Best of the Anarchist and the Dictator

Here at the Morton household, we're all sick.  Well, we're all sick with the exception of the Bureaucrat who never gets sick...because that would be inefficient.  But I'm afraid if I don't keep posting to this thing, I might lose my momentum.  I operate completely on momentum, so that would be a sad, sad, thing.  What would the world do without hearing more random Morton-ness?  

So in the spirit of keeping this thing going, here's a look back at some of the best quotes from the Anarchist and the Dictator this year:

The Dictator on Men:

the Dictator: "Maybe I will marry someone from my preschool class when I get bigger." 

Me: "You never know. Is there someone from your preschool class you would like to marry?" 
the Dictator (blushing): "Yes. Someone very special." 

Me: "Oh really? Who?" 

the Dictator: "I would like to marry Attractive Preschool Boy because he is such a sweetie."

Me: "Yeah? What do you like about him?" 

the Dictator: "He has a really nice hat. It looks so good on him."

Me: "I see." 

the Dictator: "Mom, how do you make an engagement ring?" 

Me: "Usually you don't give engagement rings until you are a grownup." 

the Dictator: "A star. A star would be the perfect thing to put on his very special ring when I ask him to marry me."

‎"Attractive Preschool Boy has dark hair. He's a very nice boy. He sneezed all over all the toys today. I played with the toys, too. He doesn't know how to cover his mouth with his arm. Maybe he was too tired."

 "Sweet Little Blond Boy really loves me.  He wants to marry me.  We're having a wedding.  He doesn't like Angry Braid-Puller as much.  That makes her ticked.  I think SHE wants to marry Sweet Little Blond Boy.  She thinks we should break up!" 

The Anarchist on the Alphabet:

  

"A is for Audi. J is for Jeep. H starts Honda. C starts Corvette and car. P is for Porsche. Oh, and H is for Hotwheels, too." 

"A B C D E F GEEE!!! H I DAY K ELMO ELMO PEES!"

‎"Letter Z is for ZEBRA!! Letter A is for ANARCHIST!!! Letter 6 is for zebra, TOO!! Letter 8 is for...Oh, no! Where did letter 8 go?! Letter 8 is missing! Oh, there is letter 8! Letter 8 is hiding in my bum!!!" (while playing with foam bath letters)

Partners in Crime:

the Dictator (proudly): "Look, Mama! I drew three beautiful pictures with my markers! They're wonderful!" 

the Anarchist (proudly): "Look, Mama! I drew on my tongue with my marker! Now it's blue!"

the Anarchist (on passing a Mexican restaurant):  "Mexico is ALL jacked up."

the Dictator: "No, Anarchist, it's just closed." 

the Anarchist: "No, Dictatew. Mexico is all jacked up!" 

the Dictator: "Mexico is NOT all jacked up, Anarachist. Mexico is just FINE!"

On health-related issues:

The Anarchist (on spying a girl in Downtown Plymouth with a lollipop):  

"Look Mama! That girl got a shot!" 

Me: "What makes you think she...ooohhh...because you get lollipops at the doctor's..." 

The Anarchist: "Yes. Hey Mama, I want a shot! I think I need a shot right now. How about I get a shot today?"

the Dictator with a "favor."

"Mama, I LOVE my boo boo!" (the Anarchist, upon receiving a post-vaccination lollipop)

"My nose is all snowy. It has icky brobees in it. And my ears are full of gabbas." (the anarchist on nasal congestion)

"I have a favor and a weather in my tummy!" (the Dictator at 3, with a stomach ache and a fever)

‎"Oh NO! I make a fart! POOR fart!" (the Anarchist...who else?)

On the Arts:

the Dictator (while riding trikes in the basement): "Hey Anarchist, what's your favorite speed?" 

the Anarchist: "Oh, I-I-I-I like adagio! I don't like allegro...I'd have to pedal so hard." 

the Dictator (anticipating her first dance recital):  "...and when the curtain rises, Anarchist, the stage will be flooded with spotlight and everyone will cheer for me as I do my beautiful dance. Ballerinas have to be very creative, Anarchist, when they dance on the stage."

the Anarchist:  "OHH!! I see a LEE-o-tard! Am I going to dance class? Miss Dance Teacher's going to say, 'Okay Anarchist!' in dance class. She's also going to say, 'It's your turn!' and "Shuffle, shuffle.' I can't WAIT for dance class. I LOVE dance class!"

 
"I am a professor of natural history and I come in peace." (a line from the Dictator's original Tinkerbell musical)

 

the Dictator (wearing a princess dress and singing in her most beautiful princess voice): "Just a little change, chickens in the East, both a little scared, no one really cared, Beauty and the Beast!!!"

"MY Mama is a big, fat Mama! She is SO big and fat and she is my Mama!" (the Anarchist's famed "Mama Song")

  

And this isn't the half of it.  Oh, how I love the things kids say!  More to come!

Thankfully

Sigh...the Mortons came out of the Thanksgiving craziness well-fed, thankful for the blessing of wonderful families, and relatively unscathed. Here is what we are thankful for:

The Dictator:

• Princesses
• Drawings (of princesses)
• Markers (with which to draw princesses)

The Anarchist:

• "Bllrrrbt..."*
• "I don't know-WUH!"

The Bureaucrat:

• His phenomenal wife allowing him to sleep in until 10 am the day after Thanksgiving
• His beautiful wife cooking pumpkin pancakes for him when he finally did decide to wake up
• His gorgeous wife

The Fat Assassin:

• The singularly stupid human family not forgetting to feed her, even in the midst of their collective turkey coma

And Me:

• Mashed potatoes (always the first thing that comes to mind, even though I know I should be saying something schmaltzy and sentimental like "family and friends.")
• IKEA furniture-thanks for being affordable enough that I can actually have furniture and not feel like a squatter in my own home.
• Only vomiting twice as a result of my own Thanksgiving-related gluttony
• Those nice people shopping at Target or Meijer with their children who say things like, "Just SHUT UP! You never have anything important to say anyway. You are SO annoying. I'm gonna beat you good!" for making me realize that I may actually not be the world's worst parent
• Those folks who are clearly not hard-up for cash, who hold up entire store lines squabbling with the cashiers over 50 cents worth of fried chicken legs or economy Christmas wrap. Thank you for reminding me that it's crazy to care so much about things and money.
• The Anarchist's really loud set of lungs, which remind me daily--and usually in a quiet, public place--that we are so blessed to have her lungs actually working and healthy.
  
• Family and friends. No. Seriously.
• Mashed Potatoes

Parenting Tip of the Week SPECIAL EDITION

Special Edition Tip: Navigating the Mall with Children, Black Friday and Every Day

As many of you will be (idiotically) heading out to do some holiday shopping on Black Friday, and as the bravest (or craziest) of you will have youngsters in tow, the world's greatest parenting guru (yours truly) is here with some sage advice gleaned from recent shopping experiences to get you through the darkest day of the year.

Equipment

Most parents have the wisdom to bring the basics (diapers, wipes, dried Cheerios, fruit snacks, cookies, McDonald's Happy Meal toys that somehow made it into the bottom of your purse, flashlights, discount cards, keys, cell phone, Epi Pens, organic nut-free crackers, collection of board books, collection of Berenstein Bears books with or without their covers intact, umbrellas, crayons, markers, stamps, plastic bags, extra shoes, etc.). But just when you think the ol' diaper bag--or over-sized purse, if you're too cool for a diaper bag--is stuffed to the gills, it's time to make room for a few more essentials.

First of all, you'll never make it through your shopping trip if you have to listen to your kids' incessant whining in addition to irritating hippopotamus-related holiday "music" and the catcalls from various male shoppers who can't resist your stunning good looks. (What? You don't get those? Oh. Must just be me.) This is why I recommend investing in a good pair of earplugs. So you can't hear your kids begging you for food, water, and a bathroom break...isn't that the point?

Next, if any of you have a child like the Anarchist--that is, a "runner"--I highly recommend that you consider purchasing a leash. Yes, yes, I know this sounds cruel and inhumane. But so is letting your kid fling itself headlong into a mall parking lot, or a perfume kiosk, for that matter. And they make adorable stuffed animal-shaped leashes for children, or so I've been told by my trend-savvy sister who has actually spotted the things on hip young things in the Birmingham/Ferndale/Royal Oak area. And if it's happening in Royal Oak, it's probably the new thing to do, so go ahead. You're not barbaric. You're cutting edge.*

Distractions

While shopping with children, it is important to create tactical diversions. That way, they'll forget where they are for a few seconds, and maybe, just maybe, cease whining temporarily. Shock and awe, baby. Here are a few suggestions:

• Choose stores with fun music and loads of empty floor space (they exist, I swear). Initiate a dance party. Please don't worry about the amount of people you will offend or annoy. Remember, your goal is survival at all costs.
• Try on hats. Lots of hats. It's worth the head lice.
• Try having a sing-a-long. The louder the better. You're entertaining your fellow shoppers AND distracting the bitty ones. What could be better?
  

Safety

Always remember to put safety first when shopping with children.

• Avoid shopping on the second floor of the mall whenever possible. While elevators are fun, the risk of your kids catapulting themselves over the balcony in a manic fit is decidedly not. Sorry Gap, Victoria's Secret Body and the coat section of Macy's. We'll have to do without this year.
• If you must shop on the second floor, remember to use the elevator. If you are claustrophobic (more on phobias later), you will have to use the escalator. In this case, be sure to put your children in shoes without laces. I can't believe I even have to say this. What kids have shoes with laces any more? Seriously!
• One more thing to avoid. That guy without kids skulking around near the coin-operated helicopter, race car and ice cream truck (as if ice cream trucks aren't creepy enough as it is).

The Anarchist and the Dictator enjoy a ride on the coin-operated ice cream truck in a skulking-guy-free moment

Shopping and Phobias

If you have one of the bajillion phobias affecting bajillions of Americans these days, you'll have to make extra accommodations for yourself while shopping.

• Claustrophobia-I think we've already covered this one. Avoid the elevators. No shoelaces. Enough said.
• Mysophobia (or germaphobia for those of you not up on your craziness terminology)-Invest in a HazMat suit. Bathe in hand sanitizer when you get home. Glare angrily at anyone attempting to cover a cough with their hands, rather than their forearms.
• Agoraphobia-Don't be agoraphobic. Seriously. It will totally ruin your holiday shopping experience. Having trouble overcoming that pesky fear of crowds? Take my dad's timeless advice: "Just stop it."
• Arachnophobia-You're probably going to be just fine. Avoid the pet store, just in case.

Bribery

Hone your bribery skills before venturing out into the shopping fray. They will prove essential in various circumstances. You will, of course, already be familiar with the usual bribes of rides on the coin-operated truck (as long as skulking guy isn't around), food court "food," and small toys. We've also used rides on the elevator (my claustrophobia is mild) and trips to the in-mall Starbucks as bribes. Do whatever works and be creative. Be advised that bribes may backfire, but sometimes they'll be the only weapons in your arsenal.

The Dictator and the Anarchist can be bribed with Starbucks

It is also useful to keep monetary bribes handy for older children and for your fellow shoppers. When the Anarchist tripped that nice lady in Baby Gap, it sure would have been convenient to be able to slip her a $50 in hopes of warding of litigation. (Please don't sue us, nice Baby Gap lady, please don't sue us).

Finally, you can also bribe your spouse to stay home with the kids so that you might go out shopping all by yourself. Men, ladies like shiny things and back rubs. Women, I'm not going to give specifics, because this is a PG-rated blog, but you know what works. I'm just saying, do what you got to do. (What? You're thinking I'm suggesting something dirty?! Heavens, no! I just meant a nice home-cooked meal. Get your minds out of the gutter!)

Mall-ternatives

Consider doing your shopping some time other than Black Friday. I mean, seriously, is that discount on a cashmere sweater really worth the stampede? Why not try a nice weekday morning? The malls are virtually empty. If you aren't already a stay-at-home-mom/dad, become one for this very purpose. Halving your family's income and the financial hardship resulting therefrom will be well worth your shopping peace-of-mind...if you have any money to spend, of course.

Another savory alternative is shopping online. Of course, if you have squirrely children trying to type "messages" on the keyboard while you are shopping, this could be as frustrating an option as the actual mall.

Don't want to shop at all? Why not make your own clothes? If you're not already sewing-savvy, find a nice elderly lady with loads of free time and patience and make her teach you. You might want to use your new-found bribery skills to convince her that it's worth her while.

However you decide to go about shopping or not shopping this holiday season, remember to be prepared, be safe, and be brave. And, for the love of all that is holy, stay away from that guy skulking around the coin-operated ice cream truck.




*It is important to note that not everyone will consider you cutting edge. Especially if they live somewhere like Plymouth or Canton, which are a little behind the times. I mean, if the Royal Oak area is just now discovering baby-leashes, it means that leashes are probably on their way out on the coasts, but that Plymouth and Canton will still not recognize how insanely cool they are for another half a decade, at least. Note that Plymouth just now got it's first cupcake shop, while Royal Oak has had them for years and the coasts are already on to French Macaroons or some such insanely cool nonsense.

Parenting Tip of the Week: Scapegoats

As I am currently in the running for "Mother of the Year," I thought I would bless you with some useful parenting advice on a regular basis, so that you might have a shot at being a halfway decent parent yourself.

Tip #1: Scapegoats are indispensable

Your children will naturally want to blame you/or each other for every transgression. Is a toy missing? Probably your fault. Did she trip over her own feet? Yes. But maybe if you hadn't given birth to her it never would have happened. Did someone eat that last piece of Halloween candy? Sure. And that someone was most likely you, but do you really want to deal with the consequences of 'fessing up to it?

Sometimes it's important to model mature and ethical behavior and assume responsibility for your actions, accepting whatever the negative outcome may be. And sometimes it's important to preserve your sanity at all costs by picking your battles wisely and blaming a scapegoat.

It is crucial to come up with a scapegoat early on, as most children learn to blame you for things as soon as they learn to accusingly point their chubby, sticky fingers at you and yell "Mama!" or "Dah-ee!" You must not let this last. We found that the cat worked in a pinch for the first couple of years of life. "Who moved my Giggy Bear?" the Dictator would ask with a deadly, vengeful glare. "Oh, that was Kitty," the Bureaucrat would assure her. At which point the Dictator would turn her death stare on the cat, leaving Mommy and Daddy in the clear. Needless to say, the Dictator is not a moron, so this tactic only lasted so long. "It was NOT Kitty! You're just SAYING THAT!" Time for a new scapegoat.

My first mistake was teaching the Dictator how to point.

We found that family friends work nicely. You can orchestrate this, or have it come about serendipitously, it doesn't really matter. The important thing is to encourage it once it happens. If you don't already have a family friend scapegoat, try arranging a post-bedtime soiree at your home. Be sure that it is early enough that your children will hear the guests arriving. When your children wake up in the morning and find something to blame you for (which they invariably will), blame one of the guests from the night before. Because your children know that--unlike the cat--this guest has opposable thumbs and is therefore actually capable of erasing their drawings from the MagnaDoodle, they are very likely to believe you.

Perfect. Now you just have to be consistent. Every time your child flings accusations at you, simply blame the new scapegoat. We actually have the Anarchist believing that our scapegoat lurks around our house in the middle of the night, spilling water, turning off lights and putting away Play-Doh sculptures...and we don't even have to mention him any more. The kid immediately blames him on her own. The system is so perfect, it runs itself. And you never have to be blamed for anything again...by your children.

The scapegoat on the other hand might not be so pleased, and the ethical implications of what you are doing are shady, at best. Eh...so you make a few enemies and potentially sully your immortal soul. Isn't that a small price to pay for parental sanity?

*Note: It is NOT advisable for you to use your spouse as a scapegoat. While he/she is an extremely handy option, and one onto which your children will enthusiastically latch, this choice might potentially be destructive for marital relations. Blame the hubby at your own risk.

The Anarchist is already plotting her revenge against the Fat Assassin (aka "Kitty") for moving her toys.

All we are saying...

Last week a friend, in passing (literally…she was literally walking past me), commented that she had given some thought to my identity in the whole “dictator/anarchist/bureaucrat/assassin" thing. Her suggestion was that I was actually the Diplomat of the family. Or maybe the Translator. My first reaction was to be insanely flattered. Someone was actually reading this, and had actually thought about it. My second reaction was, “Of course! How perfect! How on earth hadn’t I thought of that before!” I was basking in the brilliance of these thoughts when the Bureaucrat turned to me (he had overheard the conversation while pretending to be absorbed in a law book) and mumbled in my ear, “Yeah right. More like the ANGRY diplomat.”

I would have been offended , but he was SO right. Oh sure, I like to consider myself a peacemaker, kind and gentle, meek and mild and all that jazz. But in the context of my family and their delightfully divergent personalities, I would make a TERRIBLE diplomat. I would quit, Jet Blue Guy style, grabbing myself a drink before hurling myself out an emergency exit, “Sayonara, suckers!”

Okay, so strike the “Diplomat” thing. Maybe Translator is more apt? After all, I really do understand the various personalities of my family members, I speak Anarchist and Bureaucrat fluently, and have at least reading proficiency in Dictator. Surely Translator works? But alas, again I would be the flustered and frustrated Translator, unable to muster the patience to do my job adequately. Fine. I’m neither of these attractive alternatives. But then, to risk sounding like a soul-searching 19 year old, who am I?

It came to me like a vision. Okay maybe I’m being a touch melodramatic, but that’s my thing, let me have it. Anyway, it came to me like a vision…or maybe it just came to me. I am,…drum roll please…the Militant Peace Protester. I start off the day gazing all lovingly at everyone, dropping flowers into gun barrels, holding hands with perfect strangers, swaying, and singing “Give Peace a Chance,” but I end the day throwing rocks, screaming obscenities, and dodging nightsticks and tear gas…metaphorically speaking, of course.

I’m frustrated because we can’t all just get along and live in harmony and love each other without coercion, and in my frustration I lose it and lash out. In the morning, I sound like something out of a parenting how-to manual:

"Sorry darling, but that isn't an option. I understand that you are frustrated that Mommy is asking you to go potty in the bathroom instead of on the living room carpet. But can you think of a better way to express your rage to Mommy that doesn't involve drawing blood from her forearm with your teeth and flinging your tiny feet into her face? Mommy feels sad when you give her a black eye."

By the time we’re running 10 minutes behind schedule it sounds more like this:

“What is WRONG with everyone?! !! Don’t you people have any sense of URGENCY!? Why can’t we all just do what we’re supposed to!?!? And stop tearing Sissy’s pigtails out! I MEAN IT! No scalping your siblings!! Why can’t you two just LOVE EACH OTHER!!!!???!?!?!?!?”

And so it goes. So yeah…Militant Peace Protester. Maybe they’ll have to cart me off in a paddy wagon after a few more years of this. We’ll see. In the mean time, I’ll try to act more like I feel…a diplomat, a translator. Or maybe just a Canadian citizen (they’re stereotypically friendly and polite, right?). Or maybe I’ll just brush up on my passive resistance techniques.

"Good" Housekeeping Tip of the Week: Simple Storage Technique

As I pride myself in being something of a up-and-coming Martha Stewart, I thought I'd make it a point to share with you some domestic tips and techniques that I find make for a cozy home.

Tip #1: Simple Storage

Efficiency is key to a well-run household. Try keeping anything you may use during the week out in plain sight, where it is easily accessible. I find that the living room floor is best for this sort of thing. Just spread any items you would normally “put away” over the entire floor. That way, when you’re looking for the baby wipes, all you have to do is trip right over them and, voila! There they are!

This will also give you loads of new-found free time. Instead of wasting time “tidying” and “straightening,” when you are through with something, just drop it on the floor, wherever you happen to be at the moment.

BONUS: This storage method also provides a great game for the kiddos. It’s like 3-D Where’s Waldo, with socks/pens/scissors/permission slips/etc. instead of a dorky guy in a striped hat.

Can you find: A dump truck, a book of essays by a Pulitzer Prize winning author, a mute dwarf, a halfway decent credit card offer, safety scissors, the letter "s," and an overpriced hair bow in this picture?

bitty love triangles

I guess charisma comes with the territory of being a dictator. I never expected it would happen this early, but our little Dictator has been working her charismatic charms on all of the little kindergarten men, and as a result, has become something of a heartthrob.

Last year there were hints of this dilemma. While she was swooning over a classmate who happened to look good in a hat, another little guy--we'll just call him Quiet Little Red-Haired Boy--was pining for her attention. She came around eventually, but he endured a great deal of wistful waiting before she realized that maybe Quiet Little Red-Haired Boy was worthy of her time.

This year, it's Little Blond-Haired Boy, who is equally adorable, sweet and intelligent (I don't know about the Dictator's taste in men, but I do know that the ones who pursue her are parent-pleasers for sure...let's hope this lasts through college). This year, the Dictator took less time to notice. I suspect that this is partly due to the wisdom that comes with experience, and partly due to his following her like a lost puppy for the entire first month of kindergarten, begging her to marry him. Whatever the reason, she relented early and began enjoying the attention her romantic entanglements elicited from the rest of the class.

Unfortunately these attentions were not all positive. The superior social sophistication of kindergarteners brought with it a problem that the Dictator, with only preschool relationship experience, could not have anticipated--jealousy. I'm not sure that there aren't equally worthy boys in the Dictator's class who would make excellent matches for those kindergarten girls seeking a committed 5-year-old relationship. But let's be honest, ladies, they're always more desirable when they're taken, aren't they? Little Blond-Haired Boy is no different. No sooner did the Dictator and Little Blond-Haired Boy begin to exchange vows in a lovely, quaint playground ceremony, than the Dictator's braids were set upon by a jealous and enraged female rival, bent on "objecting" to the union in a dramatic fashion.

Of course, this did nothing to dissuade the Dictator, who now saw the relationship as less of a novelty and more of a challenge. "Little Blond-Haired Boy really likes me the best. He wants to marry me. But he doesn't like Enraged Braid Puller at all, and that makes Enraged Braid Puller ticked. I think SHE wants to marry him!" she says with a smug grin. Lovely.

There are other more subtle jealousies present, too. Pretty Headband Girl who lives next door to Little Blond-Haired Boy and was, up until now, his best friend, burst into tears and fled into her house upon seeing the Dictator approach Little Blond-Haired Boy's house for a play date. And I'm pretty sure I saw rolling 5-year-old eyes when the topic was brought up on the day I volunteered in the Dictator's classroom.

Thankfully, I have complete confidence that the Dictator, like her mother, will become the world's biggest nerd by the time she hits 8-years-old, thereby resolving these issues quickly. At least, I hope that will be the case. Because, apparently, hell hath no fury like a kindergartener scorned.

meet the fat assassin

It turns out that I neglected to introduce you to a member of the Morton family. She was highly offended and reminded me, by way of a flesh wound, that she will not be ignored. So it is with my sincerest apologies that I introduce you to the Fat Assassin.


By all laws of physics, the Fat Assassin should be nowhere near as agile and stealthy as she is, but we all have the calf scars and bloody wounds to prove that she is, in fact, agile and stealthy. Deprived of her "mama parts" and claws before we ever met her, the Fat Assassin carries a grudge of epic proportions, which she takes out on those who have the great misfortune of existing in her general vicinity. While she is (rarely) cuddly, she should be considered armed (albeit, not clawed) and extremely dangerous.

Current "reminder" flesh wound:

I don't care what they say about us anyway. I don't care about that.

So I cut the Anarchist's hair. I probably shouldn't have done that, but after three days of snipping bits and pieces any time I could get her to hold still for two seconds, it actually turned out not-so-hideously. I was even a little bit proud.

But then a friend mentioned that she looked like Mary Tyler Moore. I'm not sure how I feel about that. Especially because I don't think she looks at all like Mary Tyler Moore in her glory days...more like the aging Mary Tyler Moore of today.


Here are some pictures of the Anarchist's new 'do:


Here are some pictures of Mary Tyler Moore:



What do you think?

alphabet wars

This past week I was made aware of a troubling incident. My youngest, the Anarchist, had been involved in an alphabet-related physical altercation at preschool. In short, she had been in a fight over the letter "C." Previously, my associations with the letter "C" had been benign, even light-hearted--"C is for COOKIE, that's good enough for me," and the like. I had been ignorant to the very real threat of violence surrounding this letter and the life lessons my daughter would take from it. This is how I came to discover that something had been amiss:

(We're in the Anarchist's preschool classroom, hanging her coat on a miniature hook. I turn around and am face to face with a sullen three-year-old boy. He is clutching an elaborate drawing featuring a very troubled-looking stick person.)

Me: Hi.

Sullen Boy's Mother: Sullen Boy, give it to the Anarchist. Give her your drawing. Right now.

Random Shrieking Preschooler with Separation Anxiety: AHHH!! (lunges towards the door, throwing herself around her father's legs in a very dramatic fashion)

The Anarchist (utterly distracted by the shrieking girl): Oh NO! Poor, poor Shrieking Girl! She wants her Mommy!

Me: Anarchist, Sullen Boy is trying to give you something. (grabs the Anarchist's chin in a vain attempt to turn her head and notice Sullen Boy)

The Anarchist (stubbornly refusing to turn her head): Shrieking girl is CRYING! It's okay, Shrieking Girl!

Sullen Boy's Mother: Sullen Boy, give it to her RIGHT NOW.
(Sullen Boy silently thrusts his elaborate drawing in the Anarchist's general direction)

Me: Anarchist! Anarchist! Focus! Sullen Boy is trying to give you a pretty drawing!

Sullen Boy's Mother (very sternly): And what do you tell the Anarchist, Sullen Boy?

Sullen Boy: (mumbled) Sorry.

Me: Anarchist, say "thank you."

The Anarchist (confused by the whole scenario and looking longingly toward the nametag table where her cherished nametag awaits): Thank you.

(I mouth "for what?" to Sullen Boy's Mother, and her response startles me)
Sullen Boy's Mother: Oh, you didn't hear?

(I shake my head, bewildered)

Sullen Boy's Mother (with a gravity I hadn't realized was warranted by an alphabetical altercation): Apparently, last week they were in a fight over the letter "C." (dramatic pause) And Sullen Boy hit the Anarchist in the head.

This is the point at which I started laughing. I'm sorry, but a fight over the letter "C" just sounds like hilarity itself. Apparently, I was naive to be so amused, because Sullen Boy's mother was aghast at my inability to see how serious the situation truly was. Oops. I composed myself, led the Anarchist to her precious nametag, and was off, all the time wondering why I hadn't heard of this situation sooner. Clearly, the Anarchist must have instigated the whole thing, probably deserved being hit on the head, had retaliated (as is her way), and wasn't talking because she didn't want to let me know she had been in trouble at preschool. It was at this point that I remembered something significant: the Gourd Friends.

The Gourd Friends are the Anarchist's favorite toy. She took a fancy to a basket of decorative seasonal gourds, named each one after a member of her preschool class, and spends countless hours reenacting preschool scenarios with these Gourd Friends. You would think the poor kid was deprived of real toys, the way she adores these things.

Anyway, all weekend long the gourd friends had been reenacting one particular scenario. Sullen Boy--played by a green, bumpy gourd--had been labeled "the really nice boy who hits everybody." Sullen Boy Gourd went around knocking all the other gourds down. And then the upended gourds would laugh uproariously and the whole thing would begin again. I had taken it for granted that she was reenacting a silly game her friends had played. It had never crossed my mind to think anything more of it. After all, she was laughing. It was funny, right?

The Anarchist's teacher brought it up when I came to pick her up from preschool today:

Teacher: Well, Sullen Boy and the Anarchist have been glued at the hip, today.

Me: I hadn't even realized there had been any problems between them, until Sullen Boy's Mom said something today.

Teacher (in a tone suggesting that this was just common knowledge): Oh yes. Sullen Boy and the Anarchist were having words about the letter "C" and Sullen Boy hit the Anarchist in the head.

Me: Oh no! Did the Anarchist instigate it? She did, didn't she?

Teacher (surprised, because apparently the Anarchist is a little angel at preschool): Not at all. They were just having a heated discussion. When he hit her--it wasn't hard enough to make her cry--she just looked stunned. Then she turned around and walked away. But I had to use my crabby voice. It was a big deal. All of the preschoolers were startled.

And this is the part I find most surprising of all. The Anarchist walked away?! From a fight?! This can NOT be my child! Of course, her chosen method of retaliation is hair-pulling, and Sullen Boy has a close-cropped haircut. So maybe she was just completely at a loss of how to deal with the situation in the absence of long hair?

Or maybe she, like her mother, finds the whole situation laughable. After all, the gourds laughed about it all weekend. Because, let's be honest here, how can you NOT laugh at a fight over the letter "C?"

meet the family

the bureaucrat:



He's careful, methodical, detail-oriented, rules-focused and endlessly inefficient. He's also the voice of reason, the planner and the one person that keeps the family from flying off into a thousand hapless directions at once. Kind and intelligent, but not known for his speed.













the dictator:

Formerly known as "the bitty dictator," she dominates the family with precision and intensity, and her motto, "Never let the get them upper hand." The dictator controls every aspect of her environment using charisma, subtle manipulation and a vast vocabulary, as well as deadly force, if necessary. She is also sweet, articulate, funny, intelligent and profound. But don't tell her that...because she knows already. She knows everything already.





the anarchist:

Nothing makes this one happier than freedom. Maybe it comes from being hooked up to oxygen for the first several months of her life. Maybe it comes from being the second child (we were always big believers in birth order psychology). Or maybe she was just born to wreak joyful havoc on the world. Whether she's running into the street, flashing total strangers, pulling hair, or screaming bloody murder, at least she's happy while she's breaking all the rules.







and me:

I don't have a political title, because as far as political philosophies go I'm the rough equivalent of a Canadian citizen or something boring and equally non-title-worthy. Besides, "and me" just has a ring to it that no political title can quite duplicate. I'm a neurotic, scattered, mildly amusing (when I want to be) domestic anti-goddess who speaks in hyphenated, overly parenthetical sentences and writes in a similar fashion. I desperately try to maintain some level of control over my children, but am mostly glad to hold it--barely--together from day to day.