Kids Say the Darndest Things… and so does Reza

I am loving mothering a three year old, and I am finally understanding what it means when people look at Eva and I, wistfully and say,

“Time goes way too fast so appreciate this time you have together when they are little,” or words to that effect.

On no sleep, sick for several months, with overdue work projects and hair that hasn’t been brushed in at least a week I used to hate that comment. Now I feel that I am through the worst of the early years, usually the time in a mother’s life when they further complicate it by having another child or two. Not me, not yet, maybe never. Eva seems to be of the same persuasion. Although her cousin Sadie has been asking her mommy to have another baby, there is nothing farther from Eva’s mind, in fact, I don’t think she could imagine a world where she would have to share mommy or daddy with anyone else, not to mention a stuffed toy, that would surely be the end of her world.

Eva’s friend Luke at Auntie’ Zoe’s is expecting a baby sister in April even though he has only just turned two. I have given Luke’s mommy all of Eva’s old clothes, which sparked a massive tantrum when Eva saw that Luke was making off with all of her stuff, especially when she noticed he was taking all of her precious shoes.

“My heels, my heels! Luke is stealing my heels.”

Luke’s mom was able to pack the car with everything other than Eva’s Cinderella heels, which she had weaseled out of the Tupperware storage box and managed to cram her foot into, although by now a size too small. She was certainly the belle of the ball on Christmas day 2013 when she received not one but two pairs of Cinderella slippers because cousin Sadie couldn’t cram her foot into the pair she was given, now it was Eva’s turn to grow out of her glass slipper but she would not relinquish them. I am sure that if Eva had a baby sister or brother she would most certainly turn into the Evil Big Sister.

Auntie Zoe told me the following week that when Luke talks about his new baby sister, Eva yells at him in her domineering, proud, evil big sister way, “My mommy is NOT having a baby,” to the amusement of everyone.

I always wondered what age kids were when they came out with hilarious one-liners like that Bill Cosby show, “Kids Say the Darndest Things.” I think its age three.

The other day when daddy and mommy were going out to a friend’s party I jumped in the shower with Eva to save time. In the shower she took a sponge and said “Mommy I am going to make your bruise feel better” and tried to clean my C-section scar. I said, “Eva it’s not a bruise, it’s a scar.”

Then she asked, “Mommy how did you get that bruise?”

“That is where you were born Eva, when you came out of mommy’s tummy.”

Bewilderment swept over her and her eyes went wide, just the kind of reaction I would expect if I were to tell her she was in fact going to have a little brother or sister. I tried to make it better, easier for her to comprehend, “That was a long time ago when you were this big,” I explained holding my hands about 19 inches apart.

Another night, I was reading her a bunny book at bedtime. You have to look under the flaps to find the bunnies, who are hiding in their burrows. When we reached the last page she flipped up the flap to discover two bunnies sleeping together in a burrow on one side of the page and on the other side of the page, a bunny sleeping alone in another burrow.

She took her pointy finger and pointed to the two bunnies sleeping together and said, “That is you and me, mommy.”

I gave her a kiss on the head and nuzzled her like a mommy bunny would do to her baby bunny.

“And that,” she said with her pointer finger at the solitary bunny in a burrow, ”That is Daddy.”

“Why is THAT Daddy bunny, Eva?”

“Because Daddy likes to be by himself all of the time.”

When Eva’s Stay-at-Work Dad got home I proudly told him this, which he accused me of making up but I also felt guilty for finding it so funny, because although Eva doesn’t understand I understand that Daddy is working hard for all of us and when he is at home a crazy bouncing three year old is not the best way to relax on the only twelve hours you have off in a week.

Another evening, I had Eva in my arms and I opened up a cupboard to get a new bag of popcorn for her. Our popcorn cupboard happens to be directly below our open hard liquor shelf. Eva stared at the bottles of vodka, gin and Campari and then she said,

“Mommy would you like a drink?”

“No thanks, Eva, I think I am okay.”

“But that is what you and daddy drink,” she said pointing to the hard liquor.

“I don’t drink that but daddy does, okay maybe I do occasionally”



“I think you should just stick to tea.”

“Okay Eva I will just drink tea.”

My darling Eva always speaks her mind, and I can tell when she is contemplating something because her eyes grow wide and I can see her the wheels of her brain contemplating something bigger than her stuffed turtle or Bunzy’s wobbly nose.  I am wondering if these thoughtful funny comments on our lives are a phase or if it is her personality. I am thinking it might be her personality. I certainly know other people who are just as funny, like Reza.

The other day Reza came bounding down the driveway in her car, I was washing up from lunch and started laughing when I saw what looked like a metal skip attached to the roof of her car. The Magpie, as Chris calls her, has been at it again I thought. It must be open day at the dump.

“What is that?”

“It’s a box to keep things in.”

“Its big.”

“I don’t have any closet space.”

“How much did you pay for it?”

“100 dollars.”

I rolled my eyes.

“What are you going to keep in there?”

“My umbrellas.”

“How many umbrellas do you have?”


I just shook my head.

I wondered if Reza had a collection of shoes at home that were too small, just like Eva and her glass slippers. The answer is – more than likely.

I am sure I will have a lifetime more of entertainment with Eva and Reza in my life.

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Recent events: the stomach flu, followed by the 90 day cold and flu intermixed with Christmas, a diabetic dog living in exile, and transitioning Eva to a big girl bed has made the last few months a tad hectic. The first thing to be thrown out was my exercise routine. During my time away from jogging I have come to the realization that I am not really cut out for it. I am not built for speed as my husband would say. For the time being I have decided to leave pounding the pavement for when I feel better. I think for now I am better suited for going to the gym, walking, and my new discovery, yoga.

The first time I tried yoga was when I started my Masters degree and the University of Bristol was offering free yoga classes. I should have known better, but I turned up along with three hundred other shoe and sockless students. The odor of foot was so overwhelming I left half way through, never to return. I suppose other people don’t try yoga because they think it isn’t real exercise, but I am telling you the foot smell is the worst part.

I must have blocked this memory out, because when my uncle asked me if I wanted to join in on his yoga class next door, I thought about it for a moment and said, hey why not. I was recently reading about how people with both my blood type, type A, and my autoimmune disease, Hashimotos, should probably not do high intensitiy aerobic exercise and should do activities like yoga, just what I wanted to hear to get me out of that three mile run. I also have hamstrings so tight that I walk around like Eva stuck a lego animal up my butt so it would probably do me good. Oh and then there is the Sciatica, I heard that word while getting a massage once. I thought I was too young to have anything that hard to spell, then I realized I already have Hashimotos an autoimmune disease and I am nearing forty. Maybe exercising with older people is a good way of feeling younger and fitter than I really am.

Regardless the reason, three weeks ago I showed up on my Uncle’s dock with my mother’s senior citizen yoga matt ( it has double cushioning) tied with a royal blue ribbon. Most of my mother’s belongings are tied with bright colored ribbons, even my father from time to time. Mom does Yoga too with the same teacher but on a different day with a group of women who gossip with every warrior pose exhale. This class is by far my mother’s preference over spending any more of her life with the family, or on the compound than she has to.

Turning up on the dock with Uncle Michael 1, Uncle Michael 2, Aunt Ann, and Carol Green did feel a little like a prison break workout in which we are all allowed out of our houses on the compound for a one hour group training exercise or worse a Calisenics class at the local rest home. If you are wondering who Carol is, she is a good friend of the Michaels’ and kind of like a stand in for my mother (she might be competing for my mothers title of Ultimate Fag Hag) and from time to time a Spurlingville resident. She also makes great Chinese dumplings but not at the same time as doing yoga.

Uncle Michael 1 is in the back of the class because he is so tall he can see over everyone else, but the downside of that is that everyone’s butt is in his face, something he can’t stop commenting on, “ Carol get your butt out of my face.” Etc etc.

Because we are all related, our yoga teacher made us do synchronized yoga on my first day which was pretty difficult considering we all disagree on most things. The teacher asked us to balance in a circle on one leg like a Flamingo, embracing each other in a circle. It worked for about five seconds, especially considering Michael 1 had to have both feet reconstructed after a paragliding accident twenty years ago (trying to be a bird) and its pretty miraculous that he can stand on two feet at all. I think people must think yoga is a cult and ours did seem kind of cultish, most of the family doing synchronized yoga on the dock making flower formations, next we will be constructing crop circles on Michael’s Mini farm.

For most of the yoga session instead of being centered in oneness I was wondering who was watching us thinking, “I always knew those Spurling’s were mad.” We looked down the dock and there was our family repair man on the neighbour’s roof taking a mini break and wondering who Michael had rented his house out to now, a yoga colony? Normal was overrated, you had to accept that to live in Spurlingville or even to occasionally visit.

By the following week I was looking forward to the one hour weekly family yoga retreat. Unfortunately my oven repair man showed up fifteen minutes before so, I began stretching impatiently in my yoga pants and stretchy top, clutching my borrowed yoga mat with that same Royal blue ribbon. Michael 1 called.

“Are you coming?”

“Yes, but the oven repair guy is here.”

“We are all waiting for you.”

“I’m coming.”

Yoga had moved from the dock to my Uncle’s porch because of inclement weather, I was thankful not to be on display. When I walked out onto the porch I froze mid way through unraveling my yoga mat.

Uncle Michael 1 flashed me. Under his t-shirt and shorts he was wearing a fluorescent green mankini. Yes a mankini like Borat. I asked if I could go back and get my camera and take a picture for my blog. Unfortunately he refused to have his picture taken but he doesn’t have much control over the blog. Evidently he had been walking around in the mankini without a cover-up while they were all waiting for me and the yoga teacher because she was running late (never again). Maybe we should all get matching ones? It could be our yogi uniform.

I am not the most coordinated, and Michael two and I kept getting our lefts and rights confused, no wonder I failed the Mensa entrance exam. J

While we were yogaing, I kept trying to follow what my uncle Michael 1 was doing when I got confused. “Downward what?”

At one point while in the splits. Uncle Michael one said to me,

“Stop looking at me, my goulashes are going to fall out.”

“Are you still wearing the mankini?”

Uncle Michael did manage to fall off his yoga blocks and I got physically stuck when I knelt on the ground and leaned backwards to rest backwards, and could not get back up, and had to have our teacher extract me. I looked like a chubby pretzel someone dropped on the ground because it didn’t have enough salt. I think I am probably hopeless at yoga. I fear Ill never be able to pick my nose with my toe like Eva. But I only went into yoga class with a simple goal, I would like for the first time in my life to be able to touch my toes. I am still not there yet but progress is gradual, kind of like Sciatica. I am planning to continue our family yoga, so if you come to Spurlingville on a Thursday morning and hear a lot of moaning you will know its just me trying to touch my toes, Carol doing in her knee, Uncle Michael two trying to get his right and left straight, and the rest trying not to get stuck in any position, including in sight of a mankini.

Our yoga teacher sent us this link after our last session. There is one way to get rid of the mankini and scare off all repair men, naked yoga.

I also stole this missive from my cousin Dana’s facebook page.




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