Ursa Delicious

One of the recent challenges to parenting began with the movie Madagascar. In this movie, a lion is deprived of his zoo-provided steak, and begins to view his zebra friend as steak. This prompted a conversation with Miss Neverpoop.

• daughter: Daddy, does steak come from zebras?


• me: No, steak for us comes from cows.


• daughter: No, daddy.


• me: Really, honey. It is from cows that die for our food.


• daughter: No, daddy, it is not a time for joking. We don't eat cows.


• me: I'm not joking honey. That's why we are thankful for our food and we don't waste it. Our steak comes from cows.


• daughter: Don't talk about cows daddy.

A few days pass, in which life progressed with its usual doll-dressings and poop-encouraging serenades on the toilet. I was working away at my research when my daughter saunters into the room. She has been playing chef with her favorite dolls, each seated around a pretend table set with tiny tea cups and plates. Panda is wearing a tutu.

• daughter: Daddy, I made you a special dinner.


• me: Wonderful, Monkey, what did you make?


• daughter: I made you a bear meat sandwich.


• me: A bear meat sandwich? What a new and delicious thing! I want to see!


• daughter: Wait here, I will bring it to you.

Behold... a Bear Meat Sandwich...

Tune a fish

It has been a while since I blogged about my odd conversations with Miss Neverpoop. I know that these days are limited; the ones where she tells me what she is thinking and listens to what I say. Pretty soon, I will be an annoying voice to her. I will be that guy warning her about boys and reminding her to do her homework and making her help around the house. She has already begun questioning the wisdom of daily naps.

Her negotiating skills are incredible. She would have sold weaker fathers used cars and public bridges by now. She has her parents figured out. She knows that Dad doesn't negotiate with tiny terrorists. She knows that Mom would drop a glass of water when dying of thirst to play with her.

But I think my favorite has been her recent attempts to explore humor. She is very interested in puns and word play, using "toot" and "pants" in conjunction with absurdity. ("This story is about a fairy named Tootypantshead!") Obviously, I have influenced her for the worse.

Lately, she has been naming me after her favorite foods. It makes her laugh, and is often accurate.

Me: Time to put on your coat and head home, Monkey.
Miss Neverpoop: Sure thing, Sucker!

Or even better:

Me: You're pretty wound up today. You must be a giggle-squirrel.
Miss Neverpoop: And you're a cheesy cracker!

How's that for surprisingly accurate?!
Thankfully, her humor isn't limited to just me as the target. Our close friends are part of the fun.
Miss Neverpoop: "I like decorating gingerbread men. I like blue and red and sprinkles. My gingerbread man is going to be Matty, so he won't have any hair."

Dinosaur, Jr.

A conversation had the other morning...

Daughter: "Daddy, did you know a boy wore a dinosaur costume to school on Halloween?"
Me: "Wow. What do you think of that?"
Daughter: "Pretty good."
Me: "Do you like dinosaurs?"
Daughter: "Yeah. Dinosaurs always love Jesus."
Me: "Wha?"
Daughter: "They never stop loving Jesus. They never forget to keep loving him always."
Me: "Where did you learn that?"
Daughter: "I just knew it."

Really, I don't have any idea where to begin breaking this down. Do I start with chronology? Reptilian brain capacity? Fundamentalist denial of dinosaurs and fossil records? Really. REALLY.

Father Daddy, I have questions...

One of the quirks of our household is that I don't attend church. Not my thing, not going to delve into it here. But Dr. Wife takes Miss Neverpoop, well, religiously every Sunday. So the theological questions pop up from time to time. I usually let Dr. Wife handle these; she's much more educated on these matters.

However, once in a while I get cornered, as on the way to preschool today.

Daughter: "When are we going to die?"

It is amazing how quickly the morning fog can be burned away...

Me: "Not for a long, long time, honey."
Daughter: "I want to see how it happens. Does God live underground?"
Me: "Well, many people believe God lives everywhere, all around us."
Daughter: "Then how will we see him when we get buried?"

A previous drive past a cemetery with another awkward conversation sprang to mind...

Me: "Well, our bodies get buried, but the part that thinks and feels gets to go to heaven."
Daughter: "Where is heaven?"
Me: "I'm not sure how to answer that... it isn't a place that we can see or get to while we are alive."
Daughter: "How big are clouds?"
Me: "Ginormous." Finally, my sort of question. "Bigger than buildings and airplanes and houses."
Daughter: "Weoo, that's reaaaally big. They had better be careful up there."

Now you're older still...

On the way to preschool today...

Daughter: "Daddy, how long until I am 5?"
Me: "You just turned 4, honey."
Daughter: "But will I be 5 soon?"
Me: "It will be a year from now. You get to be a big 4-year-old for a long time."
Daughter: "But I won't just be four. I will get even fourer and fourer."

Being four isn't just an age. It is a state of being that has degrees. Miss Neverpoop seeks to achieve a greater degree of fourness with each passing moment.

I shudder to think what that means for us. More spontaneous feats of climbing? More random fits of independence? A greater level of bedtime combat? A deeper commitment to her puppy impersonations (complete with spontaneous leg-licks)?

Compliance required

Miss Neverpoop has taken on the role of Miss Bossypants around the house. She barks orders, despite our complete refusal to obey. Requests with pleases and thank yous are considered, but the orders are ignored.
And yet they flow like wine.
Recently, she decided that she wants to enforce a few table rules.

Miss Neverpoop: "Daddy, don't talk with your mouth full, please."
Me: "My mouth is empty, dear."
Miss Neverpoop: "Mommy, don't talk with your mouth full either, please."
Dr. Wife: "OK honey, I won't."
Miss Neverpoop: "Mommy, did you know that I love you even when you talk with your mouth full?"
Dr. Wife: "I'm glad, honey, and I always love you, too."
Miss Neverpoop: "Yeah, but don't eat with your mouth full."
Me: *stifled laughter*
Dr. Wife: "I have to have food in my mouth to eat."
Miss Neverpoop: "Yeah, but don't eat with your mouth full."
Dr. Wife: "Then how can I eat?"
Miss Neverpoop: "It's ok, I still love you even when you do that."

Obedience is necessary, understanding is optional, and love is unconditional. I wonder where she got that.

The power compels her to color?

A conversation with the daughter:

Miss Neverpoop: "I wanted to color in this coloring book. God made my coloring book so I can color in it, right Daddy?"
Me: "Well, I suppose so. I'm glad you like to color."
Miss Neverpoop: "God made the whole city and the cars and the streets and the roads and the cars and the trees."
Me: "Cool, huh?"
Miss Neverpoop: "And then Jesus got nails in him."
Me: "Well, yeah..."
Miss Neverpoop: "He should color like God wants so that he doesn't have nails in him."
Me: "That's not quite how it works, honey. God didn't put the nails in because he wasn't coloring. Those two don't go together."
Miss Neverpoop: "Yeah, I like to color because that's what I'm supposed to do for God."
Me: "God wants you to be happy and to treat others nicely, dear. And you do that very well."
Miss Neverpoop: "Yeah, I share my colors. That makes God happy."
Me: "I'm sure it does."
Miss Neverpoop: "Then Jesus was put in a rock and a big flat rock was in front of the little rock and some angels opened it to let him out. But he wasn't in there. I think he dug his way out like a dog digs out under a fence if he's a Poky Little Puppy."
Me: "Wow, that's a pretty big idea to work on..."
Miss Neverpoop: "Yeah. Bat and cat rhyme. Cat bat cat dat bat..."

Maybe a little less Sunday school is in order... or more? I don't know what to think of all that. Needless to say, it was a little intense for a 3 year old. Easter Sunday School left some definite impressions, though. I'm a little weirded out by it, to say the least. The ideas are all there, but it seems to be running through some sort of Seuss-ification process that is leaving her with some trippy mental images...

Antischmacterial

7:15 a.m., just 4.5 hours after falling asleep after a blues gig. The room is still dark and I am still asleep.

daughter: "Don't worry, Daddy, I got it out."
me: "That's nice dear."
daughter: "Yeah, you're still asleep, so I just did it myself."

drip. drip. drip.
I awaken and look into the proud face of my self-dressed daughter. She is holding a roll of toilet paper. It is thoroughly soaked. And dripping on the floor. And down her arm.

daughter: "Yeah, it fell in the toilet."
me: "So you reached in and got it, huh?"
daughter: "Yeah, but I was already done with it, so that's okay."

Reduce, reuse, recycle

The Goober Pea and I were on the way home from pre-school.

daughter: "Look! I have little fuzzies on my legs like you, Daddy."
me: "Yes, but yours are little and fine and blonde. Mine are thick and dark."
daughter: "Why?"
me: "Because I'm a big old daddy."
daughter: "Yeah, but not too old. We can still keep you."
me: "I'm glad."
daughter: "Yeah. Pretty soon you'll be too old and then we'll have to get a new daddy."
me: "No way! Only one old daddy for this family!"
daughter: "But when you are too old we will have to get a new one. OK?"

Does she know something I don't?

More Tales from Target...

After a ridiculous search through a poorly organized warehouse store (yes, I asked for help 3 times), Miss Neverpoop and I had this conversation:

• daughter: "Are you angry?"
• me: "No, I'm just frustrated with the store."
• daughter: "Can I see your angry face?"
• me: *grumpy face*
• daugher: "I can make an angry face, too."
• daughter: *much tinier grumpy face*
• me: "That's pretty good."
• daughter: "Mine's better. It helps me see in the dark..."
  

I believe her powers are beginning to manifest. It's early, but best not anger her...