Cashing In

Daughter surprised us all by growing a big tooth behind her current baby teeth, none of which had yet fallen out. We were given varied advice, from: it's not a problem, to "my son had five teeth pulled." The orthodontist we visited last week (for Son) asked us when we were having Daughter see a dentist next. "Tomorrow, at 10am," I replied. "Good," she said. "Those bottom teeth have got to come out."

I was not happy at the idea that Daughter had to have two teeth (one wiggly, one not) yanked out, but she was doing the happy dance at the prospect of the Tooth Fairy's first visit to her room. Sure enough, Daughter came home smiling, dried blood on her chin, and one (sabre-like) tooth in a bag. (The other had been thoughtlessly tossed at the dentist office. Really, people! They were apologetic, and went through their trash, but still.)

Daughter composed a lisped tome to TF, and then insisted that I type it, and print it off in 4-point font, "to make it easier for her to read!" The fact that the type was a blur to the human eye made it all the more charming. We explained about the mitthing tooth, and unlike in Son's letters, there was no request for unicorn teeth.

TF obliged with: the premium amount for healthy teeth, plus a bonus for healthy dentist-extracted teeth, and a deer tooth for Daughter's new collection.

Daughter is well satisfied. But I wasn't quite ready for Daughter's new smile. Those were the first two teeth to grow in. Also, her face has changed shape again, and she is getting older!

At Least He Knows It

Hubby makes the blog! Here's how that came about:

Son, looking at flabby vegetarian lasagna on his plate: Well, I'm not all that hungry.
Hubby: Hang on. [Goes to fridge, retrieves leftover marinara sauce, heats it in microwave.] Put some of this on it.
Me, to hubby, in Very Superior Voice: You do realize that the entire purpose for me buying vegetarian lasagna is so that, on days like today, when we all ate meat at lunch, we aren't eating meat again at dinner?
Hubby: And aren't we glad you also buy meatless grounds, to make meatless marinara sauce with?
Me: Oh. Yeah.
Hubby [leaps out of seat and does Victory Dance, laughing immoderately]: I'm sorry. But it happens so rarely! [Sits down again.] Boy. I'm gonna live off that one for three years.

Didn't See That Coming, Either

Daughter to me, as I'm lying in bed, reading: We're going to play.
Me: I'm snuggling.
Daughter: We can play Snuggle, then. But you have to pick a color. I'm white snuggle.
Me: I'm red snuggle.
Daughter, lying across my tummy: Mmm. I like snuggling. Now, a hawk picks us up, and flies us to the nest, ready to be eaten.

**
And in other news, I am wading through many pounds of paper sent home from elementary school over the last week or two. Son's homework includes a book about Godzilla in Australia fighting a monster kangaroo ("dedicated to my grandmother who lives in Australia, who gave me the insperation" [sic]).

And also, a list of proverbs to be creatively completed by Son. Herewith, a couple:

You can lead a horse to water but... not a bird.
Don't bite the hand that... gives you stuff.
A penny saved is... better than none.
The pen is mightier than the... eraser.

Fight. For Your Right. To Party...

Hubby, to Son: Come on, now. We just don't have time to goof around.
Son, indignant: No time to play? That's just sad. We're kids!

**
And on another note, my work building is undergoing heavy construction this summer, and we aren't allowed in. Which means, taking all our teaching/writing/computing stuff out with us. We were to have until the end of this week, but the building is already cordoned off with caution tape. Personnel have been moving everything out, and plastic sheeting what remains. I'm in my office with the eery sense that dynamite has been laid in the basement, and it's all over but for the sirens. I feel like a lone holdout. I'd hate to miss the crucial memo about a change in the date! (Just another comma! Boom.)

Notes from My Daughter

My daughter writes, all the time. She passes me notes, all the time. These are four from the past few days, as written.

Wonderful Notes:
"You are a speshl mom. You are a rile speshl sheshl speshl mom."

"Hapey muthrs day. This is a book of you. We will put pickchrs."

Serviceable Note:
"Can you help me finde a little toy that looks like this: [drawing]."

Downright Threatening Note (Handed to Me to be Passed Along to the Relevant, Offending Girlfriend):

"You nede to pickup the note that you hide rite now or i will tel yor mom that you littered. the end."

I think she must have asked me how to spell "little" and "littered." But I wasn't aware in the latter instance that I was participating in the creation of a blackmail letter.

Real Praise

Me, to Daughter: Well, you look aDORable.
Daughter, irked: I'm not "adorable," like a puppy or a kitty.
Me: Fair enough.
Daughter: But I am adorable like a leaf that blows.

Chapter 13...

I went to KC for a novels workshop on Saturday. Lisa Harkrader was a fab presenter, and it was fun to hear snippets of others' novels-in-progress. Ironically, when discussing endings, she mentioned being in the middle of Chapter 13, and wondering how to pull it all together. I happen to be in the middle of my own Chapter 13, literally, and daunted at the task of finishing the thing. I know what has to happen, but everyone is so scattered around the place, in the middle of something. It seems like hard work to interrupt them.

So I'm taking a couple more days of down time, and then will gird the proverbial, and get them all home again.