Mother of the Year. What we call moments when you were, uh, not....the best you could have been. Often said lifting a wine glass while sheepishly recounting the story. Two spring to mind.
Today, Claire brought me the pickle jar. We love pickles here. Buy them, seriously, by the gallon as well as the small jars. When I buy the Clausen spears they have a shelf life of about 34 minutes. The Vlasic petite dills? Not more than 22. Well, today she brought me a jar and it just had two oval slices. I fished those out and she asked for more. I said they were all gone. She asked, "Can I drink the pickle juice?" I said sure. I thought she would take a sip. I must say that she comes to the love of pickle juice naturally. When I have a tummy ache, I often reach for a pickle jar and take a swig of pickle juice. And Daddy calls it the "secret ingredient" of his Bloody Marys.
I was transferring a file for work and not paying much attention. Claire went over to the sippy cup drawer and poured the rest of the "juice" from the jar into a sippy cup and then came and sat on my lap. Fast forward 30 minutes and I was on a Skype phone call with our friends the Higgins' and I noticed that she was slurping down pickle juice from a sippy cup. Not a sip or a gulp. She had drank quite a bit of the pickle juice.
One hour later she had the most diarrhea that I had ever seen. Twenty solid minutes. Her tummy didn't hurt. No fever. And then it was over. I'm pretty sure it was the pickle juice. I am, say it with me, the Mother of the Year.
A few weeks ago, this same sweet Claire Bear noticed that her big sisters were eating snack sized bags of chips. She asked if she could get some, I was (surprise!) trying to finish up some work and quickly acquiesced. She brought the cool ranch Doritos bag to me and said something that sounded like baby talk. And I l-o-v-e baby talk...with babies. Even toddlers. But she's almost four. When you're trying to ask for something and you're nearly four years old....please ask nicely. So I said, "Claire, we do not talk baby talk. Try again." She said the mumbo jumbo again. I repeated myself, a little more sternly, "Claire, we do NOT talk baby talk. You know how to speak properly. Please ask me again." My sweet little bear has the melt-down perfected perfectly. Her bottom lip starts to quiver. The faucets turn on. And she cries pathetically,
Turns out that my little girl who I send to an immersion, all-Japanese, all-the-time preschool for 7 hours each day, has picked up some Japanese words. And she was trying to say, "Open please" in Japanese. "Akete Kudasai." And what I communicated to her with my response was, "We speak American in this house!"
Today, Claire brought me the pickle jar. We love pickles here. Buy them, seriously, by the gallon as well as the small jars. When I buy the Clausen spears they have a shelf life of about 34 minutes. The Vlasic petite dills? Not more than 22. Well, today she brought me a jar and it just had two oval slices. I fished those out and she asked for more. I said they were all gone. She asked, "Can I drink the pickle juice?" I said sure. I thought she would take a sip. I must say that she comes to the love of pickle juice naturally. When I have a tummy ache, I often reach for a pickle jar and take a swig of pickle juice. And Daddy calls it the "secret ingredient" of his Bloody Marys.
I was transferring a file for work and not paying much attention. Claire went over to the sippy cup drawer and poured the rest of the "juice" from the jar into a sippy cup and then came and sat on my lap. Fast forward 30 minutes and I was on a Skype phone call with our friends the Higgins' and I noticed that she was slurping down pickle juice from a sippy cup. Not a sip or a gulp. She had drank quite a bit of the pickle juice.
One hour later she had the most diarrhea that I had ever seen. Twenty solid minutes. Her tummy didn't hurt. No fever. And then it was over. I'm pretty sure it was the pickle juice. I am, say it with me, the Mother of the Year.
A few weeks ago, this same sweet Claire Bear noticed that her big sisters were eating snack sized bags of chips. She asked if she could get some, I was (surprise!) trying to finish up some work and quickly acquiesced. She brought the cool ranch Doritos bag to me and said something that sounded like baby talk. And I l-o-v-e baby talk...with babies. Even toddlers. But she's almost four. When you're trying to ask for something and you're nearly four years old....please ask nicely. So I said, "Claire, we do not talk baby talk. Try again." She said the mumbo jumbo again. I repeated myself, a little more sternly, "Claire, we do NOT talk baby talk. You know how to speak properly. Please ask me again." My sweet little bear has the melt-down perfected perfectly. Her bottom lip starts to quiver. The faucets turn on. And she cries pathetically,
"I WAS TRYING TO SAY IT IN JAPANESE!!!!"
Turns out that my little girl who I send to an immersion, all-Japanese, all-the-time preschool for 7 hours each day, has picked up some Japanese words. And she was trying to say, "Open please" in Japanese. "Akete Kudasai." And what I communicated to her with my response was, "We speak American in this house!"
I'm telling you...I'm the Mother of the Year!
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1 comments:
Omg you have me laughing out loud. Maybe even a tear or two. I can relate - we all can. (Except for having children who try to speak to us in Japanese.) I LOVE Claire stories!!!
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