Life After Death

Spills said to me at dinner tonight, "When I die, will you be waiting for me?"

Taken by surprise, I said, "I sure hope so."

"And what if I'm late?"

"I hope you will be late, because you had a really long life."

"Do you know what I'll say if I'm late?"

"What?"

"Sorry I'm late. Lots of traffic. Too many bones."

Beauty Regimen

So Spills said to me today, "Do you think I look beeyootiful?"

"Of course," I said.

"Really, really beeyootiful?"

I looked at her more closely. She was fluttering her eyelids at me.

"Is there something on your eyelids?"

"Yeeees, Madame," in her best southern drawl.

They were glittering.

"What have you got on your eyelids?"

"Liiiip gloss."

Trying not to laugh, I repeated, "Lip gloss?"

"And on mah fingahnails." Waving them at me.

"Wow. Did you put any on your lips?"

"Yes, ah deed. And on mah cheeks and mah forehead."

Now I looked closely, I could see that she was glistening in a sticky sheen.

"Now ah just have to wait for it to drah."

"You may be waiting awhile," I said. "Lip gloss doesn't really dry. It's meant to stay sticky and wet."

Silence. "Well, how can ah do anything if it stays sticky and wet?"

"I don't know. It's the price of beauty, I guess. You could probably flip through a magazine. I think beeyootiful ladies like to do that."

She considered this for a minute. "Naw, ahm gonna do craaaaafts."

Weekly Routine

Spills said to me tonight, "I have so many things, I don't know what I'm going to do when I'm grown up."

"Maybe you can do a few of them," I said.

"I'm going to have a weekly routine."

"Really?"

"On the weekend, I'm going to rest."

"Sure, of course."

"On Monday, I'm going to be a waiter. On Tuesday, I'll be an author. On Wednesday, I'm going to help out at the zoo."

"Cool."

"On Thursday I'll get ready, because on Friday I'm going to serve you food."

"You're going to serve me food?"

"You and Daddy will come over on Friday, and you'll have grey hair, and I'll serve you food."

"Nice."

"But you'll have to live nearby. Maybe next door. Or maybe in the basement."

"In this basement?"

"Yes."

"Will we finish it first? Because it's kind of dark and yucky down there."

Hands on hips. Severely: "MOM."

The conversation was ended here, so I don't yet know exactly where Spills plans to put me when I'm old and grey. As long as she feeds me, though, I guess I'll be fine.

Starting Young

Spills said yesterday, "Everyone in my class says Brandon and I are getting married."

"Oh?" I said. "Why are they saying that?"

"Because Brandon says I'm smoking hot."

I practically choked on my milk. "He says what?"

"He says I'm smoking hot. I know what that means, too."

"Really? What does it mean?" Hoping my five-year-old wasn't going to really tell me.

"It means he has a CRUSH on me. Is that what it means? Does it mean he has a CRUSH on me?"

"It could mean that."

"I know he has a crush on me, because he always wants to sit next to me in calendar. And when we're outside, he rescues me from Cole."

"Who's Cole?"

"Cole's my boyfriend."

"Cole is? What about Brandon?"

"No, Brandon RESCUES me." Very patiently. "Cole chases me, and then I chase Cole, and then Brandon rescues me."

"I see."

Later, when Spills was in bed, I shared this interesting information with Daddy. Daddy announced that he wanted to have words with Brandon. And Cole.

Career Aspirations

So Spills said to me this week, "Mommy, I've decided what I want to go to University for."

"Oh yes? What is it?"

"To learn how to hold plates properly."

Thoughts Upon Meeting a Donkey

So we had a wonderful hike this morning along a country trail. The sky overhead was blue, and the air smelled of apples. Several farms backed onto the trail. In one of them were two donkeys and a beautiful horse. We spent a lot of time chatting with them. This led to a range of post-donkey thoughts on Spills' part.

1. I think one of the donkeys got out and is following us. I'M PRETENDING, MOM.

2. If we took the donkey home with us, how would we get him in the car? Oh, I know, we could put him on the roof.

3. The donkey could be an inside donkey during the winter and an outside donkey during the summer. What should he be right now, since it's fall?

4. Could the donkey sleep on my bed? Oh, no, wait, Lockey sleeps on my bed, and he'd be sad if the donkey slept on the bed too. I know, I'll get a sleeping bag and put it on the floor NEXT to the bed, and the donkey can sleep in that.

5. If the donkey's on top of the car, how will he be able to talk to us? THROUGH THE ANTENNA, OF COURSE.

6. I am going to call the donkey Apple Jean.

7. Do you think the donkey likes apples?

8. The donkey could do tricks while we were eating dinner.

9. If the donkey climbed trees to get apples, would he be scared? What if he couldn't get down again? I know, if he couldn't get down, he could just sit on a leaf. It's fall, so the leaf would come down pretty soon.

10. Do you think the donkey would miss his friends in the farm? Maybe they should come to our house too.

Countdown to Adolescence

So I stumbled into the kitchen this morning, to find Spills already chowing down on toast with her Daddy.

"Mommy! I have something funny for you!"

"Oh, good," I said, fumbling for the coffee.

"I have to count down from ten, and then I'll do the funny thing."

"Good. Let's see it."

Striking a dramatic pose, she began intoning her countdown: "Ten...nine...eight...seven...six...five...four...three...two...one...."

Then she tossed her head like a tiny Valley Girl, and in the most horrifically hormonal way, bellowed, "WHATEVER!!!"

First I laughed.

Then her Daddy and I stared at each other over her head, and we had the same thought: we are going to be in so much trouble in about five years.

Eureka!

So I got home from the movie I went to see with my friend (District 9 - we enjoyed it), and my hubby was waiting for me with great excitement.

"Your girl has big news," he said. "She wanted to stay up to tell you."

"What is it?"

Dramatic pause. "She rode her bike!!"

"She did?"

"She did!!"

"Really rode it? Like, pedalled and everything?" (Not that we doubt the mighty Spills' physical prowess or anything.)

"Really rode it!! It was sort of in a large circle, aiming at the school. But she stayed up, she righted her balance."

"Wow. Wow!"

"She was so proud of herself," my hubby said. "She kept shouting, 'It's the click! I'm clicking! I'm clicking!'"

"That might be because we talked the other night about how it would click. She wanted to know if it would make a noise."

We moved on to the subject of celebrations. "Well, she didn't want her bath," my hubby said. "She wanted a party instead."

"So did you have one?" It seemed like I'd missed all the excitement. Balloons, cake, games.

"Oh, yeah." My hubby beamed.

"Well? What did you do?"

"Coloured and listened to Sanjaya!!"

Of course.

Painful Perseverence

So tonight Spills wandered mournfully into my room and tumbled onto the bed. She was a small bundle of sweaty depression. She'd been outside with her Dad. Meanwhile, I'd had a blissfully silent bath.

"Did you have fun?" I asked after a minute, looking down at her.

"Rmmmf," from under her arm.

"How are you feeling?"

She looked up at me, and tears filled her eyes. "I'm having a bad day."

I sat down beside her. "Really? I thought you had such a good day. You had fun with your friends in French. Your friend made you a friendship bracelet, and a card that said, "I love you." We had a picnic beside the lake. You did crafts this afternoon. "

"But I can't. Ride. My. Bike."

"Ahh."

This has been the ongoing saga for the last while. Donna can ride her bike. Simon can ride his bike. The whole world can ride its bike no-handed, balancing on one toe, while Spills cannot. And it has not come instantly, despite evening practice sessions with her Dad.

"Well, you know," I said, "it took me a long time to figure out how to ride my bike. And you know what happened when I did? I took off on Grandpa, because I thought I'd ride around the block and surprise everyone. Except on the other side of the block I fell off, and then I couldn't figure out how to start it again. And I had to walk all the way home with my bike."

"Was Grandpa mad?"

"I don't think so. Maybe a little. He was probably worried, I guess."

She sighed. "Will I ever ride my bike?"

"Of course you will! And then the world will be your oyster. We'll go for bike rides everywhere. Here's how it will work. You will try and fall over. You will try and fall over. You will try and fall over. That will happen a lot of times. But one day - it will CLICK!"

She stared at me. "Will it make a noise?"

"Will what make a noise?"

"The click."

"Oh," I said. "Well, no, I don't think so."

"Just loudly inside your head," she said, with the beginning of satisfaction.

Fighting the Tangles

So, the mighty Spills is growing her hair until April, apparently. Her friend/nemesis Donna is growing her hair until May. Fine. Except that someone has to comb Spills' flowing tresses. Actually, they don't flow so much as they knot and kink and tangle.

And while you're trying to drag a brush through the extended nest that is the top of Spills' head, she is engaged in saying some or all of the following:

"Is it okay if I move around like this while you comb my hair?" Then she proceeds to sashay hither and yon while doing a kind of Michael Jackson "Ooh! Ooh!"

"Do you like this?" Repeatedly poking me in the hip.

"Are you done yet? Are you done yet? Are you done yet? Are you done yet?"

"I don't want the elastic, I want the hair band. I don't want the hair band, I want the clips. I don't want the clips, I want the elastic. I don't want the elastic, I want the hair band and the clips."

"I already combed it. Why do we have to comb it again?"

"Ow! You. Are. Hurt. Ing. Me."

"When you pull that hard, it feels like BLOOD."

Kindergarten Art

So today Spills brought home her art portfolio. It details the progress of her Picasso-esque tendencies over the course of the year. Her teacher, or someone else equally dedicated, has neatly printed a caption for each picture. I am assuming that the captions were dictated by Spilly, because they do not have the mark of a sane mind.

Some of my favourites are as follows:

1. This is me. I am walking through some trees. There are limes flying in the sky.

2. I'm trying to catch my book because it is flying away.

3. This is a dinosaur worried about getting plums but an asteroid is coming.

4. This is a map of the world. [This consists of "America," some blue entitled "Atlantic Ocean, "Canada" on the other side of the ocean, and the rest bright yellow, entitled, "Lots of deserts."]

5. This is a rainbow and my clothes.

6. The lambs are eating the hay. One lamb ate so much that his tummy is bigger than his head.

7. Thunderstorm with rocks blowing around.

Insubordination

The latest wisdom from Spilly:

"One two three,
Take a chance!
I see Daddy's underpants!"

Sigh. We're doing well.

Sweet Tooth

So Spills said to me today, "I have a sweet tooth. It's right here."

She pointed to a tooth on the bottom.

"It's nice," I said.

"The only problem is, when it falls out. Then I won't have a sweet tooth."

"That is a problem. What will you do?"

She brightened. "Wait, I just remembered! It's a grown-up tooth! It will never fall out! I will have a sweet tooth FOREVER."

Negotiations

So when I picked Spilly up from her daycare arrangement tonight, I was met at the door by her five-year-old best friend/worst nemesis Donna. At any given moment, the two are either in blissful union or about to destroy each other.

Donna said severely, "She called me a goo-goo head. I don't like that. I told her I don't like it when you call me a goo-goo head. It's not nice."

On the way out to the car, Spilly said severely, "Today when we were doing a concert, Donna pretended everyone was just clapping for her, and not for me. I didn't like that. That wasn't nice, was it, Mommy?"

"Well," I said, opening the door for her to get in, "I understand that you called Donna a goo-goo head today, and I don't think that was particularly nice either."

Silence, as I buckled her into her booster seat.

"Do you know about that?" Spills said, at last.

"Yes, I do know about that."

"Donna told?"

"Yes, Donna told."

"When did she tell you?"

"When you were getting your coat."

I started the car. "Here we go!" I said brightly.

Much more silence.

"Are you mad at me?"

"No," I said. "I'm not mad at you. I think that you and Donna have to figure out how to be friends together, and not say or do things that hurt each other's feelings, though, don't you?"

Then I launched into what was probably the most moving, well-defined, articulate and inspiring speech that there has ever been. I explained, stirringly, about the necessity for getting along in this world, and about how we are all interdependent. I deftly wove some of the world's great religions into my theme. By the end, it was clear to me that I had outlined a template for peace that exuded clarity and decency and balance.

Until a tiny, barely-to-be-heard voice whispered balefully, "She is a goo-goo head."

Devious

So Spills says to me during dinner, "You should call Grandma tonight."

I said, "I already called Grandma when I got home this afternoon. Remember?"

"You should call her again. Tonight." The eyes looked a bit shifty.

"Why exactly should I call her again tonight?"

"You should call her right before bedtime." Now she was concentrating on her plate, moving food here and there, not meeting my face at all.

"Why?"

And then I clued in. Slow Mommy. On Monday night, at the end of Spilly's TV time (she watches George Shrinks or something similar at 7:30, before going upstairs for book and bed), the phone had rung. It had been Spilly's friend Simon's Mom. We had fallen into an extended catching-up gabfest.

This meant that Spilly had had a little time on her hands, at a time when she was supposed to be going upstairs, brushing her teeth, etc. She had, not surprisingly, wasted no time in finding the next installment of Sanjaya's new show at 8:00. And happily, oh-so-quietly, she'd continued to watch for about half an hour afterward.

"You want me to call Grandma so you can watch Sanjaya."

"Hee hee hee," said Spills.

"Don't you???"

"Maybe. Yeeeesssss."

"Well," I said.

She smiled at me winningly.

It is hard to resist that smile, particularly when it's aiming to be winning. And since the kid has already watched the show on the sly more than once...

"I guess," I said, "I could possibly tape it for you, and we could watch the good parts the next day. We could fast-forward through the things that aren't Sanjaya."

"Oh, Mommy!" She threw her arms around me. "You're the best!"

"I know," I said.

Fevered Brain

So the Spills was home sick today. As was her Dad. I therefore represented our family in the world at large. When I returned home, Daddy was looking decidedly bleary and exhausted. Spilly, on the other hand, was filled with many pent-up questions. The minute I walked in the door, I was treated to the following, in no particular order (they may have all actually been asked at the same time):

1. Was there a Roman god of bricks?

2. Are we omnivores?

3. If we're omnivores, why don't we eat shirts?

4. Did you know that my canine tooth is coming loose?

5. Do you see a black spot in my mouth? Is it a cavity?

6. Why don't we put milk in planters?

7. Are there really Ninjas?

8. Are Ninjas older than the Vikings?

9. Does sugar really make cells blow up?

10. If Lockey gets married, can we keep the kittens?

Time for Parental Controls on the TV

So, my friend Spills was up before dawn. Literally. While the sensible world slept, she crept downstairs to turn on the TV. She is allowed to go to Treehouse or to TVOntario. She chose to watch an infomercial instead about The Magic Bullet. When her Daddy stumbled downstairs some long time afterward, he was greeted with:

"Daddy, we need to get a Magic Bullet. You can make chocolate mousse with it. It's only nine ninety-nine."

Her father peered at the TV and said, "That says, ninety-nine ninety-nine. That's almost a hundred dollars. And why are you watching this?"

"Oh. Well, it makes chocolate mousse, and it will replace your current mixer."

"We don't need to replace our current mixer."

"Will our current mixer make chocolate mousse?"

"I think so."

"Really?? Can we make chocolate mousse today???"

"I don't know," her Daddy said. "In the meantime, you shouldn't be watching this. It's an ad."

"It's okay. I like it." Smiling winningly.

"I know you like it. The ad people like you too. They make these ads for people just like you. They hope you have your Daddy's credit card so you will call and order a magic bullet. Or ten."

"CAN WE?????"

"No, we can't. We don't want a magic bullet. We don't even want our current mixer. It's cumbersome and we have to wash it all by hand afterward. That's why we've never made chocolate mousse with it."

Smiling triumphantly: "The magic bullet goes in the DISHWASHER, so you don't have to wash it by hand."

"Yahoo," Daddy said, turning off the television and stumbling in the direction of coffee.

Soccer and Sanjaya

So we have joined the legion of merry fools who tramp out to wet fields and cheer on small people who are kicking the ball toward the wrong goal. This is not exactly Mommy's idea of the best time in the world, but Spilly thinks it's fabulous. She is not particularly interested in the soccer ball itself, but she loves hearing people shout, "Go for the ball! You can do it!" This is when she waves beatifically at her fans and runs in slow motion down the field while inspirational music plays.

Today, we're responsible for bringing watermelon for the half-time snack. Basically, there will be fifteen minutes of fierce soccer, followed by a snack, followed by fifteen more minutes of fierce soccer. This is my kind of work schedule.

In other news, Spills has discovered by accident that Sanjaya is back on TV again. Her father and I had actually known for awhile that he was going to be back. We'd even taped the initial show, in order to preview it with a view to possibly showing it to Spillaya. After watching it, though, we felt it might be a tad mature for her--particularly as her general daily scenario with Sanjaya is that he is (a) playing with her by the bus stop (b) singing songs from The Lion King with her in the bath (c) coming over to her birthday party, etc. (Yes, he is still alive and well in our home, and in her babysitter's home.)

How did she find Sanjaya? The other night, when she was supposed to be finding "Martha Speaks" for her post-bath-glimpse-of-TV, she came across Sanjaya's new show. From another part of the house, I seriously thought she had been injured, so piercing were the screams. (I would not be surprised if Sanjaya heard her in the jungle, and shivered.)

Anyway, there was no possibility of turning the channel. So, we all sat together and basically talked through anything that was not Sanjaya. When Sanjaya appeared onscreen, we would all say, "There he is!!!" and Spills would jump around wildly, screaming, "Oh, I'm so embarrassed!!!"

It got worse. At one point, she said, "What's that? Someone's at the front door!" Turns out it was Sanjaya, coming to watch the show with us. We made a space for him on the couch. Then he stayed overnight in the basement bedroom, and joined us for breakfast the following morning. He had Raisin Bran, for what it's worth. He seems to be planning to stay.