonstop until the actual shot happened, during which she stopped in surprise... oh.... it didn't hurt that much. But then she saw blood, and the waterworks started over again.




Kiki modeling the cherry tomato look

To be fair, we did the process chronologically (also by how difficult it was to catch them). Next up on the chopping block was Maya. She willingly submitted to the indignities of the poking, stabbing and pinching of the nurses (while Ellie was still sobbing away in the background). She cried briefly after the initial pinch, and then the smile made its reappearance. I heaved a sigh of relief, at least one child wasn't going to hate me forever for subjecting them to needles. Kiki had her turn with the needles (she's too young to really argue about the process). She turned an attractive shade of tomato red and screamed at me in anger. And then, thank God, we were finally done. I felt like a butcher. Pull 'em up, yank the pants down, patch 'em up and grab the next one. We staggered out of the doctor’s office, Ellie still had tears streaming down her face (the lollipop helped quell the louder sobs) Maya was still cheerfully greeting strangers and Kiki was still spitting up.

Yet another fun fact: karma works. I put my mother through hell when I had to get shots.

So the lesson learned here? I still have many lessons to learn. Motherhood is an ever evolving, ever changing, ALWAYS interesting adventure that never is going to end. Thankfully each child is different, a doctor's appointment with 3 drama queens would have been even more disastrous and my laundry pile with three spit factories would be a nightmare. God knew what He was doing. I obviously don't.

Sleeping like a baby

Without enough sleep, we all become tall two-year-olds.  ~JoJo Jensen, Dirt Farmer Wisdom, 2002

Sleep is something I never truly appreciated until I never got enough it. When I was younger, I fought against it with every ounce and fiber of my little being: "Mommmyyyyy, just five more minutes... Mommy, I need a drink of water... Mommy, I need to go to the potty..." and the list ran on. My absolute worst enemy was 8:00 pm. Upon reaching adulthood, I have discovered an appreciation for the night time battles that my parents waged against myself and my siblings. I am also constantly amazed at the ingenuity and variety of Ellie's excuses to stave off the inevitably of bedtime. She seems to believe that bestowing an extra round of hugs to humans, animals and inanimate objects alike (think "Goodnight Moon" only with hugs) will somehow turn back time. She also has the idea that discovering an urgent need to brush her teeth again or developing a new found concern for Maya's lack of water in her sippy will somehow delay the horror that is bedtime. Her favorite excuse is always prefaced by "Mommy just ONE more question..." and is followed by a random, rambling, and stammered off the wall question. Needless to say, this is NOT the last question of the night and this performance is repeated at least five to six more times before she finally realizes the inevitable. Thankfully Maya and Kiki are still stuck in their cribs and are unable to pop in and out of their rooms like a jack-in-the-box's like their older sister.

Whoever coined the phrase "sleeping like a baby" obviously never had a baby, either that or they were trying to be ironic. Because not only do children never stay asleep, but they sleep all over the place, in the most interesting positions. Ellie has provided us with endless entertainment in this area.

Once she has realized that she had lost the battle of bedtime excuses, she wanders all over the house in her sleep. More than once, I have woken up in a panic because she wasn't in her bed only to be reassured when I find her (several panic stricken, heart stopping moments later) curled up in a corner, or closet. There have been several memorable moments where I have found her sitting upright at a table fast asleep or awkwardly perched on the landing or at the foot of my bed. Last night I woke up in the middle of the night to weird squeaking noises. I was fairly certain that we weren't infested with large rats (or R.O.U.S.'s) so I gingerly peered over the side of my bed. In my sleep deprived state, I had forgotten to take into account my daughter's nighttime meanderings and she had stumbled in at some point and was half way on my bed, squeaking away in her sleep. This was infinitely preferable to the giant rats of the Princess Bride variety.

According to family lore, the sleepwalking is inherited. As a child, I would stagger around the house and declare sleepily: "Mommy, I have to go to the bathroom" (all the while doing my version of the frantic potty dance). Luckily for my parents, all they had to do was steer my little self in the right direction and I would take care of my business and scamper back to my bed. Granted they would find me lost in rather interesting  places such as behind their bedroom, bathroom, or closet door (I seemed to understand the door concept). But at least they always found me in time.

As we get older, sleep becomes a precious commodity that we treasure more and more. What was once our greatest enemy is miraculously transformed into our best friend. I suppose we always want what we can't have. And someday, my children will understand the true value of sleep and give their right arm to have someone send them to room for a nap.



Unfortunately, it does seem to be genetic.