Piper Finn Willow
Mix a little foolishness with your serious plans; it's lovely to be silly at the right moments. - Horace
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about last night
2:00 a.m. All was quiet. (As it should be.) And then a cry. A sound of concern coming from a child’s bedroom. “What was that?” I whispered to Kevin. “I think Piper is calling your name,” he said. “No, I think she said your name,” I responded. It’s a game we like to play. The specific name a child chooses to call in the middle of the night is rather significant. It is the difference between staying in your warm bed or being forced to accept your parental responsibility at inconvenient times. We settled back under the covers and tried to ignore the next three mumbled cries. Then a distinct,…
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and now a word from this kid . . . .
Because it has simply been too long. Because my posts have not been all that funny for a few days. Because she is standing near me and asking me what she can do. Because I can. Today, I give you, an exclusive look into the mind of Piper Finnian Willow Lacey, age 3. Me: What should I ask you today? Piper: Ummm. (Thumb lodged in mouth.) I like birds. I want to talk about birds. Me: Perfect. What about birds? Piper: I like birds. Me: Right. What do you like about them? Piper: I like seeing their wings. Me: Where do you normally see birds? Piper: At our house. Me:…
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Date Night: From the Home Front
Last night was Date Night. No guns or alcohol this time. A rather low-budget evening. Carrabba’s for dinner. (Only because we had a gift card, thanks to Look Up’s annual Christmas party.) Mid-dinner, a text arrived from Riley, our evening’s official babysitter. It was a photo of Magnus, perched like royalty on an old chair in our sunroom. When we returned home, Riley gave us the evening’s breakdown . . . photojournalist-style. (I guess my parents never had that luxury with their babysitters -eh?) First, there was music. And costumes. And dancing. And then, as is so often the case, music led to art. (Apparently Berg was drawing drums. To…
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Just Talking.
Piper Finn: Mom, I don’t want to grow up. Me: Why not? Piper Finn: Just because. I don’t want to. Me: Okay. Stay little as long as you would like. Piper Finn: Mom, I do want to grow up. Me: Oh. Well that was fast. I hope your other life resolutions last longer. Blank stare. Piper Finn: Mom, can you go now? Me: What? Why? Piper Finn: So I can grow up now.
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not from envy.
Apparently we’ve been seeing a bit of green around our house lately. But not from envy. Nope. That would be easier to wash out I think. The funny truth is – I was probably not even fifteen feet away from The Incident As It Occurred. (What does that say about me?) Awww. Shucks. I guess it says that I have more than one kid. That one of those kids left the magic markers out again. And that another one of those kids decided it would be beneficial to her younger brother if he were to receive a tattoo. Because, as she stated, he wanted it. In green. All over his…
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Piper at Play
In this house, I have found that there are many situations in which it is simply best to not ask any questions. The big kids were outside. Fox was taking a nap. I was sitting at the desk, tip-tap-typing away. Piper was playing by herself in the sunroom. I overheard her tiny voice saying lots of “honey” and “sweetie”. “What are you playing Little Willow?” I called to her. “Oh, I am playing that I have two husbands,” she came in closer to explain. “Two? Hmmm. What are their names?” “Big Foot and Big Monkey.” I don’t really need to know any more.
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Backseat Conversations
A lot of amusing comments are tossed about in the backseats of our trusty Suburban. I can hardly drive for all the laughing. That’s not really true. It would probably be more accurate to say – I can hardly drive from all the crying. Anywho. (Why did I type that? I don’t even like it when people toss that nonsensical word into the empty spaces in conversations.) So. (That’s my preferred conversational pause filler.) Um. Here’s what I heard from the backseat on a recent outing. Piper: I’m making my hair pretty wet right now. Me: (Somewhat alarmed.) With what? Piper: Love. Me: Seriously, are you using spit? Piper: Ummmmmmmmm.…
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the original
It seems as if in almost all cases the original is better than the imitation. Like popcorn. (The real kernels popped on your stove taste better than the microwave variety.) And hot chocolate. (The little paper packet mix has got nothing on heating up genuine milk combined with real cocoa powder.) And the original Chick-fil-A sandwich. (Don’t even get me started on the inadequacies of that spicy version.) I guess Willow feels as if the same concept is true about her toys. Old Eagle is loads better than his new, never-been-loved, duplicate.
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More Evidence
I keep telling you how funny I think my youngest daughter is. And, like everyone in the ten and under crowd, her humor can sometimes veer to the potty variety. (Which, I guess, implies that mine can too, since I am finding these comments humorous.) So. With that said. Here’s the latest. Walking around the house, making a funny face and a slurping noise, Finn declares, “My spit tastes …. ummmm …. pretty good.” After watching her poop disappear down the toilet, she commented, “Aww. That little one doesn’t know where his family is.”
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Knock Knock
Guess who was just introduced to the knock knock joke? Little Willow. Here’s her first attempt. (All delivered with a flourish of her hands and an odd eye rolling type movement.) Piper: Knock. Knock. Anyone Responding: Who’s there? Piper: Pizza. Anyone Responding: Pizza who? Piper: Your wish has been granted.
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about fragility, bravery, a girl and a horse.
I want to tell you a story about perhaps the most frightening parenting moment of my life and the bravest kid I know. We went to a horse farm for a field trip last week. The farm was tidy and organized and smelled of hay and dirt and horse manure and sky and life and my childhood. The kids admired the miniature horses, the black ram and the albino horse that is not allowed to soak up the sunshine for fear of his skin burning. We had been at the farm for maybe fifteen minutes. The instructor asked us to stand in the breezeway while she prepared our handsome steed,…
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three (3).
Isn’t it funny how all of a family’s history can meet right in the face of a three-year-old? On our long drive recently Kevin and I looked at Piper’s face in the rearview mirror and verbally dissected her petite features. A Norton nose. My mom’s jawline. It’s all right there. Aunt Vonnie. Uncle Tommy. In my little Willow. That wee face, full of so many faces she will never even know. All of the people whose blood flows through hers. All of the people who have had a hand in making her – both structure and soul. A whole of so many pieces. An end to something started so long…
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grocery list
It was that time again. Cabinets looking a bit bare. Fridge filled with containers holding leftovers mostly unrecognizable as former food. I needed to go to the grocery store. I always make a list before I head to the store. But today, Piper made the list for me. This is what she said we needed. I wrote it down. As she spoke it. Because that’s how you make lists – right? No editing allowed. I promise. Piper’s List Pizzas 7 bunny rabbits Some peas 6 suckers We need 7 marshmallows Some cantaloupe Some watermelon Cheese Some bedtimes Blankets Pillows Kids Some rings Spoons to mix 7 sugars I’ll see what…
