Let's make Whoopi

Nora needs to start kindergarten. I mean, there's such a thing as too much fun with a whoopi cushion. Together my daughter and I logged in a lot of time with one today and it is with pure delight and admiration that I admit her technique for inflating one is superior to my own. We're now the proud owners of two of them thanks to the clarity of mind that must have possessed our friends. I can picture them striding through the aisles of Party City, when one notices a glowing pile of orange whoopi cushions, deflated and inconspicuous, triggering an aha moment as they both say, "yes, whoopi cushions, our search for party favors is over". Nora and I tried to out-do each other while showboating our flare for farting. Of course, she didn't realize she was in the presence of a master (and I never used to use props). When you spend 85 waking hours a week in the world of a 5-year-old, and she in yours, there's bound to be some cross-over. On any given day, for example, we're both likely to have a tantrum or two. The difference is that the one I'm having is invisible. As luck would have it, kindergarten is a mere season away. But thanks to half day kindergarten, I'll still get to enjoy 71 hours a week in the wacky, wonderful world of the under six set.

Dump Bike

"Mom, please tell Nora that her bike came from the dump, and not the bike shop." In my head I picture the transfer station and think free pile, please. This is the scene as my older daughter crashes through the garage door like Kool-Aid. Nora is at least a few lengths behind, but broaching hysteria at the thought that her bike was acquired so meanly. I spend the next five minutes (wringing my hands) extolling the virtues of used items. "A little kids' bike is used for such a short time", I tell her, "why would we spend money on it when we can get it for free...(yada yada yada)". I trail off completely unheard, "of course noodle, we'll spend heaps of money on a bike once you're grown". Nora begs me for the truth - that is, the only truth she can handle -- that her bike was purchased brand spanking new, by her parents, at a proper bike shop. Then I remember the white wicker basket decorated with faux silk flowers and the fact that it was purchased by me, for her, at a bike shop. Heck, I even paid full-price and I didn't dare think about hunting down a cheaper version at Walmart. After all, it was the least I could do to let my little girl know how special she was to have a brand new bicycle... (wait for it) - basket.

New Pets and Old Loves

It's hard to be funny when your dog dies. What started out as a vacation-induced respite from blogging has grown to include my hazy days of grief. Rudy was by my side for thirteen years and no dog will ever replace her. She died on May 19th, and I haven't felt like writing for weeks - I still don't. But we're getting a new puppy on the 4th of July, so it's time to get my head around that. Our family moments have been singly focused on finding the perfect name for our new dog. This consumption has been exhausting and I've taken to spouting wildly inappropriate suggestions whenever inspiration strikes. Names like Maggot and Tree Frog, Pickles and Cereal, Chardonay and Vader have been fielded and dropped. I'm inclined to think that the name doesn't matter too much. All the same, I've been jotting top picks on the chalkboard in the kitchen. This morning when my son noticed a new entry left behind from an erased grocery list, he chimed in with his endorsement for the name Cool Whip.