(While crowded around the computer, watching Facebook videos.)
Me: What do I smell
Me: Is that–poop? I look around. Marlee’s on the couch. It’s not a dirty diaper. I sniff Meena’s hair, then Oliver. Then: Oliver’s hand.
Me: Oliver, why does your hand smell like poop?
Ollie: (shrugs) Because I’ve been sticking it in my butt-crack.
Took the chickens to the Victoria Albert Museum during half-term. I want you people to understand how cultured I am, but I confess it wasn’t intentional. We were trying to see the dinosaur skeletons at the Natural History museum across the street, but the line zig-zagged out from the door and went winding round the block and so we fled across the street to the less popular “V&A”.
Ollie was well impressed by the naked statues–he wondered if a guy battling a snake on a square platform was supposed to be in the shower–and as we passed out of the room headed for the children’s activity space we passed a bust of Albert Einstein. We stopped and looked at it. “You know who that is?” I asked him.
“No.”
“That’s Albert Einstein,” I said, carrying on down the stairs. “He’s generally thought to be one of the smartest–if not THE smartest–guy who ever lived.”
Fast forward: we go to the activity room, build a box, draw some pictures, wander around a bit more. On the way out we pass by Professor Einstein again. Fancying myself rather a good mother for it, I take the opportunity to reinforce the lesson. “Ollie, you remember who that is?”
He glances over. Shrugs. “Uhhhhh–Elvis Presley?”
While driving off the ferry onto the dock, returning to England, everybody exhausted from the emotional intensity of the funeral and non-stop traveling it took to get there and get home, Oliver’s voice floats into the silent car from the back seat:
(You really must imagine his part with a British accent.)
“MEEna, do giraffes attACK you?”
Rod and I giggle, looking sidewise at each other. Meena has her headphones in and doesn’t hear, so I answer. “No, Honey,” I say. Then I add, trying to appear serious, “I don’t think giraffes are very aggressive.”
“Well . . .” he pauses. I can practically hear his thoughts clunking around as he gathers them up. “Are they quite LAzy, then?”
Over dinner, discussing the potential trip to California for Christmas, words like “Grandma” (who lives in L.A.) and “Sacramento” (where our house is) were being bandied about. Girlish, who gets pretty focused about food, looked up from her quinoa and said, “What? Did you say Grandma’s moving to Sacramento?”
Me: Um, no. I wish.
Goodlooking: Grandma still lives in L.A.
Boyish: And L.A.’s in Sacramento–DUH.
The other night at dinner, Girlish told a story about a boy in her class who got his feelings hurt.
“Poor Sam,” I said.
Boyish chimed in: Mommy?
Yes, Boy?
Did Sam die?
No, Honey. He just got his feelings hurt at school.
Oh.
Girlish: Mommy, tell Daddy the story about Kandy.
Boyish: Did Kandy die?
Me: No, Goofball, what are you talking about?
Girlish: Yeah, I think Auntie Sara would’ve called us.
Boyish: I just like stories where somebody dies.
Boyish joined me in the stall of a public restroom recently. He likes to sit on the toilet, no matter what sort of business he’s doing (no amount of negotiating has worked to persuade him that at least in the public restroom, he might consider standing, as is his natural-given right as someone who possesses that most useful bit of anatomy: a penis). Dutifully, I lay the paper liner on the seat and set him up.
I stood there, back to the door, my knees to his. He asked me, “Mommy, how strong is poop?”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“I mean, how strong is poop?”
Ah, well, that cleared it up. Was he talking about the smell? Was he thinking it might do something more spectacular than plop into the bowl of water?
“I’m sorry, Honey,” I said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He spoke a bit louder. “I said, I want to know how strong is poop!”
Having an a mother as obtuse as I am can be pretty annoying, I know. “Um . . . not very strong?” I ventured. “It dissolves in water, right? You flush it away. I guess in terms of strength I’d have to say it’s ‘not very strong‘.” I looked at him hopefully.
“Well,” he said, resting his elbow on his knee and propping his chin in his hand. “It’s strong enough to break through paper.”
Did I mention the kids are jetlagged?
They are jetlagged, and so they come into my bed the last two nights, between 2 and 3 in the morning, for romping and conversation. Boyish watches the window, waiting for daylight.
“Mommy,” he asks, “have you ever been in the moonlight?”
“Yes, Baby,” I say sleepily, still entertaining the fantasy that I might drift off again.
“Has Daddy?”
“Um-hm.”
“Did the moonlight get on you?”
I open my eyes. He is up on his elbow, looking into my face, his little eyebrows drawn close together. “I have been outside,” I say, “while the moon was shining.”
“What happened?” He plucks the fabric of my sleeve, as if the answer doesn’t matter much.
“Nothing happened. Maybe I looked pretty. Maybe I looked pretty, and somebody wanted to kiss me. That might’ve happened.”
“Did you change?”
“Did I change in the moonlight? No. I’m always kind of pretty.“
“What about Daddy?”
“Did I ever kiss Daddy in the moonlight? I’m sure I have.”
“No, Mommy, did Daddy change, when the moonlight got on him?”
(Me, finally getting it) “No, Baby. People don’t change under the moon. That’s just an imaginary story.”
“What’s ‘initch-gem-marry’ mean?”
“It means it’s not real. Doesn’t happen except in stories.”
“Oh.”
“And Boyish? No more Thriller video for you.”
This is what 39 looks like. He looks good for his age, don’t you think?
Mommy, are we’re very close to our house now?
We are. Do you know the name of this street?
No.
It’s Cranes’ Walk. Can you say that? Say, We live off of Cranes’ Walk.
We do?
We do. Do you know what street we live on?
Um, Cranes’ Walk?
No, we live on Taylor Grove. Can you say that?
We live on Taylor Road.
Close enough. We live off of Cranes’ Walk on Taylor Grove.
We live off Cranes’ Walk on Taylor Grove.
Excellent. Do you know our house number?
36!
Oo, that’s very close. It’s 32.
Right. 32.
Say, We live at 32 Taylor Grove, off of Cranes’ Walk.
We live at 32 Taylor Grove, off Cranes’ Walk.
Very good. And how old are you now?
I’m four!
That’s right. When’s your birthday?
Uhh, Octember 83rd!
Um, no. Let’s quit while we’re ahead, shall we?
