This is what happens when the long lost fifth member of Kiss tries to do a Journey cover and forgets the lyrics:

What’s most awesome about her version – apart from the very impressive falsetto DO DO DO DA DA DO DO – is that the ’streetlight people’ of the original lyrics become ‘tree fort people,’ which I think makes much the song much more poignant, because everyone knows that tree fort people are much sadder than streetlight people, because, you know, destruction of the boreal forests, etc, etc, and also because streetlight people are probably hanging out near some really good delis.

There’s a home for the elderly that Emilia and Jasper and I pass every day on our walks to and from preschool and junior kindergarten and ballet lessons and karate. Emilia calls the ladies who live there her ladies – “we need to wave to my ladies, Mommy!” -  and she waves and blows kisses to them when we see them sitting in their enclosed verandah, and, when they come out outside for their daily constitutionals, she stops for chats and hugs. They give her extra candy at Halloween. She thinks that they’re awesome. “Just like Grandma, only not so far away and also they give me candy instead of cake.” Which is an important difference, you know.

The other day, after passing her ladies and dispensing the requisite waves and kisses, Emilia asked this: “why are some grandmas in wheelchairs?”

“Because they’re older, sweetie, and their bodies aren’t working so well anymore, and they can’t walk as much as they used to, so they need help. Wheelchairs help them get around.”

“Are they going to die? Because their bodies aren’t working?”

“Not just yet, I don’t think. But yes, when people get much older, they’re closer to dying.”

“And when their bodies aren’t working they’re closer to dying too?”

This is what you get when death is a semi-regular topic in your household. “Yes, sweetie, when their bodies aren’t working.”

“Is Tanner going to die?”

Ah. Ugh. (continue reading…)

Emilia has decided that she does not like the hollow chocolate bunny that was left for her by the Easter Bunny. “It doesn’t have an inside,” she informs us. “That’s wrong.”

“Why is that wrong?’

“Because everything has an inside. This bunny just has an outside. Also, it smells like peanut butter.”

“So, you don’t want it?”

“No.”

“Can I have it?”

“No.”

“But if you don’t want it…”

“I’m giving it to Candy. Candy doesn’t care if something has an inside.”

Meet Candy: (continue reading…)

Featuring racing scooters adorned with transgressive plastic purses- shut up, plastic purses are always trangressive when carried by cowgirls on racing scooters – and starring Toady as a Hankshawnian thumb.

*****

Elsewhere: the Easter Bunny confronts his own transgressive nature as an owl-fighting ninja; my mother reflects upon the perils of raising pranksters, and also Oprah, and I wonder why the hell I’m supposed to care about Sun and Jin. Also: Big Mean Carl wants you to stand by him, but be careful. And, always: UP WITH BEAUTY.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

You know that it’s going to be a long day when your four year old gets out of bed with giant wads of purple bubble gum stuck in her hair.

“How did you get gum in your hair? Did you get out of bed last night and get some gum?”

“No. The Gum Fairy put it there.”

“You know that gum isn’t for chewing at bedtime.”

“The Gum Fairy doesn’t know that. She thinks gum is for anytime.”

She went on to explain that this is a longstanding disagreement between the Gum Fairy and the Tooth Fairy, who does not approve of gum on pillows. The Easter Bunny, as might be expected, is agnostic on this issue, as it does not involve chocolate. (The Easter Bunny, we also learned during this discussion, is part kangaroo. “That’s how he can stand up on two legs and carry his basket. Regular bunnies can’t do that.”) One learns much when one asks the question: how did you get gum in your hair? (continue reading…)

Emilia wants to know what happens when we die. She asks a few times a week, on average, sometimes more, sometimes less, depending on whether or not we’ve spoken about my dad or about Tanner or about dinosaurs. Today, she asked because they’d been talking about the Easter story at school. She wanted to know why Jesus got to fly up into the sky, and Grandpa didn’t.

You burned him, didn’t you? she asks. How could he fly after that?

Explaining death is one thing. Explaining the cremation, the afterlife and Divine resurrection are something else entirely. (continue reading…)

Emilia loves Hannah Montana. She’s not entirely sure who Hannah Montana is – she’s never seen the show or heard the music – but she knows that some of the older girls at school like her and that the boys don’t like her and that she has something to do with music and dancing and that’s good enough for her. She’s been composing odes to Hannah Montana, because she worries that Hannah might feel bad that boys don’t like her, which of course means that there would be far fewer people for Hannah to play with, hence the feeling bad, etc. It’s complicated. (continue reading…)

Emilia: “Mommy, I want to change my name.”

Me: “Oh?”

Emilia: “I want you to call me Hannah Montana Smarty Candygirl.”

Me: “Hannah Montana…?”

Emilia: “… Smarty Candygirl. That’s important.”

Me: “…?”

Emilia: “Candygirl because I like candy. Smarty because I’m smart. Not like the other Hannah Montanas. I’m the smart one, and I like candy. Hannah Montana. Smarty. Candygirl.”

Me: “… the other Hannah Montanas…?”

Emilia: “Actually, I don’t want to be called Hannah Montana.”

Me: “…?”

Emilia: “No, I don’t. So, Mommy. You can just call me Smarty Candygirl.”

Done and done, baby. Done and done.

Our household is still beset by the plague, but the children are greatly improved, my husband is no longer vomiting, and although I can still barely lift my head, I no longer feel that Charon is about to usher me across the River Acheron to Hades. Which, you know: WIN.

Text of e-mail: “What you can’t see is the epic turd. I spared you that. So the four year old sits on the John and reads Vanity Fair while dropping bombs.”

This is what happens when I leave the house for the day. Everybody gets all up in the body art and then someone takes a massive crap – while, apparently, reading Vanity Fair, which, thank god she’s picking up the important life skills early – and then someone e-mails me the evidence. (continue reading…)