She Didn't Mention Magenta

Fiona: Red is my favorite color.

Daddy: (thinking of the great staple of her wardrobe) What about pink?

Fiona: Oh, yeah, pink, too. And yellow and orange and purple. My favorite colors are yellow and orange and purple and red and pink.

Daddy: Not green?

Fiona: Green, too. My favorite colors are yellow and orange and green and purple and red and pink. And that's it.

Daddy starts mentally reciting Monty Python's greatest hits.

Beyond My Parenting Capacities

Yesterday morning Fiona summoned me to her doodle pad to see the space alien she'd drawn. As I've mentioned before, her drawings are becoming more recognizable. This one had a blob-like form but had identifiable eyes and teeth, and I assume it was meant to be a blob-like alien. I complimented her on her drawing.

All of the sudden Fiona gasped and said "brother, what are you doing?" And then she grabbed the pen on the doodle pad and started to scrawl all over her alien drawing, destroying the picture.

Fiona then groaned in disgust and erased the whole doodle pad.

Now, she's done stuff like this before, where she pretends to have a brother who does something terrible; it's like imaginary sibling rivalry (who knows what lies Aunt Kathy's been telling her about brothers). But I still wasn't prepared for what happened next.

Fiona tried to redraw the alien, but it wouldn't come out as well as she'd drawn it the first time. At which point she started to whine and borderline cry:

"Daddy, I can't draw the alien. The bad brother ruined him!"

OK, I know if she does stuff like this when she's in her mid-twenties we need to adjust her anti-psychotic medications. But what am I supposed to do when she's a toddler? Give her imaginary brother a time out?

I left the room. Sometimes that's the only solution.

Her Scottish (Scotch?) Heritage

This story comes courtesy of Grandma and Papa, who were kind enough to look after Fiona for several days last week while Fiona's parents had major work commitments.

Fiona plays in the kitchen and notices a small door.

Fiona: What's in this door?

She opens the door to discover her grandparent's liquor cabinet.

Fiona: I want a drink.

Grandma: I can get you some juice.

Fiona: I want one of these drinks.

Grandma: Those are for Grandma and Papa. Do you want some juice?

Fiona: (storms out of the room and upstairs in frustration)

Madame Librarian

This is from last night, as Fiona announced she was playing library and shouted at us to be quiet.

Many People Do Go By Their Middle Names

Fiona has finally figured out that her middle name is "Meredith." She's been going around all week announcing the fact, as toddlers do. Apropos of nothing, she'll declare "my middle name is Meredith."

The other night she was frustrated with me for making her do something and started in with the "why" questions. I wasn't in the mood to get into the endless loop of justification, so I cut her off with that old staple "because I'm your Daddy."

"You're not Daddy," she told me. "Your name is Bill."

I nodded; she figured out that her parents have names that other people call them months ago. But then Fiona made a new connection... almost:

"Bill's your middle name," she declared.

"No," I replied. "My first name is Bill" (leaving aside the whole issue of nicknames for a future conversation).

"Nooo," Fiona responded, with the inflection she uses when her parents say something intentionally silly such as calling an elephant a horse so that she can correct us. "Your first name is Daddy!"

Maybe I should double check my birth certificate.

Well, If You're Going To Insist On Punishment

This evening I flew solo, which I'll be doing a lot of over the next few weeks since Andrea's basically chained to her theater with work. We were low on leftovers and I was low on cash for ordering out, so I threw together a quick pasta and chicken dish in the kitchen while Fiona enjoyed the guilt-inducing-but-it-does-make-your-life-easier-as-a-parent electronic babysitter. It was an episode of Arthur, which we DVR for her since we use that quick shot of TV frequently in the early evening when we're trying to get dinner together and only one parent is home.

Anyway, the episode ended as I was draining the pasta and getting ready to add it to the chicken, and Fiona shouted out to me that Arthur was over and she wanted something else. I told her we were going to eat in two minutes, and that she'd seen a lot of TV, so I was turning it off so we could get ready to eat. And then I ran back to the kitchen to finish the dish.

As I went, I heard Fiona blow a raspberry in my direction.

Now, this is a big no-no, and Fiona knows it. When she spits at us, she has to go to her room (we don't shut the door for time outs any more, since she gets the point once she's sent to her room). But I was down the hall and almost in the kitchen and I really just wanted to get dinner ready, so I pretended I hadn't heard anything.

Back in the living room I could hear Fiona blow another raspberry. Did she want to be punished?

I dumped the pasta in with the chicken and stirred.

From the living room, Fiona shouted "Daddy, I spit at you!"

I decided to give her one last chance.

"I can't hear you, honey, I'm in the kitchen."

At which point, Fiona marched down the hall to the kitchen door and announced "I spit at you."

Well, dear reader, there wasn't much I could do at that point: "Go to your room," I told her, in a relatively gentle tone.

And so Fiona marched into her room, threw herself on her bed, and started sobbing to the heavens.

Does this ever happen in the adult world? Do people show up at the police station to turn themselves in for petty theft? And then file suit for police brutality? Will somebody please explain toddler logic to me? Or is it, as I suspect, beyond all capacity for adult understanding?

The punchline came when I went in two minutes later to do the post-trouble debriefing with Fiona and asked her if she knew why she was sent to her room. She couldn't remember.

Toddlers Are Great For Quick Ego Boosts

This morning Fiona decided to play with her toy shopping cart, but when she grabbed hold of it the handle came off in her hand.

"Oh, no!" she exclaimed.

I grabbed my hex wrench and about 30 seconds later the handle was secured once again. Fiona looked at my handiwork in amazement.

"Thank you, Daddy!" she cried. "You're incredible!"

Ah, if it only it were so easy to impress the other people in my life.

Weekday Morning Artwork

Not much posting lately, so here are some visuals to keep the blog alive.

Fiona drew this last week and got very excited because she'd figured out how to draw a horse. She proceeded to draw the same type of horse throughout the next few days. A few too many legs, but the figure definitely has definition, and she's now old enough to be drawing clear figures that are unschooled enough to make many a professional artist jealous:

She drew this one a couple of nights ago while I was in the kitchen putting groceries away. I suddenly heard hysterical giggling, and when I returned to the living room Fiona was pointing at this drawing and laughing about what a "silly face" she'd drawn. Each time she looked at it over the next day she laughed again.