Garbage Men

If my conversations with my son were a movie, my character would be the girl in the horror film that decides to walk backwards directly into the crazy guy with the axe. 

For example, I watched incredulously the other night as Connor removed a piece of tape from his pajama pants, reached his hand over the edge of the bed, and then dropped the tape onto the floor.  

"Who do you think is going to pick that up?" I asked.  He paused to reflect on what I thought was a near-rhetorical question and then replied, "The garbage men."  I got comfortable. I really wanted to hear how this was going to play out.

I then asked, "Have you ever seen the garbage men in our house picking up our garbage?", thinking I was questioning him into a corner where he'd obviously have to admit that he was going to have to pick up that piece of tape. Rookie mistake.

"Well, the garbage men come when we're sleeping," was his quick response. 

"So, the garbage men are like Santa?"

He responded, "They are like secret agents, but with trash. They don't have guns or bombs. Just garbage trucks." He went on to give examples of the garbage men's exploits in refuse, getting more and more animated with the more details he added. I start envisioning having to wade through trash-covered floors in the house, having been unable to disprove the existence of magical, invisible, garbage-collecting men. I try a different approach.

"Haven't you seen Mommy sweeping and vacuuming the floors before?" 

"Yes, but that's because the garbage men only come once a week. On Saturday nights."

"Well, we're in luck. Tonight is Saturday night. When we wake up, we'll look and see if the garbage men came and picked up the floor."

Sunday morning came and my victory was so close, I could taste it.  "Connor, is the trash picked up off of the floor this morning?"

He paused, smacked himself on the forehead, and exclaimed, "I forgot! Garbage men night is Thursday night!"  

And the theater of people watching our conversation horror flick would be yelling, "WE TOLD HER NOT TO GO DOWN THERE!"

Whoopie

An original song by Connor

(sung to the tune of Santa Claus Is Coming To Town)

You better watch out. 

You better not cry. 

There's going to be a fart sound. 

You better guess why.

Watch your step, trick-or-treaters!

This was another one of those times where I would just love to figure out how my son's brain works.

Connor: "Some people are bad at holidays."
Me: "Really? How can someone be bad at a holiday?"
Connor: "Well, like, they can be shy about opening presents."
Me: "That's true."
Connor: "Or, they can fall down a lot on Halloween."

Shoes Off

Me: "After we get our floors refinished, we're going to be the kind of house where you have to take your shoes off."

Connor: "Aww, maaaan! I HATE those kinds of houses!"

It's 70 Degrees Somewhere

Cara has always had her seasons mixed up.  When she was old enough to dress herself, she would come out of her room with a sweater and shorts on.  Or try to wear flip flops when there was snow outside. Eventually, we just put the winter clothes out of sight in the summer and vice versa for summer stuff.

Now that Cara is older, I figured that she was old enough to gauge weather-appropriate clothing for herself.  If she gauged incorrectly, well, lesson learned, right?  With the years of hiding flip flops and down vests behind us, my daughter now has access to all of her clothes.

I should note that my daughter is 100% Minnesotan.  Cold is relative.  It's almost a dare, at times.  "You think I need a jacket in THIS?  The snot in my nose hasn't frozen my nostrils wide open. This isn't COLD."

Because Cara is a Minnesotan and because she is her father's daughter and gets warm the second you even say the word "sun", she has learned to dress in layers.  She wears a tank top with a long-sleeved layer on top just about every day in the winter.  When I pick her up from school at the end of the day, that long-sleeved top will be tied around her waist and she will be wearing the hood of her winter coat on her head while the rest of the coat flaps behind her like a cape.

Knowing all of this, there are still some outfits that Cara comes out in that I have to question.  On a day where the high was supposed to be 18 degrees, my eyebrows were raised when she came out of her room in lightweight pants and a short-sleeved shirt.

"That doesn't look very warm," I said, proud of myself for creatively rephrasing the ever-popular "Are you going to wear THAT?" question.

Without missing a beat, my daughter said, "I don't need to be warm to be awesome."

It goes without saying, I didn't make her change clothes that day.

Home Alone

This year, I bought a copy of the movie "Home Alone" since the kids had never watched this holiday classic. Craig was certain the kids would love it as he did when he was a kid. Not only was he right, but we got such a kick out of watching and hearing their reactions to ths film.

While Cara mostly sat with her mouth agape (genetics are awesome), Connor could not be silenced. Here are selections from his commentary:

"Just because his family is gone, doesn't mean he can do whatever he wants."

When Kevin perches his wooden sled at the top of the stairs, Connor says "That's a bad idea." Followed by, "Has he ever gotten a splinter?"

After Kevin lays out his sabotage map, "That's a good battle plan."

At the end of the movie, even though everything turns out fine, Connor says, "Santa's gonna put that kid on the naughty list, I think."

You Betcha, Y'All

Whenever someone asks me where I'm from, I never know just how to answer that question.  I was born in and spent grade school in California, went to junior high and high school in Missouri, attended college in Delaware, and then moved back to Missouri for a couple of years, followed by two years in Colorado.  In 2000, I moved to Minnesota, where I have been for the past twelve years.  If I had only thought to register for frequent flyer miles years ago.

Since I've lived in Minnesota the longest, does that make me a Minnesotan by default?  Does the fact that I pronounce the word "food" like it has eleven Os in it and walk out of the house without a jacket when it's 40 degrees make me a Minnesotan?  Or does the fact that I don't play "Duck, Duck, Grey Duck" or call soda "pop" mean that I'm not?

Regardless of whether or not I know how to answer the "Where are you from?" question, I know that both of my children are, without a doubt, Minnesotans.  When Cara and I were shopping when she was about 2 and she pointed at something and said, "kyoooote!" (That's how we say "cute" up here.)  It was right then that at it dawned on me that I was the owner of a true Minnesotan.

In a few short months, we will be trying on a new accent. Craig was offered a wonderful opportunity in Fort Worth, Texas and, after the kids finish up the school year, we will be joining him out there.  While we are sad to leave, it's also very exciting to be embarking on a new chapter in our lives.

Both Craig and I have been where the kids will be in a few months (he was about Cara's age when he moved from San Antonio to Colorado).  New house, new state, new people, new culture.  There's bound to be teasing.  There may be even a few exaggerated impressions of accents.  But I'm sure we'll keep our "Howdy, Pardners" to a minimum, dontchaknow?