Grandpa came over for dinner...and to bring back the kids' car seats, which we forgot to take out of his car when he dropped them off on Saturday. We had homemade pasta, which was delicious.
In less good news, a faulty software update caused practically every flight to be grounded over the weekend. More than 5000 flights were delayed. Delta Airlines was particularly hard hit.
Rosie and I both have flights out to Utah—on Delta—later this week for Olivia's wedding. We're crossing our fingers everything is ironed out by the time we need to fly.
*****
Phoebe can be a real riot. Here are a few stories from her this morning:
Phoebe: Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom…
Me: Mmmm…
Phoebe: Wake up.
Me: Momma is still tired.
Phoebe (tickling me): What is this?
Me: That’s my armpit.
Phoebe: It is so pokey.
Me: Thank you.
Phoebe: And you have yucky elbows. My elbows are so smooth. Your elbows are so yucky. Disgusting.
Me: Thank you.
Phoebe: Will you hold me? I just want to hug you!
Me: Yup. I can hold you.
Phoebe: Hold me with your yucky elbows.
Me: Mmmmhmmm. Wait until you get older…
She still has perfectly soft baby skin. But that will change, I'm sure.
And then while we were reading a story together about animal homes, I pointed to a bird that was clearly making a nest and asked her what the bird was making:
Phoebe: Ummm…honey!
Me: What? Birds don’t make honey! Bees make honey.
Phoebe: Honey birds do make honey.
Me: There’s no such thing as a honey bird. I think you mean hummingbird. They do drink nectar, but they don’t make honey. This bird is making a nest—see the little twigs in its mouth? See this little jumble of twigs in the tree? That’s where the bird is going to lay its eggs.
Phoebe: Bees make honey.
Me: Yes.
Phoebe: And honey birds don’t.
Me: That’s right. Bees make honey and hummingbirds don’t. They just drink nectar.
Phoebe: And what about peanut butter?
Me: What about peanut butter?
Phoebe: Who makes peanut butter? Maybe some butterflies? Some peanut butterflies? Do peanut butterflies make peanut butter?
Me: Unfortunately not. Peanut butterflies…don’t exist. Humans make peanut butter. We just squish ‘em up and…
Phoebe: Drink their nectar! Like honey birds!
Me: Something like that.
*****
A while later I was reading to the kids at the table (we're reading Nory Ryan's Song, about the Irish potato famine; I'm going to try to finish reading it by tomorrow...but we'll see) and Phoebe was drawing. Sometimes this is fine and other times it's less fine.
Yesterday she was chatting while she was drawing and every time I asked her to be quieter (or...go to another room to chat) she responded by chatting louder.
Today she was unsatisfied by the selection of paper in the pile of scrap paper that we keep for kids to draw on. The scrap paper is supposed to be blank on one side, used on the other. Very often these papers are manuscripts (of articles of book chapters) we've had to print (at home or at the office) for whatever purpose (typically for editing/review/revision purposes). However, sometimes when my kids tidy up they get a little lazy about what papers they'll put in the scrap pile and we end up with papers that have been used on both sides in the pile.
Those papers are typically ready to be recycled...or to be shredded and added to the compost bin...or whatever. But when people are in a hurry and don't want to decide what to do with them they just...stick them back on the scrap paper pile.
This is frustrating for Phoebe who apparently can't draw on papers that have previously been drawn on. She needs a blank canvas!
So she started rifling through the pile of scrap paper. She'd grab a paper, notice it was written on, and cast it aside...grab another piece of paper, grumble, and toss it over her shoulder.
Paper after paper after paper was flying through the air and I was...losing patience.
"Phoebe," I said shortly. "Would you please stop throwing paper all over my floor?"
She froze, her hand on the next piece of paper. Locking her eyes with mine she pulled the paper off the pile, examined it, and then slowly—ever so slowly—squatted down and gently placed it on the floor (maintaining eye contact the whole way, of course).
Problem solved, right?
Wrong...because what I actually wanted was not to have paper all over my floor.
In her defense, she did stop throwing the paper.
And if I didn't want paper all over my floor I should have just said that, right? I thought I did...but that pesky verb "throwing" changed my sentence to mean that I'm generally satisfied with paper all over my floor...so long as it's not thrown there.
*sigh*
I got up and finished rifling through the scrap paper for her (it's easier for me, I guess, because I am taller and can see the pile of paper quite easily, while she has to reach up and hope she's pulling out a clean sheet of paper...which is why I just want the clean paper there). I removed a handful of yesterday's drawings and then handed her a clean paper.
And she drew happily ever after.
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