Baby Squared : cute quips

The Odd Couple

Roper — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 18:21:00 GMT

For a long time now, it's been clear that Elsa is a bit messier than Clio when it comes to playing and eating and life in general. These shots taken back in December at the girls' second birthday pretty much sum it up. (Photos taken seconds apart.)

Exhibit A: Clio and cupcake

Exhibit B: Elsa and (no more) cupcake.

But lately, it seems, Clio is not just casually more careful when it comes to getting messy. She's actually becoming something of a neat freak. After taking a few bites out of something or a sip of her milk or water, she'll often try to hand it back to us and demand a "clean" one. (Needless to say, we do not generally accommodate these requests.) Yesterday, I took the girls to a birthday party in our neighbors' back yard (more birthday parties! These girls are in heaven!) and as usual, Elsa devoured her cake and ice cream (plus some of Clio's) with sloppy gusto. But Clio was so put off by the messiness of the whole endeavor, she barely touched hers -- and this is not a child who usually refuses sweets. She had me cut off all the frosting (not an unreasonable request) but then kept asking me to wipe off her hands and face as she ate, saying over and over again, "I need another nap-kin!"

There was also a wading pool at this party. The girls came prepared, with bathing suits on under their sundresses. Other little kids, however, were going into the water in their clothes. Elsa was happy to follow suit (or dress, I should say; ha ha) and wade around and get the bottom of her dress soaked. Since we were two houses away from our own, it was fine with me. Clio stepped into the water in her dress, too, but quickly realized that she'd made a grave error and poutily asked me to lift her back out. She was very upset that she'd gotten water on her dress, and started saying she wanted to go inside, go home, etc. I suggested that we take off the offending wet dress instead, and she could hang out in her dry, *clean* bathing suit. She liked that. (Meanwhile, Elsa was over at the wading pool helping a tattooed twentysomething fill water balloons.)

This may be a phase. But if nothing else, it is more evidence that Clio takes after her father in more things and Elsa takes more after me. Not that I am a slob, by any stretch. Actually, Alastair and I are both fairly neat people in general. But that said, Alastair does tend to have a lower threshold for disorder. You should see the way he folds his T-shirts. And how annoyed he gets at me when I leave apple cores or banana peels in the cupholders in the car by mistake. (Confession: sometimes I leave them there on purpose, just to mess with him.)

It will be interesting to see how the girls' attitudes in this department develop over time -- especially if they continue to share a room, which is the plan for the immediate future. I can totally see it being like a sitcom episode at some point: the line of tape or string down the middle of the room, with Elsa's happy mess on one side and Clio's ordered world on the other.

In fact, the conversation I had Elsa -- our budding poet -- the other day makes a lot more sense now that I think of it in light of all this. She said to me, apropos of nothing, "Clio is a doughnut." To which I replied, "She's a doughnut? What are you?" Elsa said, "I'm a peanut butter sandwich." Makes sense, doesn't it? A doughnut (a plain one, anyway) is sort of neat and self-contained and symmetrical, while a peanut butter sandwich is generally a pretty messy, chaotic affair -- At least, the way I make them.

All right. Maybe that's a stretch.

Our little Felix Unger keeps it clean.

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Have we reached Peak Cuteness?

Roper — Sun, 28 Jun 2009 21:56:00 GMT

Every time I can't think the girls can't get any more adorable, they do. Starting when they were around seven or eight months old, I think I started saying, "this is it. This is the best age ever. They can't possibly get any cuter than this." And then, by golly, they did. They did even funnier more engaging things. They said even cuter stuff. There was, admittedly, a brief period between eighteen and twenty-four months, when I was just as likely to say "It can't possibly get any harder than this..." But the past few months, things have definitely been on the upswing again.

And seriously, two-and-a-half -- today, exactly! -- has got to be the cutest possible age. It's gotta all be downhill after here, right? The girls still have a bit of that baby pudge and innocence. They still have the un-self-consciously gleeful giggles of toddlers, and take pleasure in simple things -- running around in circles and falling down on the grass, putting stickers on themselves, digging in the dirt. They like to cuddle. But they're also curious and aware of what's going on around them (I'm constantly surprised by how much they remember and pick up on.) They "read" books by themselves. And they talk -- Lord, how they talk. They crack us up on an almost daily basis with the stuff that comes out of their mouths. (Me: Clio, what is your stuffed doggie named? Clio: Cpthtoth. Me: What? Cpthoth? Clio: Yeah, Gaby Gaby Cpthoth.)

A lot of what they say is based, of course, on the words and phrasing we use. (Cpthoth and other apparently Elfin/Celtic words aside.) For Elsa, lately, the key word is "maybe." As in the other morning when she and Clio were in our bedroom while I was getting dressed and were trying on various pairs of my shoes. Elsa, while shuffling around in a pair of my flats, tilted her head to the side in her best toddler-coquette fashion and said, "So, maybe I could wear your shoes, Mommy?" (If it turns out she's the same size shoe as me when she's a teenager, I am in serious trouble.)

Another phrase they're both fond of is "how about." This is deployed chiefly as a negotiating tactic, usually for food. This morning, for example, after eating two entire homemade Belgian waffles, Clio asked if she could have a cracker (?) and I said, no, we weren't having crackers for breakfast, but she could have a peach or a banana if she wanted. Her reply "How about some pretzels?"

Live blog moment -- as I am writing this, Alastair is giving the girls a bath, and singing (to the tune of "row your boat") "row, row, row your poo poo, gently down the stinky..." And the girls are cracking up. And Clio is singing: "Row row row ro, down the down the stinky!" You can see what a sophisticated family we are.

Yes, yes. Peak cuteness. And here are some pictures to prove it, from a backyard BBQ at Aunt Heidi's house. (Photo credits to her as well.)

Me: Here, just choke up on this thing. Or something. Score a touchdown. Or whatever.

Me: Elsa, that's not for you. That's beer, for grown-ups to drink.

Elsa: When I'm a little bit older, I can drink this!

Clio: (Thinks to herself) How about some wine?

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Entering the Cute Quip Zone

Roper — Mon, 04 May 2009 14:52:00 GMT

Yes! We're here! I've been so looking forward to this stage of the girls' development. Not that I haven't enjoyed the other stages, mind you, but this is really a lot of fun: the Stage Wherein the Kids Say the Darnedest Things.

I think this lasts for a while, and probably will reach its cuteness peak when the girls are around four. But it's pretty damned cute now, hearing the funny and surprising things that are coming out of their mouths now that their verbal abilities expanding at warp-speed. I will try to refrain from posting every adorable thing they say here, because obviously the adorable things that kids say are much more adorable to their own parents than to the world at large. But I hope you'll indulge me on occasion. (This occasion being one of those.)

Elsa: (upon seeing an earthworm in the back yard): It's a eeetle worm!

Me: Yeah! Look at that. A little worm. Where do you think he's going?

Elsa: In the dirt! (In a high squeaky voice) A eetle worm, mommy!! Hi, eetle worm! (Followed by high pitched squealing noise. Perhaps Worm-ese).

Me: (laughing) Yep, that's a worm. Actually, it's a pretty big one, as worms go. (I have a flashback to seventh grade, when we dissected earthworms. The smell of formaldehyde. I wonder: at what age do you discuss dissection with kids, if it comes up? Why would it come up? Why the hell am I thinking about this?)

Elsa: (More squealing) I love him!!

Later the same day, Alastair's parents, who were up for the weekend, came by to deliver a very cool present to the girls. Jaycee had just gotten back from a business trip in New Orleans, where she'd bought some feather boas and carnival-type masks, so we could have a New Orleans-style dance party in the living room. Alastair put on some zydeco music, and the girls promptly started dancing. But when the feather boas and masks came out, they seemed slightly bewildered. They might have been a little freaked out by the masks (let's face it; masks are scary), but we made sure to play lots of "peek-a-boo" with them, so they knew it was just us behind them. This got a few smiles from Elsa. But neither of them wanted to wear masks themselves. We got Clio to wear a boa, but she then proceeded to stand still, in place, for a full five minutes, scrunching up her lips. She would not speak or move. (I may have mentioned before, this habit of Clio's to "freeze" when she feels uncomfortable in a situation.) Who knows why the boa caused her to react in this manner? Or why she didn't simply remove it?

Anyway. She "unfroze" eventually, and in the evening, when we were reviewing the day's events, as we often do, and I brought up the dance party / masks / boas, she confessed: "I didn't like that jacket."

Just two more, I promise. Yesterday afternoon, we were drawing with crayons, and the girls asked me to draw various things for them, as they often do. Clio requested a "red moon," so I drew her one, complete with craters.

Me: Here you go, Cli. Your red moon.

Clio: No, that's a pig.

Me: It's not a pig. It's the moon. Those circles aren't a pig snout, they're craters. They're big holes on the surface of the moon, and sometimes you can see them when you look up at the moon in the sky.

Clio: (after a pause). No, that's a pig, mommy.

Elsa also asked me to draw a moon. I decided to take a little artistic liberty and draw a bat flying near it. She liked this, and soon Clio was asking for a bat, too. I drew one, right over the pig, where bats are often wont to fly. A few minutes later, Elsa was doing some very enthusiastic drawing on a new piece of paper, and showed it to me:

Elsa: Mommy, I drawing a cybot!

Me: A cybot?? (Thinking, wow, that sounds very sophisticated! Has she been watching the SciFi channel on the sly?)

Elsa: No, a BOT!

Me: Oh! A bat?

Elsa: Yeah, a bat! A stinky, stinky bat!

(Don't ask me about the stinky part. I have no idea.)

I should probably get some kind of journal to write down all these crazy quips; otherwise, I'll be very tempted to abuse this medium... But feel free to do it right back at me. I actually enjoy hearing the crazy things kids say, even if they're not my own. (And since I feel like I know some of you from your comments, I almost feel like I know your kids, too.)