Attitudinalism

I hope Steve doesn't ask me why I didn't friend him.

He gifted her with a gorgeous ring for the holiday.

She's pimping her choo-choo.

These are sentences I've heard or read over the past few weeks that, when they travel into my head and arrive at my brain for processing, are the equivalent of the Wicked Witch of the West dragging her fingernails down a chalkboard.

Or should I say, "fingernailing a chalkboard"? Don't get me wrong-- I'm not one of those crazy purists who thinks that lingustically, change equals corruption. But come on! These are NOUNS, people! And you're making them into VERBS! You're VERBING NOUNS! Oh, it feels so squickily wrong. It makes me wonder what language will be like when the Beans reach my old (or Hubby's even older) age. Will it have (d)evolved into a system of pointing and grunting? Will my daughters' future husbands just club them over the heads and drag them off by their hair?

It's everywhere and at every level of our culture. Last year for my birthday, Biscuit and Hubby found a card with a little George-Bush-soundbyte that rambles on for a couple of seconds, then pauses, then George says, "You gotta catapult the propaganda".

What?


Seriously, I know that deep down inside I am a complete grammar snob and yes, I occasionally cringe when in the company of someone who is completely oblivious to even the idea of linguistic structure, or the idea that sometimes words have to be in a specific order for a reason-- namely so that the person listening can understand the point. But I also know that it's an instinctive thing and not much of the human population shares my enthusiasm for honoring correct grammar and that's okay because on most levels, diversity is a very good thing. Where I really find myself exasperated though, is when I and my children are forced to listen to a big, long stream of meaningless chatter that's really only there to fill airtime before the next scheduled commercial break and is, I think, secretly trying to waste the precious hours of our lives.

The other day, the local morning news was on and the Beans were sitting in their highchairs eating breakfast. The news was running a segment by one of its on-site correspondents about the weather (rain-- in February-- how unusual and newsworthy) and the reporter was just butchering the English language. It was so sad. I don't even really want go into detail because even thinking about it makes me want to cry. It was like he wasn't even thinking about what he was trying to say! He just kept saying word after word after word and the abuse just kept on coming!! Oh, the agony!!! What finally got me to turn off the boob tube in favor of tolerating the rain drumming on the roof and the garbage truck lumbering along outside were phrases like, "the rain is just torrenting down the sides of the creek here at this time where I'm standing and has been for quite some time without any signs of letting up anytime soon judging from all the multitudes of gray clouds here". (You have no idea how painful that was to even think, let alone rewind and replay just to make sure I heard what I thought I did.)

Seriously? It's really dramatically exciting news for a suburban drainage ditch to be running fast and high during a rainshower? The same ditch that the same reporter's covered before because once it even flooded one single, solitary side street and it might happen again if the rain continues for, like, twenty more hours?!? I could understand if aliens had just landed or if Jesus stepped from the foamy waves of the Pacific onto Waikiki Beach that then, maybe someone on the scene might lose his or her power to articulate himself out of sheer awe or disbelief. But to practically wee-wee in his pants and blither-blather to the point of abusing viewers at home over some RAIN???? Puh-Leeze!

Sometimes I wonder how much the Beans will share in my (and Hubby's, because he and I are on the same word of the same line of the same page with this stuff except I'm a better speller) intrinsic grammar-policing. Biscuit is, himself, very much like his old mom in this respect and has been ever since he began talking. I think the Beans will be cursed with this burden too. Why, you ask? Because when I paused the TiVo and replayed that most offensive bit of verbal tripe and then turned back to offer the Beans some more oatmeal, Pipsi looked at me, pointed to the TV and said, "Shit."

And that, my friends, is something everyone can understand.

Deadly Diaper Rash Ointment

I really, really try not to freak out too much. Most of the time we're all good around here, but the past month has been quite the challenge. As you may have noticed, there's been a bit of a gap between this post and the last and that's for good reason: I now spend far more time trying to prevent my dear little Beans from accidentally killing themselves or causing themselves or each other significant bodily harm.

They're climbers. They climb on EVERYTHING and suddenly I see death everywhere. I never thought, when bringing most of their myriad toys into the house, that I'd have to remove them for the sake of the Beans' safety. Notice how no photos accompany this post? That's because now, when the Beans retreat by themselves to their room for three minutes, I saunter in to investigate and find that Parki has chugged one of the Learn 'n Groove Choo-Choos up the the Dresser Station, climbed up onto the train and is attempting to leave the train for the platform-- a.k.a. the top of the dresser. It would make a great photo, I'm sure, but it would be kinda difficult to explain to Child Protective Services what I'm doing taking a photo of my daughter climbing on the dresser when I'm in the ER with her getting a cast on her arm / leg / head.

We've expanded the Beans' horizons and not a moment too soon because we were all going totally stir-crazy being confined to only their bedroom and the hallway. Totally nuts. Out of our minds. Cabin fever to the nth degree. Now they also have unfettered access to the living room and all its wonders. And suddenly I realize that I suck at childproofing and that therefore, my life is a little miserable. Not totally, but a little bit, at least for this phase of the Beans' development. Gone are the days when they would play quietly in their room for ten or fifteen minutes, long enough for me to do the dishes or run a load of laundry. Those moments have been replaced with howling-fantods-inducing displays of bouncing on the sofas, trying to climb up and sit on the windowsill (where Pipsi will precariously perch herself and proudly present me with the sign for "chair"), climbing up and sitting on the piano (which I sincerely hope is not a foreshadowing of one or the other's future as a lounge singer, though they both have the pipes for it, I'd say), and squeezing through the gate yet again to get a good look at and taste of Hubby's books which he stubbornly refuses to box up and put away until we're through this dark, unholy time.

Some days, seriously, I'm barely making it. Nothing gets done around the house while they're awake. Now, I'm not citing either one as a favorite here, just stating the fact that while Pipsi just wants to be loved, cuddled, read and talked to all the time, her twin inherited every single bit of Hubby's (considerable) and my (little bit of) obstinance and unwillingness to accept to word "no". And that combination, one wanting to be cuddled and the other just waiting until I'm looking elsewhere for five seconds, keeps me busy during each and every one of their waking hours.

On Friday, Mimzi came over for a couple of hours so that I could run errands and have lunch with a friend. I returned home, Mimzi left, I ran to the potty for a total of about 100 seconds and rushed out to the living room because Pipsi was screaming and crying like her heart was broken, which happens about eighty times per day. The alarm bells were going off though, because I didn't hear Parki's corresponding Laugh of Triumph. I scooted up the hall to the living room and saw the tube of diaper rash ointment in Parki's little paw, and a finger coming away from her face. She saw me coming and went for the front-door alcove and hunkered down, squatting and holding the contraband between her body and the corner.

You know when that dreadful ball drops down into the bottom of your belly? This was one of thse times. I remember thinking, "Oh, dammit! If only I hadn't chosen that moment to excuse myself, none of this would have happened! Now what???" I grabbed Parki, flipped her over and pulled the tube away (which, fortunately, had been almost empty anyway) and inspected her face. Yep, white smears on her upper lip, a bit in her nose and a clean finger but a bit of white residue under her nail told the tale. I grabbed a wipe, cleaned off her face to prevent any more from entering any orifice and sprang over the gate to grab the Hubby Hotline.

"Hello?"

"Hey. I was in the bathroom for, like, a minute and a half and came out to find Parki with the ointment in her hand. There was some on her face and I don't know if she ate any."

"I'll be right there."

Click.

I stepped back over the gate and over to the Beans' play kitchen atop which I'd set the ointment tube, flipping it over to read what I already knew was printed on the back: "If swallowed, get medical help or contact a Poison Control Center right away".

Awesome.

Hubby came in and picked up Pipsi, who had been howling like a banshee this entire time. He peered at Parki who, knowing she was totally busted, was playing cutesie, cuddled up against me with her head on my shoulder, singing gently like she was so sweet and innocent and could never, ever do anything that would worry her mommy, she loved her so much!

"I'm not sure she ate any," I began, and then Parki started spitting, sticking her tongue out of her mouth, closing her lips around it and dragging it back into her mouth, like something really nasty was stuck there and she wanted to get it off.

Hubby frowned.

"The tube says to call Poison Control," I began.

"We should probably just take her to the hospital," he countered.

Hubby is usually right in these situations, but I did an admirable job pushing the panic rising up inside me back down before it could take over. I made my way, Parki on my hip, over to the computer to look up the number for Poison Control wondering whether I should call the pediatrician first and trying to figure out how I became this mom all of a sudden. Not calling Poison Control could be very bad if the advice was going to be, "Call an ambulance right away". Operating on the assumption that I might hear those words, I decided to follow the advice of the tube of deadly diaper rash cream. After all, it was the only one in the room that knew the true depth of its potential evil.

The phone call went surprisingly well. We didn't have to take Parki to the emergency room but Jay, the nice, calm, knowledgeable owner of the soothing voice on the other end of the line, informed me that since the ointment contained 10% zinc oxide, Parki might puke or have some diarrhea that night if she'd consumed a lot. Otherwise, she might get by with just a tummyache.

Fortunately for everyone, it must not have been that much because she fell right to sleep just after seven that evening. And although I was awfully tired at 1 AM when she woke up screaming and even tireder still when she finally went back to sleep two hours later, I was so happy it wasn't as bad as it could have been.

If we keep up that trend, I might be able to keep them alive at least until kindergarten-- but there definitely won't be as many pictures between now and then.