Name That Toe

I'm breaking radio silence to inform you all that Lavender has named her toes. From biggest to smallest, there are:

Pumpkin Pie
Violet Pie
Pumpkin Pastie
Rosette, and
Cherry Tree.

That's it. Carry on.

Geneva's Mystery Story

This afternoon Geneva narrated a spooky story to me while I typed it up for her on the computer. It's sweet, weird, surprisingly dark, and very worth sharing. Enjoy!

The Staff

Once there was an old, old puppet theater. It had been around since cave people, and there was concealed magic in it because it was so old. Inside its walls was magic, and no one but the puppet master himself could control the magic. He made lots of mysteries happen.

The Zoglman family were planning to travel for nine years, but they got trapped for one year. So that made it into ten years. They had abandoned their home, but when they left they didn't put up a sign, so in the ten years stuff happened to it. The house itself got magic inside it, just like the theater.

They heard on the news, while they were driving to go see the world, that someone had died in a puppet show place. But they heard next on the news that before the puppet master's eyes the person turned into a ghost, flickered, and disappeared. They thought “we're brave. We can solve a mystery. Maybe we are the ones who can solve the mystery of the ghost.” They went to the puppet theater.

When they arrived Geneva saw a skeleton with a rope around its neck hanging from an iron cage.

“Hey mom, I saw this weird thing!” said Geneva.

“What is it, Sweetie?” said Mom.

“I saw a skeleton hanging with a rope around its neck in an iron cage.”

Mom said “Let's find out the mystery to this.” Now the Zoglmans had two mysteries to solve: the skeleton hanging with a rope around its neck, and the flickering ghost.

They went inside. The first thing they saw was a dog. The dog was looking like it was going to bite Geneva. His eyes were squinted and his nose was wrinkled and his mouth was open. Geneva reached out to slap the dog down and her hand sank in. It was a puppet.

“We should show this to someone,” said Geneva, so they brought along the dog and they found a sign. It said “Puppet Master's House” and it was pointing understage. They followed the sign. Geneva rapped at the bricks.

The Puppet Master said “Wooooooooooo” so that it would trick them into thinking he was a ghost.

Geneva said “We know you're not a ghost.”

So the Puppet Master said “Muahahahahaha” to scare them and make them go away.

“We know you're not a giant,” said Geneva.

“I was trying to scare you away so that you won't find out my secrets,” said the Puppet Master.

“We didn't know you had secrets.”

There was a particular red sword with blood on it, and Lavender said “Hey, this must be the sword that killed that person who turned into a ghost! We can use it to get through the wall. We can cut a door in the wall.” After they cut the hole in the wall they jumped through it, except for Ari who had to be carried by Jamaica. They found a moat. It was turquoise.

“It must contain some magic,” Daddy said. “Don't swim in it.” They found a canoe to get across, but it only carried three people. Daddy, Lavender, and Geneva got into the canoe. They rowed across.

Geneva said “Stroke! Stroke!” to Daddy, and Lavender said “Fast! Fast!” when the water got deeper. They got to the other shore and found a door. It had a painting on it of a staff with a green ball on top. They felt a little scared. They opened the door. Inside it was dim, and there was only one window. There was a staff like the one on the door. It was propped up. They took it off of its stand and with the sword they cut it. As the staff gave a loud loud crack as it hit the floor, there were swirling pink rings coming from right where the green bulb had been. The room shook as the rings went away. Geneva, Lavender, and Daddy headed for the door but it had changed. There was a new picture on it now. It was Daddy, Lavender, and Geneva lifting the sword and the staff cracking. They went to cross the moat but there was a bridge crossing over it. Mommy came across the bridge and they all went to The Puppet Master. They asked him one simple question.

“Did you kill that person?” Lavender said.

“Yes, I did. You guys found out my secrets. The girl was your age, Geneva. I killed her because she had no defenses and she was trying to find out my secrets. I wouldn't have any powers without my staff.”

“Why was the skeleton hanging there? And the ghost”?

“I put them there because I thought it would make the theater scary, so everyone would not discover my staff.”

“Why were you a mean man? Are you still mean?” said Lavender.
“I was, but now I see that not killing is better than killing. I think that I'm with you. I feel like being on your team.”

“I'll just let you be the way the you are, but you have to not kill any more people. You don't get to come with my family,” said Mommy. Geneva yawned. Mom said “It's time for bed.” They went home to their house that they hadn't seen in ten years. It felt great.  

Butt Out

To the person who landed on this blog by googling "double butt crack" four separate times in one day:

Knock it off.

Thank you.

My Husband, Ladies and Gentlemen!

Avery: They're forecasting a ton of rain by the end of the week.
Jamaica: Really?
Avery: Yeah, they say there will be about eight inches in some places.
Jamaica: Eight inches in some places, just not here.
Avery: ...That's what she said.
Jamaica: *forehead smack*

Thank you, thank you. He'll be here all week.

Rated R for Language

I mean it. Sorry, Mrs. Ledesma's fourth graders. I'll write a school-appropriate post soon!

Geneva's vocabulary has expanded beyond the boundaries of standard English, and often includes words-- especially onomatopoeic verbs-- that perhaps should exist, but don't. Ever wonder what a word meaning "to drop wet breakfast food from your spoon into your bowl" might look like? Now we know! According to Geneva, I blapped my yogurt. This is just one example. The following is another.

Let me set the scene: although the weather has been in the 40s and dry for the last week, we still have a two- or three-inch layer of snow over our entire yard. This makes it difficult to play outdoors because snowproof clothing is much too hot for 40 degree weather, and temperature-appropriate clothing tends to be thwarted by the persistent blanketing of slush. Nonetheless, we persist, and the other day found all four of us girls outside, crunching around in our sneakers and making the best of it. At one point I lost sight of Geneva around the side of the house and after a few minutes I thought I'd go and see what she was up to. I found her morosely holding one sneaker in her hand, her pink sock covered with snow. Trying not to laugh at her predicament, I exclaimed "Oh no! What happened to your shoe?" Geneva stared somberly up at me and, flipping her hand over to demonstrate, replied...

..."it fucked off."

Yep, Geneva, it sure did.

Fear Itself

Geneva is not afraid of much. When I read her Grimm fairytales (wherein someone usually gets cut up or otherwise horribly mutilated) she listens calmly and often corrects me if I try to edit out the gorier parts. She identifies with predators and always wants the Big Bad Wolf to win. Lately she has taken to declaring that she is a barracuda, at which point the rest of the world is expected to react with the appropriate amount of fear and awe. Even illustrations that legitimately give me the heebie-jeebies are nothing more than interesting for Geneva the Brave. Here are just a couple of examples:

So imagine my surprise when, as she was flipping through one of her books, she suddenly jumped up and ran from the room with tears in her eyes, shouting "I'm afraid!" What horror could she have possibly discovered? What ghastly image was I about to encounter as I approached the book lying open on Geneva's bedroom floor? Here's what I saw. Brace yourselves.

So apparently even Geneva's bravery knows some limits after all. She has nothing to fear but fear itself... and, you know, startled rabbits.

Geneva Speaks Out About Manatees, etc.

"I'm Bubah Jordan. I'm a fancy old stinker."

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK! ...That was a noise."


"That fart was mine! It came from my butt!" (Note: it did not.)

G: Sing "I've Got a Dream," Mama! (for the thousandth time)
M: How about instead you tell me what your dream is, sweetie?
G: I dream that you would sing that song. Okay?

(Tearfully) "No, Io, this is not your bed. No, no, no! ...Hey, come back and cuddle me!"

G:  I'm doing a zax-a-frax. Bends over and puts her head on the ground.
M:  Do you mean a somersault?
G:  No, a zax-a-frax. When you do a zax-a-frax you put your leg up in the air too.

"Let's listen to The Who. Bwam, bwam bwam (imagine a child imitating an electric guitar). I'm rockin' out!"

G:  I need to see Joan.
M:  Oh, that's sweet, Geneva! I'm sure she misses you too.
G:  I need to show her where I pooped behind the tree.

"I want to read the book about the beaver. The big beaver. The big beaver with the poky whiskers on its chin. The big beaver with the poky beard. The big weird beaver. The-- manatee."

Haute Couture

Shortly after Lavender was born I started letting Geneva pick her own clothes from time to time. Okay, maybe "letting" is the wrong word; it implies a certain amount of intention on my part, when what actually happens is that I turn my back on Geneva while I'm dressing Lavender and she rummages through the drawers in the meantime. Sometimes she starts out naked and other times she modifies an existing outfit, with results ranging from charming to amusing to... inexplicable. At some point along the way it occurred to me to keep a photographic record of Geneva's fashion choices, mostly so that I can mortify her in front of future Prom dates. Until then, sharing them with the world wide web will have to do.

Some of these you may have already seen, and most of them really aren't the best pictures. I hope the subject matter will make up for it.

Snow hat, pajama shirt and snow boots.

Bicycle helmet and diaper.

Paper crown and sunglasses, though I can't say they're doing her much good there...

Sunglasses again, this time with a shirt and Mommy's necklace. 

Tank top, too-big capris, polka-dot tights.

 Backwards raincoat and... that's it!

Conversations with a Stranger

Before you read the following blog post, know this: Avery is an amazing husband. Amazing. There are so many things he does to keep the household running that I shudder to think of what would fall through the cracks if he weren't around. Taking out the recycling, weed-whacking the lawn, paying the bills, getting the oil changed in the car, basically anything related to the inner workings of the television or computer-- these are all things that I have little to no hand in doing. Avery is helpful, thoughtful and articulate, and I can only assume that during the night he leaves his family, puts on a cape and fights crime on the streets of Yakima, because he certainly isn't in bed with me. No, during the night I share my bed with a complete stranger. Read on...

A few nights ago our family was camped out on the sandy shores of Third Beach near La Push. The four of us-- Avery, Geneva, Lavender and I-- were all squished into our tent, sardine style, with the girls between the grown-ups. As you would expect from a seven-week-old baby, Lavender was awake frequently during the night for various input and output functions (i.e. nursing and peeing). Once she woke me in darkness so complete that I had to feed her entirely by feel; there was simply no light to speak of. Having fed her, and finding that she was still fussy, I determined that she needed to be changed. I forgot where we had stashed the diapers, and rather than awaken Geneva by groping around the crowded tent in pitch blackness I decided to ask Avery where they were.
   "Avery," I whispered softly. No answer. "Avery. Avery. Avery. Avery!" Unable to reach him to deliver my customary firm nudge, I whispered his name progressively louder over the course of about a minute. Finally, he stirred.
   "Mrrr."
   "Avery, where are the diapers?"
   "Grrrm."
   "Where are the diapers? Do you remember where we put them?"
   "Rrrp dur cruuuun." This sounded more like words. Excellent! Now we're getting somewhere, I thought. I asked him to repeat himself.
   "Up the canyon."

There was a long and confused pause. I considered the possibility that I had not asked the question that I thought I had. After all, I was tired and groggy, too. Shaking it off, I tried again, enunciating with over-the-top clarity.
   "What? Ave, where... are... the... diapers?"
   "Up the canyon." There was a definite tone of irritation in his voice. He rolled over as if this concluded the matter and began snoring lightly.
   "Ave?" Silence. Now I was starting to get a little grumpy, too, as I held my fussing infant and listened to my tentmate spout nonsense with an air of impatience. Oh, hell no. No way was he going back to sleep now. "The diapers, Avery! The diapers! Where are the diapers?" I was hissing the word so loudly that I really don't know how Geneva didn't wake up. I think a little spit flew out of my mouth. Avery rolled back over.
   "The ones we made probably all have meat on them anyway."

Meat? There was another long pause while I let that gem sink in. My mouth hung open but no words came out. A few seconds ticked by, and then the tent was filled with my baffled laughter. I was weeping, drooling, struggling to contain my giggles. Who knew homemade meat-diapers could be so amusing in those early morning hours? At least I didn't wake Geneva up that night. To be completely honest, I'm not sure I woke up anyone at all.

The Best Worst Song Ever

When I am shopping for produce I often break out in song. More specifically, I like to belt out the Valderi parody "broccoli, broccola, broccoli, broccola-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha..." As if this song weren't goofy enough, Geneva has created a parody song of my parody song that goes a little something like this: "Broccoli, brocco-locks, brocco-honk-honk-honk-honk." It's complete and utter nonsense, and she nearly chokes on her own laughter every time she sings it.

So, a few days after the creation of the brocco-honk song I was cuddling with Geneva during naptime and singing James Taylor's Sweet Baby James. Geneva stopped me in mid-verse and told me no, that was Daddy's song and only Daddy was supposed to sing it. "Okay," I replied, "what does Mommy sing then?" She grinned. "Broccoli, brocco-locks, brocco-honk-honk-honk-honk!"

Seriously, kid?? You're giving me Brocco-honk???

The upside is she probably meant it as a compliment.

No seriously, I swear it's true!

Geneva: Daddy, want a candy please?

Me: Geneva, the candy doesn't just appear from nowhere. You get a candy when you put your pee in the toilet.

Geneva: Pee!

Me: Yes, pee. But you peed on the floor. There's no candy for that.

[pause; Geneva looks on, confused]

Me: Okay, that's kind of confusing. Just look at it this way: the potty is a magic machine for changing pee into a candy!

Yes, this conversation just took place...

Jamaica: I think Geneva's use of language is unusual for her age; she doesn't just name objects and items, she can describe them and tell their stories and how they relate to each other even from memory....

Geneva: PEE!!!!!!!

Oh Boy, Part II

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a new winner. My eyes were actually watering with the effort of holding in paroxysms of laughter. Today a very sweet old lady came up to Geneva and started telling her what a good, helpful little boy she was. Geneva was wearing a dress and holding a pink blankie, but here's the kicker:  

I was changing her diaper.

So folks, forget everything you used to know about the anatomy of little boys. Apparently that thing we all used to think was so essential is in fact more like an add-on. An accessory. An app. Men should stop getting so hung up on size because I'm telling you, my little "boy" gets along just fine with none whatsoever.

My Delightful Weirdo

Yesterday, Geneva baffled and amused me with the following activities:

• Deliberately diving face-first off of the ottoman.
• Picking imaginary things off of the cat and bringing them to me.
• Peering at the world from between her legs for fairly long stretches of time.
• Kissing the wall repeatedly.
• Pretending to eat her food with a loud, fake munching sound.

She also astonished me with two heretofore unprecedented skills:

• Eating a meal entirely unassisted, and I don't mean a finger-food meal. I mean a goopy, messy, use-your-spoon meal. A lot of food missed her mouth, but even more of it went in! Color me amazed.

• Conversation. I had my first actual exchange of words with my daughter, and I'm pleased to tell you that it centered around produce. 

                       Geneva: What dis? 

                       Me: That's a tomato. Do you like it? 

                       Geneva: Mmm. Yep.

A day in the life, eh? I have the best job ever.

Oh, Boy

I realize that babies and even young children are pretty androgynous. I also realize that my child does not have a lot in the way of hair-- that classic indicator of femininity. So, I can't really take it personally that most strangers immediately assume that Geneva is a boy. Still, sometimes I look at my beautiful little daughter, and then at the doofus who is referring to her as "a handsome little dude" and wonder exactly how unobservant the average person is. Based on this unscientific study, my results indicate: very.

Here's a peek at some of the recently-worn outfits in which Geneva has been called a boy.

Perhaps the average stranger's reasoning goes something like this:

1) If you are wearing anything with pant legs, you are a boy.

2) If your clothing contains any "male" colors, like blue or tan, you are a boy.

3) If you are wearing a collar, you are a boy.

4) If you are not entirely saturated in pink, you are a boy.

5) If you are a girl, you are a boy.

More likely, the average stranger isn't wasting a lot of brainpower on the subject, which is fine. It's good for a laugh anyway.

Disconnected Thoughts on a Busy Day

This morning I drove behind a car with a license plate cover that said "Happiness is... calling Bingo!" I can't say that I agree, but I appreciate the enthusiasm.

I think that American English gets singulars and plurals completely confused. For instance, in England you would say "my bank are really lousy at customer service," which makes sense because you would be referring to the customer service skills of a group of people. Here, obviously, we endow entire corporations with the same properties as a single human being, both legally and linguistically. Bah! As if that weren't irritating enough, we get it all ass-backwards when referring to individuals and constantly use "they" when we are, in fact, talking about one person. To be fair to American English we do get the pronunciation of aluminum correct where the British fail horribly.

Do you ever have one of those days where the person you see in the mirror is exactly the person you think you are? Today I looked like myself. It didn't matter that it wasn't my "best." It felt really nice.

Tomorrow is Geneva Lynn's first birthday, and I am absurdly proud of the little person she has become in the last 364 days. I was playing the "one year ago today" game in my head-- those of you who know me will know that I don't reserve this game for special occasions or anniversaries-- and realized that there is a significant blank spot on June 8th. I remember distinctly what I was doing a year ago yesterday: having dinner with the family to celebrate Jordan's graduation from college. I remember what I was doing a year ago tomorrow: converting a fetus into a newborn through the clever use of uterine contractions. I have no idea what I was doing a year ago today. Probably wallowing in self-pity.

This Sunday I got to meet my neighbors' seven-year-old daughter and she is a delight! She is articulate and thoughtful and handles my over-friendliness very well. I think I will see if she wants to bake a cake with Geneva and me tomorrow.

I admit with some embarrassment that I have watched Jon and Kate Plus Eight more than once, and in many ways I honestly do not think all that highly of Jon and Kate Gosselin. It seems that they have made a lot of choices that I would not have made in the same situation. As parents and as a couple (well, ex-couple) they do not appear to be the greatest role models. But I will say this: they are raising sextuplets. Sextuplets. I take care of eight-month-old Lucas for about ten hours each week and I basically do not get anything accomplished during those ten hours. Two babies pretty much maxes me out. Today I took them to Inkling's and Starbucks and it was a Big Deal; the outing literally lasted for hours and had all three of us exhausted by the end. So for all their apparent shortcomings, Jon and Kate have me beat in this regard. They might be mediocre parents, but they are mediocre at an extremely difficult job.

When Geneva was sick last week I was willing to do pretty much anything to help her get to sleep. This included playing human pacifier for an entire hour. When I mentioned this to Avery he said, without a trace of sarcasm in his voice, "oh fun!" That, sir, is a gross misuse of the adjective.

I spent the morning outside in the sunshine, watering the garden and feeding the chickens and playing with the girlie. We wore our nice skirts and sat in the dirt. It was absolute bliss. If I could put that on a license plate cover, I would.