Because there is more than just Stella.
I defy you to explain why else she would:
Almost on cue, after Steve’s Uncle Steve said to me “You know it is only a matter of time before ‘what’ turns to ‘why'” our sweet little vocabularian shifted gears and began the nightmare of the never-ending question.
“Hey Stella, let’s not dig for worms right now.”
“Why?”
“Well, because we should do it tomorrow instead.”
“Why?”
“Because the worms are better on Sundays.”
“Why?”
“Because they just are.”
“Why?”
“Just because!”
Stella’s expanding vocabulary has been a speeding freight train making stops at places like can’t-pronounce-L-ville, and get-my-pronouns-confused-land. For the last months, she has been busy in the info gathering stage where she wants to know what everything is, and hasn’t been all that interested in pondering the meaning of life. Now, however, she is single-handedly assuming the task of wearing out the word ‘why?’.
“Where’s Daddy?”
“He’s at work.”
“Why?”
“Because someone in this family has to earn a decent paycheck.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not Mommy.”
“Why?”
“Don’t let Daddy hear you ask that question.”
“Why?”
“Because Mommy can’t read the online gossip pages if she has to work all day!”
“Why?”
“Isn’t that answer enough?”
And on and on it goes.
It’s hard to really know what she gleans from these conversations. They digress so quickly, and I shutter to think of what information she actually takes from each conversation, and Lord help me when she actually tries to recount one of these episodes to an outsider. There are just way too many facts involved in each of these interchanges, and let’s be perfectly honest here: Stella just isn’t all that proficient at spinning a coherent story just yet. Bottom line is that it’s just too darn early in the game for CPS to be called in on the grounds of bizzare and unusual behavior in the home.
Sadly, the reality is that it is only a matter of time. In just in the few minutes I have been sitting here writing this, Steve has had to explain to Stella the Why’s involved in accidentally squirting olive juice in his eye (don’t ask) and Why it is important that she doesn’t eat catfood.
Is there an amount of sour cream that could become potentially toxic to a toddler? I would venture that most of us consider it a condiment to go with whatever we are consuming at the moment. In Stella’s world, sour cream is the main dish and the accompanying food as simply a vessel with which she can consume the sour cream. Dip. Slurp. Dip. Slurp. Dip. Slurp. Usually for each individual black bean she will consume roughly a quarter cup of sour cream – taking double-dipping to a whole new level. When the tediousness of using food starts getting to her (and it always does), she digresses to using a finger. If anyone has heard of death by overdose of sour cream, now would be a good time to let me know.
I dedicate this post to synergy – when 1 + 1 = 3.
Looking back over last week I realized that, although mildly interesting, nothing unto itself seemed all that mentionable. It was a regular week with the regular stupid stuff to deal with, and the regular daily data-dump I do in an effort to not let things have a cumulative effect. I like to think of it as my own little coping mechanism. However, when I actually took the time to do a data-recovery, and revisit events and activities that took place over the week, I realized the sum seemed at least a little bit more interesting than the parts. That, and the fact that this baby may actually not be sucking my life force as much, thereby giving me the energy to do something other than sloth around on the couch.
Let’s start with the fact that Rosie is back on shift work, apparently trying to help us make ends meet in the grocery shopping department. I apparently missed the announcement that as of Monday last week, the bounty on cute helpless birds was given a substantial increase. And as such, Rosie, brought in her quota of 1 dead bird per day. 5 days in a row. She then proceeded to get downright pissy with me when I would dutifully pack it up in a paper-towel coffin and ceremonially dump it in the trash can. She would yowl at me as if to say, “Um, Helllooo! That is mine! Get your own damn bird, you filthy human. Now pet me.” As punishment, she decided to call in “The Enforcer” who promptly sprayed our shower curtain. Our banishment-from-the-house strategy for Boris is currently being formulated.
As a parent, I have witnessed myself become about 10,000 times more aware of germs and disease and, as such, have become a walking Mayo Clinic Reference Guide. Last week we were exposed to a new and exciting ailment called Hand, Foot & Mouth Disease. Which only leads you to ask the question, “Who can take something called ‘Hand, Foot & Mouth Disease’ seriously?” I still can’t say it without thinking of the equally absurdly named Hoof and Mouth Disease (which, as I learned, is of no relation whatsoever.) Who thinks up these names? I envision that all the affliction namers from the affliction naming department were out on sick leave, and an under-aged, temp with a hang over was forced to take the helm. Not only is this name ridiculous, but it is misleading. Naming something as a disease automatically puts it in the “uh-oh” category. Diseases are things you have for an eternity, and involve treatment protocols, and have centers dedicated solely to their study. So, to call something a disease, when in all actuality it is really just a virus is just fueling the fires of germophobic mothers everywhere. Like we need that kind of abuse.
Then, as a part of our ‘Hood Watch Program, we got to witness some real live drug consumption right in front of our house! Nothin says ‘livin’ in the ghetto’ like a carful of guys having a little pharmaceutical fun with the windows down, yelling over the thumping loud stereo, smack in the middle of the day. It’s days like this that make me long for a cookie-cutter track home in a culdesac with a mini-van parked in every driveway.
The grand finale of our week ended with a two-for-one special: in a period of 1 hour we were blessed with both poop in the bathtub AND a huge, unsupervised crash echoing from the kitchen. I think the whole poop in the bathtub thing kind of speaks for itself. Stella bathed. And before she got out of the tub, Stella pooped. Steve “nothing grosses me out…ever” Walston was quick on the scene, while Natalie “everything makes me nauseous…and tired” Walston tried her best to take the drippy, wet, poopy Stella away from the crime scene without making a larger mess. After about 50 wipes and a do-it-yourself sanitation kit assembled by Steve to disinfect all of the bath toys, things seemed back to normal. Until, that is Stella was left unsupervised in the kitchen for about 6 and a half seconds in which time she managed to pull a couple of pasta plates off the counter and onto the floor. Yes it was loud. Yes, they broke. Yes, another call was put out on the PA System: “Steve, clean up, aisle 5.”
So as you can see: death + disease + drugs + poop + breaking noises = the nuclear family of the aughties.
At least once every day, I accuse Steve of being a drama queen. It has even gotten to the point where I don’t even have to say anything – I just look at him and do the international symbol for drama queen-ish behavior: jazz hands. He tries to deny it, but the truth is self evident. No one wears the crown like my man.
Along with the wide grin and the tall-girl gene, Stella has also inherited her daddy’s flair for the dramatic. Her ability to assess a situation and work it is quickly being honed. She has recently learned the power of the word ‘hurt’. “Teeth hurt!” “Toe hurt!” “Arm Hurt!” You name it, this girl is hurtin’ from it. It is getting to the point where she will come running in, telling us of the latest ailment she has contracted (no Stella, your hair cannot hurt) and all we do is look at her like “Yeah, right. I fell for that the first 37 times, but you can’t fool me this time.” Her favorite time to use this tactic? You guessed it: Nap Time. Funny how laying in her bed seems to trigger her chronic elbow pain.
Once again I must refer to those sage parenting books. None of them seem to mention the fact that as of age 21 months, your child will begin to manipulate you like a wad of play dough. I keep looking at that cute little cherubic face and wonder “what is going through that brain of yours?” More and more she looks me straight in the eye with a slowly emerging smile, indicating one thing: be scared.