Games You Can Play with Your Child

The next time your child gives you a kiss, throw your hands over your face, writhe, and screech, "It burns!" Guaranteed child pleaser, and sure-fire way to get more voluntary kisses.

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My Darling Daughter was reading a book the other day, and I popped into the living room to ask her a question. She gave me a curt "No", which, translated for any non-compulsive readers out there, means, "Shut up and go away." I wasn't offended, but I ran back into the kitchen for a giggle because it was so me as a child. She really is Mini-Me.

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D.D. got a big birthday box in the mail from her gwamma that was filled with one large and several small packages. Interestingly, she started with the small boxes: "A tiny waddle bottle!" Joy! Molly, her American Girl doll, really raked it in with an entire bedroom suite, complete with a tiny working lamp, a bed, a dresser with a drawer in it, and water bottle (obviously). D.D. had to stop in the middle of the proceedings to get batteries for the lamp, and she's been dragging it around the house like she used to carry her blankie as a toddler, because you never know when she might need the extra light of a 10-Watt bulb. She also generously offered to let L.H. take it with him to an 8 p.m. meeting in case it was dark when it ended; he pointed out that the car's headlights should provide plenty of light, thanks.

The bedroom suite has been in the living room, in the "clubhouse/hotel" under her play-bed, and in the bed next to D.D.'s pillow. I'm surprised she hasn't jabbed herself in the eye with a wooden edge (even if it is covered by a corduroy bedspread) in her sleep. In the mornings, I tickle D.D. awake, then she gently wakes Molly by slowly lifting her upright until her eyes open. She's a much sweeter mom than I am.

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When we were in Paris, we had dinner with Lovely Husband's friend, and she roasted a chicken. D.D. wanted the wishbone, but we couldn't find it as it was probably broken up in the process of carving. So the friend's daughter explained that this was 'poulet', not 'chicken', therefore French chickens must not have a wishbone. Shades of Gary Larson and his "Boneless Chicken Ranch." Hee!

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There's a formal-wear shop near the German as a Foreign Language department called "Le Mariage Royale." (Makes me think of a plastic clock L.H. 'rescued' from the garbage room when we lived in Sweden that was helpfully labeled "High Class Clock.") Every time I walk by with D.D., she says I need to get one of the (wedding) gowns on display. I've repeatedly pointed out that I'm not exactly in the market for such a dress.

Most of the time this shop has duelling gown models in varying degrees of tackiness in the window, but these days they have a bridal couple *made of balloons*. The groom is a column of gray balloons topped with a white balloon with a Lego-esque face drawn on it. I think he also has a gray top hat. The bride is a column of ivory balloons with a white balloon head and a veil. But that's not all! She's also got a tube balloon (like clowns bend into poodles and swords and hats) for arms at waist height with a pink bouquet attached to the front. It's a classy display for a classy shop.

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Usually I'm pretty nonchalant around here about my blog. I'll mention to L.H. that I've updated it, or tell him if I felt I had something particularly witty to say, but otherwise I try to play it cool. But sometimes, like a couple of days ago, I get all hovery and want to watch L.H. while he reads. (Because I'm a megalomaniac—surprise!—,a term we've been bandying about recently.) He finally told me I was creeping him out, kinda like the old lady in The Wedding Singer who wants to watch Adam Sandler eat the meatballs, because "That's my favorite part!" So I'm backing off. But maybe I'll install a surveillance camera. Hmmm....