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.