March 2009 Archives

Old Ladies

| 0 Comments | 0 TrackBacks

On my birthday, I tricked my daughter. It went like this...

Me: Who's your favorite parent?
Karenna: I can't pick between you and Daddy.
Me: Okay, who's your favorite old lady?
Karenna: You... and Judoo and Grammy Jen and... what's her name again... oh...
Me: Nana!

(I may be old, but at least I remember Nana. It's only been since January.  She acts like it's been a decade or something. Sheesh! Kids.)


| 0 Comments | 0 TrackBacks

Jude has been learning to write the letters in his name. If you look closely...

J-U-D-E.jpg will see his J, U, and DE below the "JUDE" that the teacher modeled for him.


Outside we worked on letters in the driveway with sidewalk chalk. Sometimes he gets them upside-down and/or backwards. That means, for right now anyway, his best letter is H.

Jude was born with dark brown hair. It fell out and was replaced by blonde hair that he has had ever since.  It has taken a lot of toddler de-programming to finally get him to believe us that:

  1. the baby with the brown hair in his room is him, and
  2. his hair is blonde not white.

Once Jude's mind sets things in a particular order, he doesn't want you disrupting it.

So, this morning he work up, looked in the mirror and said, "Hey, where did my blonde hair go?"  He was very upset.

I had expected his hair to get darker much sooner.  Mine had gone from blonde to brown from the time I was school-aged.  Karenna's was a dark blonde.  Chris has never had blonde hair.  (I was surprised between the two of us that we had had such blonde children for so long.) But lately I noticed his hair darkening just a bit from this pale blonde to yellow-blonde, to a dirty blonde that he saw in the mirror.

"Your hair is just getting dark as you get older, honey," I tried to explain, "like Karenna's.  Someday it will probably be my color."

"No! I don't want to get old!"  Oh-oh. Tantrum time.  Jude is not a morning person and his reality was going to change.  This is not good.

"Well," I thought trying to placate the fit I saw coming, "Maybe it won't get as dark as mine.  It could be like Pop-Pop's."

My dad's hair was never quite as dark as mine or any of my sisters'.  Of course he was bald on the top of his head--Oops!

Jude pats the top of his head and you can see his eyes loom upward, "I hate getting old!

Epilogue: Looking on the bright side, Jude went to the kitchen to have breakfast, saw his reflection in the dishwasher and noted, "Hey! My brown hair doesn't stick up in the morning like my blonde hair used to"

I was talking to Karenna last night and I mentioned that my friend's daughter was asking about her.  My friends kids are older, so when she asked about the son, I explained that he moved out and is at college now.

"I don't ever want to move out," she told me, "so I'm not going to college."

"You have to go to college," I told her, "I'm already paying for you to go.  Plus you need to get a job."

"I don't want a job."

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because you have to go to stupid meetings."

"What are you going to do?" I wondered what kind of answer I'd get this time.

"I'm going to be a fighter instead."

"So you want to be in the military like your Uncle Matt? He'd be proud of you." I said.

"No!" she said, "I want my job to be a fighter that works for them."

"She wants to work for Blackwater," Chris added after she walked away.

"I bet they have meetings," I said reminded of Grosse Point Blank, a movie Karenna is not allowed to see.  Okay so it was not the same type of job, but you can see where my mind was going...

Mr. Grocer: [Marty and Grocer are shooting eachother] Comrade! Comrade!
Marty: What?
Mr. Grocer: Why don't you just join the union, we'll go upstairs together and cap daddy!
Marty: This union, there's gonna be meetings?
Mr. Grocer: Of course!
Marty: No meetings.

"She wants to be Zena," he reasoned.  (Thanks, Chris for making Zena available to the kids via our Roku player. I hope you can explain to her that there is no real employment being an Amazon.)

Search This Blog

Full Text  Tag