The four-year-old likes to be tickled. As is my policy, I always stop when he says "stop." It sometimes takes kids a while to get used to this-- they are used to tickling continuing, and most of them are fine with that-- but most catch on pretty quickly that if they really do want me to keep going, they just say "tickle me again!" and I will happily oblige. This boy has that one down pat.
One day as we were both standing in the kitchen, I asked if I could tickle him, and he said, "No!" Then he ran over to the dog's chair, laid on his back, and said, "NOW tickle me!" and I did.
A week ago Saturday, I walked in his house as his family was leaving for vacation (for which I have been house-and-dog-sitting). My young friend looked at me reprovingly and said, "'Neelya, when you come, you always tickle me."
I thought about how careful I had been about permission, and how, in fact, these days he usually asks first. I decided to point this out. "You usually ask to be tickled." He didn't really respond. Then the other shoe dropped. "Did you want me to tickle you now?"
"Yes!"
(So I did.)
Showing posts with label little person report. Show all posts
Showing posts with label little person report. Show all posts
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
The Wrong Tool For the Job
His father calls this one Sextus, but I rather like "Piglet" (like from Winnie-the-Pooh) because I always identified with Piglet's smallness and general confusion about what was going on, and I sometimes see that expression on this kid's face, too. We did monitor him to make sure that he didn't poke it in his eye or toddle off to an electrical outlet, and we did eventually take it away, but not before I got a picture first.
A few more pictures from the Provo trip shall follow (I hope).
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Overheard: Mother-to-child interaction
"... so don't complain to me. Daddy is the designated whine-ee."
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Hooray for technology!
Ivy started it, but I've finally followed her example: I read aloud to the neeflings over the phone-- either books checked out of the library or ones from our own collections. I know it sounds silly that I hadn't thought of this solution before, but I have to say that it is much less exhausting to read someone else's story aloud than to be making up your own all the time. (Also, beyond that, there's this sort of happiness that comes from making a kid happy, and this is one of the most easily accessible ways for me to get to that.)
The story I'm reading at any given time may be truly age-appropriate for only one kid (sometimes two), but frequently several of them will listen in, via speakerphone. I hadn't realized quite how popular this was until the other day when I called to read to Sroon, and his younger brother Quarto shouted, "SPEAK-er-phoooooone!" with the last part getting more faint as he ran off to the bedroom to tell the others what was about to commence.
The story I'm reading at any given time may be truly age-appropriate for only one kid (sometimes two), but frequently several of them will listen in, via speakerphone. I hadn't realized quite how popular this was until the other day when I called to read to Sroon, and his younger brother Quarto shouted, "SPEAK-er-phoooooone!" with the last part getting more faint as he ran off to the bedroom to tell the others what was about to commence.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Now We Can Do Story Problems In Our Head*
Sparker (my 7-year-old penguinnephew) recently learned to make his own oatmeal. The other morning, he was taking forever at it; he just kept staring into the measuring cup drawer. Finally, he asked where the one-sixth-cup measuring cup was. He had already put in one third of a cup of whatever it was, and what he needed was one-half cup, so he was looking for the one-sixth cup measure to fill out his amount.
*You know, kind of like A.A. Milne's "Now We Are Six"?
*You know, kind of like A.A. Milne's "Now We Are Six"?
Thursday, January 21, 2010
I can call Repentance with a song
In a household where I regularly visit lives a cat named Repentance (acquired, so I am told, at a time when the owner had a dog whose name was Faith). I am, miraculously, not allergic to this cat, which is pretty nice-- I even tried petting him the other day, which went fairly non-sneezingly.
I decided to try something that used to work on my mom's cat, and also (though I wasn't doing it intentionally) worked on the cows that live near my grandma's house: I sang to it to call it. Sure enough, it came. The first song we tried (myself and the small child who was with me) worked pretty well-- "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star"-- but the second one, one of my favorites from my childhood, worked even better. The version I learned as a child was adapted for the Primary Children's songbook from a longer piece (which I learned during voice lessons I took a couple of summers ago) by Felix Mendelssohn, from his oratorio Elijah. The words go like this: "If with all your hearts, ye truly seek me, Ye shall ever surely find me, Thus saith our God. Ye shall ever surely find me; Thus saith our God.
I decided to try something that used to work on my mom's cat, and also (though I wasn't doing it intentionally) worked on the cows that live near my grandma's house: I sang to it to call it. Sure enough, it came. The first song we tried (myself and the small child who was with me) worked pretty well-- "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star"-- but the second one, one of my favorites from my childhood, worked even better. The version I learned as a child was adapted for the Primary Children's songbook from a longer piece (which I learned during voice lessons I took a couple of summers ago) by Felix Mendelssohn, from his oratorio Elijah. The words go like this: "If with all your hearts, ye truly seek me, Ye shall ever surely find me, Thus saith our God. Ye shall ever surely find me; Thus saith our God.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
A Good Halloween Costume
My sister Klari called me this morning to tell me about her seven-year-old's Halloween costume. His first choice was to be a vampire cow. I told her that a couple of his cousins, the youngest two Weathercolour boys, wanted to be a vampire cat and a vampire wolf (I think) respectively. She wondered if maybe he had been talking to them (my alternative theories include possible exposure to the Bunnicula series or else that vampires in general are so popular in our wider culture that both households have picked up on it and then simply combined it with the general young-person love of being an animal for Halloween). I thought that it was a great idea, but Klari said that she didn't have the resources to pull together a vampire cow costume in the time available. (Mrs. Weathercolour happens to have fake blood at the ready, so it was relatively easy for her.)
Klari offered her son a choice of costumes which were within her power to create. He picked to be a stoplight, just like our mother (his Nana) had years before: black garbage bag with a hole in it for your head, three construction-paper circles, and some tape to hold the circles on will do it. He walked around all day feeling very pleased with his costume, and expressed his happiness by saying numerous times that he was dee-liiigh-ted.
Klari offered her son a choice of costumes which were within her power to create. He picked to be a stoplight, just like our mother (his Nana) had years before: black garbage bag with a hole in it for your head, three construction-paper circles, and some tape to hold the circles on will do it. He walked around all day feeling very pleased with his costume, and expressed his happiness by saying numerous times that he was dee-liiigh-ted.
Monday, August 31, 2009
It's just a stage
The last time I moved within Provo, my sister, Mrs. Weathercolour, came over with her children to help. At one point, she left to run an errand, but left her youngest sons, Sroon and Quarto, with me. I thought about how I might entertain the boys while I kept packing. I remembered recent incidents in which Quarto had engaged in toilet-paper-roll-unrolling (in to the household toilet). I had comforted my sister at the time by reminding her that this is a normal stage for kids to go through, and wasn't she lucky that she hadn't had to call a plumber? I remembered that I had a roll of athletic tape lying around which was about ten years old, which was getting a bit un-sticky. I said, "would you like to unroll this roll of tape?" and the boys enthusiastically agreed. The only hitch in this plan happened after my sister got back with her older two children; they were very disappointed to have missed out on such a treat as being allowed to deliberately unroll an entire half-roll of tape.
(My grandfather, on the other hand, would not have made this mistake. Grandma once left him to watch their four kids-- I take it that this wasn't a terribly common arrangement for them, but he was willing enough in this instance-- and he sat calmly reading the newspaper while the kids (all ages) unrolled an entire four-pack of toilet paper around the inside walls of the house. You know how you can sometimes walk an entire circuit inside of a house, almost like a track? They just walked around the track, unrolling toilet paper as they went. And every time Grandma tells this story, she mentions in tones of amazement that they never once broke the toilet paper. And then she chuckles.)
Or, there is also the butter-or-margarine-eating stage, which actually comes around the same time as the unrolling stage. When my oldest nephew ate an entire cube of margarine by himself while his mother wasn't looking, my sister, who wasn't yet aware that this was a stage, called her neighbor-friend who already had several children. "Oh, yes, it's just a stage. I still remember when my younger brother's hands were so covered with butter that he couldn't get the bedroom door open. He'll grow out of it." And he did.
Another stage I've been thinking about lately is the must-be-translated stage. One of the reasons why kids with perfectly good pronunciation sometimes ask repeatedly for confirmation that you have heard what they have said is because not so long ago, their pronunciation was anything but perfect, and a grownup's wild guess as to the kid's meaning was that kid's only pathway to communication.
Such as: the other day, the youngest Weathercolour child was trying to pull her sister's hair clip out of her sister's hair. I suggested to Mrs. Weathercolour that she offer a hair clip to the child who was trying to take one.
"Would you like a hair clip?" she asked.
"Bra-brie."
"Strawberry?" Clearly there had been a breakdown in communication. My sister tried again: "Would you like a hair clip?"
"Bra-brie."
"Probably?"
Vigorous nodding confirmed that my sister's second guess had, indeed, been correct. The kid got a hair clip.
(My grandfather, on the other hand, would not have made this mistake. Grandma once left him to watch their four kids-- I take it that this wasn't a terribly common arrangement for them, but he was willing enough in this instance-- and he sat calmly reading the newspaper while the kids (all ages) unrolled an entire four-pack of toilet paper around the inside walls of the house. You know how you can sometimes walk an entire circuit inside of a house, almost like a track? They just walked around the track, unrolling toilet paper as they went. And every time Grandma tells this story, she mentions in tones of amazement that they never once broke the toilet paper. And then she chuckles.)
Or, there is also the butter-or-margarine-eating stage, which actually comes around the same time as the unrolling stage. When my oldest nephew ate an entire cube of margarine by himself while his mother wasn't looking, my sister, who wasn't yet aware that this was a stage, called her neighbor-friend who already had several children. "Oh, yes, it's just a stage. I still remember when my younger brother's hands were so covered with butter that he couldn't get the bedroom door open. He'll grow out of it." And he did.
Another stage I've been thinking about lately is the must-be-translated stage. One of the reasons why kids with perfectly good pronunciation sometimes ask repeatedly for confirmation that you have heard what they have said is because not so long ago, their pronunciation was anything but perfect, and a grownup's wild guess as to the kid's meaning was that kid's only pathway to communication.
Such as: the other day, the youngest Weathercolour child was trying to pull her sister's hair clip out of her sister's hair. I suggested to Mrs. Weathercolour that she offer a hair clip to the child who was trying to take one.
"Would you like a hair clip?" she asked.
"Bra-brie."
"Strawberry?" Clearly there had been a breakdown in communication. My sister tried again: "Would you like a hair clip?"
"Bra-brie."
"Probably?"
Vigorous nodding confirmed that my sister's second guess had, indeed, been correct. The kid got a hair clip.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Neefling Stories
E (age 6; has just walked in from outside): I just made an octopus with two legs!
In his hand he is holding a dandelion with the stem split in to two relatively even pieces, still attached to the head.
H (age 10, given to smart remarks): That's a du-pus (pronounced "dew-puss")
M (age 8, also quite clever): Or a bi-pus.
Earlier, my sister had told me about how they took the children up to the School District place where they test the kids to see if they are extra-smart. (Hers are, which none of us are terribly surprised about.) As they were leaving the building, H stopped and said, in his monotone robot-voice: "Kinetic energy overload imminent," and then ran to the doors and burst through them. But not literally.
Nine-year-old niece, who is using a puppet-clad hand to open the office door (she is talking for the puppet): "I sure hope that this tastes good."
And finally, for Family Home Evening last night, my sister got out Behold Your Little Ones, the new church manual for one-and-a-half-to-four-year-old children, and asked my youngest nephew to talk about a picture he liked. That was the lesson. He liked this so much that he said, "Now another lesson!" and flipped to another picture, and did it all over again.
In his hand he is holding a dandelion with the stem split in to two relatively even pieces, still attached to the head.
H (age 10, given to smart remarks): That's a du-pus (pronounced "dew-puss")
M (age 8, also quite clever): Or a bi-pus.
Earlier, my sister had told me about how they took the children up to the School District place where they test the kids to see if they are extra-smart. (Hers are, which none of us are terribly surprised about.) As they were leaving the building, H stopped and said, in his monotone robot-voice: "Kinetic energy overload imminent," and then ran to the doors and burst through them. But not literally.
Nine-year-old niece, who is using a puppet-clad hand to open the office door (she is talking for the puppet): "I sure hope that this tastes good."
And finally, for Family Home Evening last night, my sister got out Behold Your Little Ones, the new church manual for one-and-a-half-to-four-year-old children, and asked my youngest nephew to talk about a picture he liked. That was the lesson. He liked this so much that he said, "Now another lesson!" and flipped to another picture, and did it all over again.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Tooth Fairy-ing by mail
No, not tooth ferry-ing by mail, although it involves that, too.
With me in Maryland (at the moment) and my beloved fairy-ees in Utah, my normal tooth fairying activities have been, of a necessity, interrupted. For the Weathercolour household, I deputized replacement fairys before I left, but I hadn't planned on needing to (don't know where my brain was) for Klari's kids.
Sure enough, The Great Event happened in Klari's almost-six-year-old's life: he lost his first tooth. They called as soon as it was in danger (after all, when you not only know who your tooth fairy is, but have your tooth fairy's phone number, calling is only the natural step to take when you feel that first wiggling). The next day, it actually fell out, and said nephew was very concerned that he get his due sleepover, so he called again.
I explained as gently as I could that I wouldn't be able to come out any time soon. Then, I had a (probable) Stroke of Brilliance. I suggested that he mail the tooth to me, and I would mail the money to him. I am deeply hoping that the coolness of getting a real, live letter in the mail from your auntie/tooth fairy will somehow be close enough to the coolness of having her sleep over.
There is one small glitch, which is that I am going to my grandmother Tommy's house in California for a month, quite soon. She has been ill and I am currently unemployed and am therefore have the freedom to make a visit. I told my nephew that if I happened to leave before his tooth got here, I would have Nana or Papa forward it to me. He was, perhaps, concerned that I would forget to mention it to them.
"Can I talk to Papa?"
"No, I'm sorry, he's on a walk."
"What about Nana?"
"I'm sorry, darling, but she's at work. Shall I have Papa call you later when he gets in?"
"Yes."
So I nagged my father until he called, but by then my nephew seemed to have forgotten about it, so I also didn't worry about it any more.
However, last Saturday, I got a call from Klari, informing me that they had just mailed off the tooth. (Incidentally, she shares my feelings about how gross teeth are, and therefore, unlike my older sister, has no desire to get her childrens' teeth back after I have traded them for Sacagawea (had to look that spelling up) gold dollars.)
After she told me to expect the envelope some time this week, she informed me that my niece, T, also wanted to talk to me.
T wanted reassurance that I would not mix her teeth up with her brother's. I didn't think that this was a big deal, and reassured her that I would not. She asked again. I told her again that I didn't think this would happen. When she asked the third time, I remembered (should have remembered this the first time) that my entire tooth-fairy kit is in Utah (including her collected-but-not-returned teeth), and if I am receiving her brother's teeth here or in California, there is ABSOLUTELY NO WAY that I could get them mixed up.
Whew. Glad that's clear. Now I have to figure how much in postage it is going to cost to mail a $1 coin. Life gets more expensive all the time, I tell you, but at least I'll be doing my part to support our sagging economy.
With me in Maryland (at the moment) and my beloved fairy-ees in Utah, my normal tooth fairying activities have been, of a necessity, interrupted. For the Weathercolour household, I deputized replacement fairys before I left, but I hadn't planned on needing to (don't know where my brain was) for Klari's kids.
Sure enough, The Great Event happened in Klari's almost-six-year-old's life: he lost his first tooth. They called as soon as it was in danger (after all, when you not only know who your tooth fairy is, but have your tooth fairy's phone number, calling is only the natural step to take when you feel that first wiggling). The next day, it actually fell out, and said nephew was very concerned that he get his due sleepover, so he called again.
I explained as gently as I could that I wouldn't be able to come out any time soon. Then, I had a (probable) Stroke of Brilliance. I suggested that he mail the tooth to me, and I would mail the money to him. I am deeply hoping that the coolness of getting a real, live letter in the mail from your auntie/tooth fairy will somehow be close enough to the coolness of having her sleep over.
There is one small glitch, which is that I am going to my grandmother Tommy's house in California for a month, quite soon. She has been ill and I am currently unemployed and am therefore have the freedom to make a visit. I told my nephew that if I happened to leave before his tooth got here, I would have Nana or Papa forward it to me. He was, perhaps, concerned that I would forget to mention it to them.
"Can I talk to Papa?"
"No, I'm sorry, he's on a walk."
"What about Nana?"
"I'm sorry, darling, but she's at work. Shall I have Papa call you later when he gets in?"
"Yes."
So I nagged my father until he called, but by then my nephew seemed to have forgotten about it, so I also didn't worry about it any more.
However, last Saturday, I got a call from Klari, informing me that they had just mailed off the tooth. (Incidentally, she shares my feelings about how gross teeth are, and therefore, unlike my older sister, has no desire to get her childrens' teeth back after I have traded them for Sacagawea (had to look that spelling up) gold dollars.)
After she told me to expect the envelope some time this week, she informed me that my niece, T, also wanted to talk to me.
T wanted reassurance that I would not mix her teeth up with her brother's. I didn't think that this was a big deal, and reassured her that I would not. She asked again. I told her again that I didn't think this would happen. When she asked the third time, I remembered (should have remembered this the first time) that my entire tooth-fairy kit is in Utah (including her collected-but-not-returned teeth), and if I am receiving her brother's teeth here or in California, there is ABSOLUTELY NO WAY that I could get them mixed up.
Whew. Glad that's clear. Now I have to figure how much in postage it is going to cost to mail a $1 coin. Life gets more expensive all the time, I tell you, but at least I'll be doing my part to support our sagging economy.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Coolness within R---------
I'm too tired to think of a made-up name for the village I'm staying in, so I've adopted the Victorian convention of starting the name with a letter (which in this case is not the correct one), and ending it with a line.
So. The little tram station that I wait at to go in to Frankfurt is a whole lot like the TRAXX stations in Salt Lake City, but because it is in Germany, it is cooler. Also, the trains are red, or at least the ones that come here are, and that makes it even more cool. And picturesque. I should take a picture, speaking of which.
The city library is so close to the tram station that it could BE the tram station if it were not the library. In fact, I'm not really sure why they have a library where by rights the train station ought to be, though I do know that there is a little counter where a man sits and sells tickets in person instead of by machine, in a little teeny building off to the side of the library. No, not phone-booth tiny. Garden shed tiny.
The local recreation center is currently celebrating a birthday over 100 years. They were selling commemorative t-shirts, which I noticed as we were going out after going to the sport-for-under-threes at said recreation center. Wow.
Conversation with a child in my class (the one I'm volunteering in) who shall be known as S:
S (giving me a puzzled, yet not unfriendly, look): Where do you live?
Me: Near the plant store.
S: I don't know where the plant store is.
Me: Well, then near the [here I struggle, and fail, to find the word for "train station"]. Or, the library. Do you know where the library is?
S: Yeah.
Me: I live at near the library.
S: But I've never seen you there.
Me: Ah, well, I only visit the library, and you only visit the library, so maybe that's why you haven't seen me there. I don't live in the library, I live in near the library.
S: But I haven't seen you there.
Me: [Not for the first time nor for the last, I have no reply that I can say in German.]
So. The little tram station that I wait at to go in to Frankfurt is a whole lot like the TRAXX stations in Salt Lake City, but because it is in Germany, it is cooler. Also, the trains are red, or at least the ones that come here are, and that makes it even more cool. And picturesque. I should take a picture, speaking of which.
The city library is so close to the tram station that it could BE the tram station if it were not the library. In fact, I'm not really sure why they have a library where by rights the train station ought to be, though I do know that there is a little counter where a man sits and sells tickets in person instead of by machine, in a little teeny building off to the side of the library. No, not phone-booth tiny. Garden shed tiny.
The local recreation center is currently celebrating a birthday over 100 years. They were selling commemorative t-shirts, which I noticed as we were going out after going to the sport-for-under-threes at said recreation center. Wow.
Conversation with a child in my class (the one I'm volunteering in) who shall be known as S:
S (giving me a puzzled, yet not unfriendly, look): Where do you live?
Me: Near the plant store.
S: I don't know where the plant store is.
Me: Well, then near the [here I struggle, and fail, to find the word for "train station"]. Or, the library. Do you know where the library is?
S: Yeah.
Me: I live at near the library.
S: But I've never seen you there.
Me: Ah, well, I only visit the library, and you only visit the library, so maybe that's why you haven't seen me there. I don't live in the library, I live in near the library.
S: But I haven't seen you there.
Me: [Not for the first time nor for the last, I have no reply that I can say in German.]
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Maybe it shouldn't be funny...
but it is.
I bought a plane ticket a week ago today. I meant to buy one for Freiburg, Germany. Instead, I accidentally bought one for Frankfurt. Because it is expensive to change plane tickets, and because I didn't have any specific plans for particular cities, I've decided that I'm just going to go to Frankfurt.
The other day in the car, my nephews were buckling themselves in to their car seats, pretending that the Big Bad Wolf was coming and that they had to attach themselves to their ziplines so that they could get away. Then their mother got in the car.
"Is that the Big Bad Wolf?" one asked the other.
"No, that's the Big, Good Pig" was the reply.
I had to wait a minute to start the car, because we were both laughing so hard.
A couple of weeks ago, I looked up to see a stark-naked nephew standing in the doorway of my room. "Look!" he said. "The mailman just gave me the mail!" And indeed he had.
I bought a plane ticket a week ago today. I meant to buy one for Freiburg, Germany. Instead, I accidentally bought one for Frankfurt. Because it is expensive to change plane tickets, and because I didn't have any specific plans for particular cities, I've decided that I'm just going to go to Frankfurt.
The other day in the car, my nephews were buckling themselves in to their car seats, pretending that the Big Bad Wolf was coming and that they had to attach themselves to their ziplines so that they could get away. Then their mother got in the car.
"Is that the Big Bad Wolf?" one asked the other.
"No, that's the Big, Good Pig" was the reply.
I had to wait a minute to start the car, because we were both laughing so hard.
A couple of weeks ago, I looked up to see a stark-naked nephew standing in the doorway of my room. "Look!" he said. "The mailman just gave me the mail!" And indeed he had.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Vampire Jellyfish
I have WAY not been keeping up with the stories I've been making up for the neeflings of late; there's a whole spate of witch-princess stories, and then there are the vampire jellyfish that I'm just going to give you the highlights of now.
Oh. The vampire jellyfish were, as usual, not my idea. They are the idea of the resident six-year-old--the one who, with his sister, also has a mania for princess-witches. I have, so far, gotten away with telling about the vampire part of vampire jellyfish only once in the several stories I've told. I would be pleased to keep it that way, so if you see said six-year-old, please don't point it out to him. The stories themselves have been, in my opinion, lacking in plot, so I'm just going to give you the most interesting bits in this post.
Such as: vampire jellyfish have cell phones, though they are an unusual kind of cell phone. Vampire jellyfish are actually quite good at drawing, so they just draw extremely accurate portraits of each other, and the vampire jellyfish cellphone telephone operator looks at the picture and then connects you with the person (/jellyfish) you want to talk to. (Later in the story, the operators have been replaced by computers.) This can lead to problems from time to time; for instance, when you are very tired and hungry and trembling, you might accidentally call the meanest jellyfish in the world instead of calling your grandmother. Or, if your cell phone screen is busted so that it only shows half of the picture you draw, you might not be able to call anyone unless it is the magical good old lady jellyfish that you were kind to earlier, who can help you get away from a predator (yet to be determined; I'm really not sure what things eat jellyfish, though I've promised to look it up).
Oh. The vampire jellyfish were, as usual, not my idea. They are the idea of the resident six-year-old--the one who, with his sister, also has a mania for princess-witches. I have, so far, gotten away with telling about the vampire part of vampire jellyfish only once in the several stories I've told. I would be pleased to keep it that way, so if you see said six-year-old, please don't point it out to him. The stories themselves have been, in my opinion, lacking in plot, so I'm just going to give you the most interesting bits in this post.
Such as: vampire jellyfish have cell phones, though they are an unusual kind of cell phone. Vampire jellyfish are actually quite good at drawing, so they just draw extremely accurate portraits of each other, and the vampire jellyfish cellphone telephone operator looks at the picture and then connects you with the person (/jellyfish) you want to talk to. (Later in the story, the operators have been replaced by computers.) This can lead to problems from time to time; for instance, when you are very tired and hungry and trembling, you might accidentally call the meanest jellyfish in the world instead of calling your grandmother. Or, if your cell phone screen is busted so that it only shows half of the picture you draw, you might not be able to call anyone unless it is the magical good old lady jellyfish that you were kind to earlier, who can help you get away from a predator (yet to be determined; I'm really not sure what things eat jellyfish, though I've promised to look it up).
Friday, November 14, 2008
Pizza Adventures
Last night, I went with my older sister and her five young children to get pizza. Because we are a frugal family, and because the only working car available to us at the moment has only five seat belts, we took the bus. Two women, five children (four walkers and a babe-in-arms), a stroller, two backpacks, and, on the way home, six pizzas.
A friend once told me that an adventure is when you don't know how something is going to turn out. This expedition fell in to that category.
First, there was a misunderstanding about the bus route, and I (being the more experienced bus rider among us) only figured it out just in time to get us off the bus at the right stop. I was happy that I had come.
Then we walked and we walked and we walked and we walked and we walked until we came to Blackjack Pizza, where the children had coupons from the library's Summer Reading Program to get individual pizzas as long as their mother purchased something else, too. (I was very thankful that the pizza place wasn't too busy, because that meant that our general largeness and craziness didn't throw them off too much.)
The fun thing about this pizza place is that they make their pizzas fresh, meaning that they take the dough and roll it out and sometimes toss it to make it bigger before they put the toppings on it and put it in the oven to bake. Whoever designed that kitchen so that you can see them making and then baking (in a conveyor-belt oven) pizzas is a GENIUS.
We were a very appreciative audience. Whenever one of the employees started throwing the dough around, we would gasp in wonder, and I would hold the three-year-old up, and the older two children would stand up on their chairs to watch. We finally pushed three of the four chairs over to the counter for better viewing, because the counter was more than four feet tall. I commented to my sister than when I was little, I would only have ever seen something like this on TV, never live. I felt pleased that these neeflings are getting a more--er--rounded cultural experience than I did, growing up.
The pizza guys enjoyed the attention. I wouldn't have known this for sure, but after all of the pizzas were in the oven (ours plus some others from phone orders), two of the guys started throwing pizza bases over and over again, to the sound of our amazed ooohing and aaahing, throwing them until they became larger than any pizza I had seen them make yet, and finally they became so large and so thin that the middles broke up, and then they smooshed them together and threw them over against the wall, where they (the pizza bases) splatted neatly in to the garbage can.
We sang as we walked back to the bus stop. My sister and I were the only ones singing, but it was very beautiful because our voices go so well together, and we sang harmony. The children walked an exceptionally long "balance-beam"-- you know, the curb, which in this case was dividing a very not busy parking lot from the sidewalk we were on.
At the bus stop, we saw a man waiting for the bus (by now it was late enough that missing a bus would be a big deal), and he assured us that even though the schedule said it should have been gone by then, it hadn't, because he had been there on time. Hooray! We ended up riding on the same bus to the Wilk, where we waited for the next bus together. As we waited, my sister haded the children their pizzas and let them start eating them, and I started on mine. I offered the man a slice of my pizza (he looked kind of hungry). He accepted. My sister offered him a slice of hers, too, and he again accepted. She noticed a lady sitting on a bench facing the other way who looked like she might want some, and offered her some, and she accepted too. It was a regular bus-stop pizza party.
When we boarded the bus home, Quarto (the three-year-old) boarded the bus with us and then calmly walked to the back of the bus, where there were other people but none that he knew, and sat down almost out of view of his mother and I, who were at the front. We only noticed this as we were hopping off after the very short ride home, and counting noses. The bus driver thought that it was so funny that he had to tell my sister a story (as she was standing on the street, having exited the bus with all of her offspring in tow) about how once his own child had been playing in the (locked) back yard, and had climbed over the fence to the neighbors' yard, played on the neighbors' motorcycle, taken the key, climbed back over the fence, and lost the key-- all unbeknownst to his parents. They found out that the child had left the yard when the neighbors questioned them. They found the key when the snow melted, the next spring.
A friend once told me that an adventure is when you don't know how something is going to turn out. This expedition fell in to that category.
First, there was a misunderstanding about the bus route, and I (being the more experienced bus rider among us) only figured it out just in time to get us off the bus at the right stop. I was happy that I had come.
Then we walked and we walked and we walked and we walked and we walked until we came to Blackjack Pizza, where the children had coupons from the library's Summer Reading Program to get individual pizzas as long as their mother purchased something else, too. (I was very thankful that the pizza place wasn't too busy, because that meant that our general largeness and craziness didn't throw them off too much.)
The fun thing about this pizza place is that they make their pizzas fresh, meaning that they take the dough and roll it out and sometimes toss it to make it bigger before they put the toppings on it and put it in the oven to bake. Whoever designed that kitchen so that you can see them making and then baking (in a conveyor-belt oven) pizzas is a GENIUS.
We were a very appreciative audience. Whenever one of the employees started throwing the dough around, we would gasp in wonder, and I would hold the three-year-old up, and the older two children would stand up on their chairs to watch. We finally pushed three of the four chairs over to the counter for better viewing, because the counter was more than four feet tall. I commented to my sister than when I was little, I would only have ever seen something like this on TV, never live. I felt pleased that these neeflings are getting a more--er--rounded cultural experience than I did, growing up.
The pizza guys enjoyed the attention. I wouldn't have known this for sure, but after all of the pizzas were in the oven (ours plus some others from phone orders), two of the guys started throwing pizza bases over and over again, to the sound of our amazed ooohing and aaahing, throwing them until they became larger than any pizza I had seen them make yet, and finally they became so large and so thin that the middles broke up, and then they smooshed them together and threw them over against the wall, where they (the pizza bases) splatted neatly in to the garbage can.
We sang as we walked back to the bus stop. My sister and I were the only ones singing, but it was very beautiful because our voices go so well together, and we sang harmony. The children walked an exceptionally long "balance-beam"-- you know, the curb, which in this case was dividing a very not busy parking lot from the sidewalk we were on.
At the bus stop, we saw a man waiting for the bus (by now it was late enough that missing a bus would be a big deal), and he assured us that even though the schedule said it should have been gone by then, it hadn't, because he had been there on time. Hooray! We ended up riding on the same bus to the Wilk, where we waited for the next bus together. As we waited, my sister haded the children their pizzas and let them start eating them, and I started on mine. I offered the man a slice of my pizza (he looked kind of hungry). He accepted. My sister offered him a slice of hers, too, and he again accepted. She noticed a lady sitting on a bench facing the other way who looked like she might want some, and offered her some, and she accepted too. It was a regular bus-stop pizza party.
When we boarded the bus home, Quarto (the three-year-old) boarded the bus with us and then calmly walked to the back of the bus, where there were other people but none that he knew, and sat down almost out of view of his mother and I, who were at the front. We only noticed this as we were hopping off after the very short ride home, and counting noses. The bus driver thought that it was so funny that he had to tell my sister a story (as she was standing on the street, having exited the bus with all of her offspring in tow) about how once his own child had been playing in the (locked) back yard, and had climbed over the fence to the neighbors' yard, played on the neighbors' motorcycle, taken the key, climbed back over the fence, and lost the key-- all unbeknownst to his parents. They found out that the child had left the yard when the neighbors questioned them. They found the key when the snow melted, the next spring.
Cool Stuff my sister has been doing
I am number two in a family with five girls and a boy at the end. Number three has been doing various cool things, which I wanted to report on.
I must mention that this sister is the person I would, hands down, vote most likely to receive an honorary PhD in ornithology.
Specializing in Penguins.
On her (relatively) recent family trip to California, they went to both Disneyland and Sea World. She was in seventh heaven listening to the penguin show, even though she has learned so much about penguins on her own that the only new thing she learned was that a penguin body was called a "fusiform". At the end of the presentation, they asked a "quiz" question, and whoever in the audience who got it right would receive the privilege of going to the back and getting to actually meet the penguins and their keepers. The question they happened to ask was, "What is the name of a penguin body?"
Her mind went blank.
[Wait.... wait....]
Her husband's hand shot up in the air! He remembered right away! And they let the whole family go back to see them. (She has worried in the past that her children are sort of being brainwashed into liking penguins, just because she likes them so much, but I pointed out that there are worse things than being brainwashed into liking penguins.) Her husband didn't even do any petting; he just took pictures of my sister and the kids having the time of their lives with real, live penguins.
On the way home from California, they accomplished a feat which she had never thought possible with her eight- and five- year old children. They got through all of Jacob 5 in one day of family scripture study. This is how it happened: they had scriptures in digital-audio format, and the kids were strapped in their car seats. They were a captive audience. (Not recommended for an every-day sort of activity, but what else are you really going to do when you're crossing Death Valley?)
About a week after they got home, she was talking to me and telling me these stories, and she mentioned that she had changed her car's oil filter. Because they have switched to synthetic oil, it's the filter that needs to be changed more often than the oil itself, and she proudly told me about how she did it all by herself in only five hours, including procrastination time, and that was with her five-year-old watching. He may not have thought it was all impressive, but she felt like a pretty cool mom, and I agreed. I think that the ramps you drive up to get the car off the ground may have a lot to do with the coolness factor, but just doing anything to maintain or fix a car is pretty cool to start with.
I must mention that this sister is the person I would, hands down, vote most likely to receive an honorary PhD in ornithology.
Specializing in Penguins.
On her (relatively) recent family trip to California, they went to both Disneyland and Sea World. She was in seventh heaven listening to the penguin show, even though she has learned so much about penguins on her own that the only new thing she learned was that a penguin body was called a "fusiform". At the end of the presentation, they asked a "quiz" question, and whoever in the audience who got it right would receive the privilege of going to the back and getting to actually meet the penguins and their keepers. The question they happened to ask was, "What is the name of a penguin body?"
Her mind went blank.
[Wait.... wait....]
Her husband's hand shot up in the air! He remembered right away! And they let the whole family go back to see them. (She has worried in the past that her children are sort of being brainwashed into liking penguins, just because she likes them so much, but I pointed out that there are worse things than being brainwashed into liking penguins.) Her husband didn't even do any petting; he just took pictures of my sister and the kids having the time of their lives with real, live penguins.
On the way home from California, they accomplished a feat which she had never thought possible with her eight- and five- year old children. They got through all of Jacob 5 in one day of family scripture study. This is how it happened: they had scriptures in digital-audio format, and the kids were strapped in their car seats. They were a captive audience. (Not recommended for an every-day sort of activity, but what else are you really going to do when you're crossing Death Valley?)
About a week after they got home, she was talking to me and telling me these stories, and she mentioned that she had changed her car's oil filter. Because they have switched to synthetic oil, it's the filter that needs to be changed more often than the oil itself, and she proudly told me about how she did it all by herself in only five hours, including procrastination time, and that was with her five-year-old watching. He may not have thought it was all impressive, but she felt like a pretty cool mom, and I agreed. I think that the ramps you drive up to get the car off the ground may have a lot to do with the coolness factor, but just doing anything to maintain or fix a car is pretty cool to start with.
Monday, October 27, 2008
The Quotable Neighborhood Logician
There is a person in my life who is almost six, who is very bright, and who is extremely logical. Some people think that children are not logical, but when one examines their supposed illogicalities, it often turns out that it is the grownup world which is illogical.
I will tell these three stories/quotes in reverse chronological order, simply so that I can put the funniest one last. They happened last night.
I was talking to said logician about when Jesus visited the Nephites, and the Nephites brought their children forward, and the children were surrounded by fire. He looked alarmed. I explained that it looked like fire, but it didn't burn them, so it wasn't really fire. He said, "Oh, so it was like wooden fire?" (His dad pointed out that a wooden sword is a sword that isn't really a sword and doesn't really hurt people, so maybe a wooden fire is analogous.)
Earlier than that, I explained that Jesus had to leave the Nephites to go visit other people. I was asked how he traveled. I said that he went up in to heaven, just like he came down, and that when he went to see the other people, he probably came down out of heaven again the same way. My logician looked confused. Then he said, "Oh, sort of like the cow jumping over the moon."
Still earlier, I was trying to explain the difference between the law of Moses and the law that Jesus taught in the Sermon on the Mount. I was explaining that the way Moses taught, if someone poked out your eye, you were not allowed to poke out both of their eyes and break their arms and their legs. You can JUST poke out one eye. The logician's reply was: "Or, if someone pokes out your eye, you can run the other way."
And the only answer to that is: yes. Logic wins the day again.
I will tell these three stories/quotes in reverse chronological order, simply so that I can put the funniest one last. They happened last night.
I was talking to said logician about when Jesus visited the Nephites, and the Nephites brought their children forward, and the children were surrounded by fire. He looked alarmed. I explained that it looked like fire, but it didn't burn them, so it wasn't really fire. He said, "Oh, so it was like wooden fire?" (His dad pointed out that a wooden sword is a sword that isn't really a sword and doesn't really hurt people, so maybe a wooden fire is analogous.)
Earlier than that, I explained that Jesus had to leave the Nephites to go visit other people. I was asked how he traveled. I said that he went up in to heaven, just like he came down, and that when he went to see the other people, he probably came down out of heaven again the same way. My logician looked confused. Then he said, "Oh, sort of like the cow jumping over the moon."
Still earlier, I was trying to explain the difference between the law of Moses and the law that Jesus taught in the Sermon on the Mount. I was explaining that the way Moses taught, if someone poked out your eye, you were not allowed to poke out both of their eyes and break their arms and their legs. You can JUST poke out one eye. The logician's reply was: "Or, if someone pokes out your eye, you can run the other way."
And the only answer to that is: yes. Logic wins the day again.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Small Conversation
My sister, as she examines her second-youngest's head: "Darling, did you cut your hair?"
Child (aged three): "No. Not today."
Child (aged three): "No. Not today."
Friday, October 3, 2008
The Brothers Grimm Come in Handy
The other night, when her mother asked her to put some dishes away, my niece wailed, "Why?!" in such a distressed tone that I answered,
"Because you are now Cinderella, and you will have to act as a maid and do all of the housework from now until you are eighteen. Luckily, you will then get to marry a handsome prince, and live happily ever after. I, on the other hand, will get to marry a duke whom you are gracious enough to offer me."
She started working.
"I won't even miss the toe that I cut off so that my foot would fit in to the slipper that the prince had brought in hopes of finding you."
Then her mother chimed in, "I, on the other hand, will have my eyes pecked out by the birds, because of their sympathy to you."
By now she was smiling. Sometimes it comes in handy to know the corpus of a couple of old German Linguists.
"Because you are now Cinderella, and you will have to act as a maid and do all of the housework from now until you are eighteen. Luckily, you will then get to marry a handsome prince, and live happily ever after. I, on the other hand, will get to marry a duke whom you are gracious enough to offer me."
She started working.
"I won't even miss the toe that I cut off so that my foot would fit in to the slipper that the prince had brought in hopes of finding you."
Then her mother chimed in, "I, on the other hand, will have my eyes pecked out by the birds, because of their sympathy to you."
By now she was smiling. Sometimes it comes in handy to know the corpus of a couple of old German Linguists.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
I'm Yours
My youngest nephew, when he is in trouble, will say (to whoever is punishing him), "I'm not [yours]!" For instance, if I am bodily removing him from a situation where he is kicking a sibling, he will say, "I'm not Auntie Cornelia's!" Or, if it is his father who is doing the removing, he will say, "I'm not Daddy's!"
When he is in a good mood, he will say, "I'm Mummy's, and Daddy's, and Auntie Cornelia's, and A's (his younger sister)."
The other day, when he was letting us know how much he loved us in this way, his father said, "Yes, but this morning you said you were the garbage truck's!" You have to understand that he is of an age when garbage trucks are very impressive/attractive.
Evidently this reprimand had an impact, because tonight when I was on the phone with my sister, and he was being excited to come pick me up from school, he said, "I'm Mummy's, and Daddy's, and Auntie Cornelia's, and A's, and not the garbage truck's."
"Not the garbage truck's?"
"Not the garbage truck's."
I felt loved.
When he is in a good mood, he will say, "I'm Mummy's, and Daddy's, and Auntie Cornelia's, and A's (his younger sister)."
The other day, when he was letting us know how much he loved us in this way, his father said, "Yes, but this morning you said you were the garbage truck's!" You have to understand that he is of an age when garbage trucks are very impressive/attractive.
Evidently this reprimand had an impact, because tonight when I was on the phone with my sister, and he was being excited to come pick me up from school, he said, "I'm Mummy's, and Daddy's, and Auntie Cornelia's, and A's, and not the garbage truck's."
"Not the garbage truck's?"
"Not the garbage truck's."
I felt loved.
Friday, September 19, 2008
How I Became the (/a) Tooth Fairy
The other day, my sister and I were discussing the fact that I am the tooth fairy, and her daughter asked how it came about that I was the tooth fairy, so I told her the story, and now I am telling it here.
The Halloween when I was fifteen, I dressed up as a tooth fairy. I had a kind-of-fancy greenish-hued dress, and I happened to have a piece of matching tulle (tulle is a kind of gauzy fabric) and I decided to make a little gold-foil-covered box labeled "teeth". And I did. That was fun, but like the vast majority of Halloween costumes, it really was just a joke.
A few days after Halloween, however, my younger brother, who was five, woke up in the morning, and said, "Cornelia, the tooth fairy didn't come!" I told him to go back to sleep, and once he had gone back in his room, I looked all around our small house in search of a quarter (which was the going rate for teeth in those days). I think I finally got one from my dad. Anyway, I went in L's room, and slipped the quarter under his pillow, and took the tooth, and thought everything had gone just fine. But then, not long afterward, he came in the living room and announced, "That wasn't the tooth fairy, that was you!"
To which I replied, "How do you know I'm not the tooth fairy?" and he got a mystified look on his face, as though he were seriously considering it.
I loved this story and told it fairly often in the next few years.
My older sister had her oldest child five years later, when I was twenty. When I was twenty-five, her family moved to Australia.
A short time after that, her oldest (if you count, he was five by then) started losing his teeth. In a phone conversation with my sister, she mentioned casually that I was the tooth fairy for her children. I said: What? She repeated herself. She said that she tells her children that every family has a tooth fairy, and every family has a Santa Claus, and every family has an Easter Bunny. In their family, the tooth fairy is Aunite Cornelia, and the rest is a mystery for them (the children) to figure out.
I went with the flow. When my sister's next child got old enough to start asking such questions as, "Does Auntie Cornelia come here by magic to get our teeth?" I told her that I could deputize people. It's only in hindsight that I realize that I never explained what "deputize" means, but maybe that's all for the best. She (having never seen me at work, and perhaps only having a hazy idea of exactly what a tooth fairy does) drew me wearing a dress made of teeth. Just for the record, the teeth themselves are not my favorite part of the job. I was a little weirded out by the thought of that picture, but I let it ride.
So, I was just a theoretical tooth fairy, but then my other sister who has children started telling them that I am the tooth fairy, and then I started having to go through with it. I decided that one golden dollar is sufficient, per tooth (the price is double, as it was when I was a child, for teeth with roots-- roots normally mean that the tooth in question has been pulled). I dressed up in the shiniest clothing I could find. My younger sister made me a wand.
So this is how it works. I get a call that goes something like this: "Miss Young Person's loose tooth just came out today at lunch. Can you come down on Friday or Saturday?"
And I say, "I think Friday will be fine." And I pack an overnight bag on Friday, and I take my "Tooth-Fairy Kit," which has two fancy dresses (I let the child who has lost the tooth pick which one I wear) and a wand and, of course, gold dollars. I used to get the gold dollars at the post office vending machine, but then I figured out that I could get them at the bank, so that is where I get them now. The kit also has a light-up tiara, because one time when I was going on a Tooth-Fairy run (as I call them), one of my roommates gave it to me-- a friend had given it to her-- because, in her words, she couldn't think of anyone more fitting than the Tooth Fairy to own such a treasure. The last Tooth-Fairy run I made, I discovered that that particular niece has a light-up tiara almost exactly like mine, only with slightly different colors. She won hers at the library's mother-and-daughter-book-club party, where she won a frog-kissing contest (the game is sort of like pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, only it's pin-the-lips-on-the-frog).
I used to make the children go to sleep first, but now I just make them pretend to be asleep, because it is funner for all involved, and I am here to tell you that there is absolutely no other point to this game than having fun.
Here are some advantages to being the tooth fairy: I always win my round of "liar's club" (a popular game around here wherein a person tells two truths and a lie about themselves, and the others have to guess which is which. As long as I tell a reasonably truthful-sounding lie, no one is likely to believe that I really am the tooth fairy). Being able to announce that I am the tooth fairy gives me immediate cachet with the under-twelve set, in particular, though now that I think about it, it really has a certain cachet with all age groups. I hadn't realized until recently that the coolness factor also extends to the parents of my fairy-ees, as well; my younger sister says that other parents are always impressed that she has an outside tooth fairy. She also appreciates that she doesn't have to do it. The last and best advantage to being the Tooth Fairy, though, is that I get to spend time with my nephlings (word copyrighted by my youngest sister, being gender-neutral term for children of one's siblings) on a regular, if unpredictable, basis.
It makes them happy, and it makes me happy. I can't think of a better reason to perpetuate mythological creatures than for the perpetuation of happiness.
The Halloween when I was fifteen, I dressed up as a tooth fairy. I had a kind-of-fancy greenish-hued dress, and I happened to have a piece of matching tulle (tulle is a kind of gauzy fabric) and I decided to make a little gold-foil-covered box labeled "teeth". And I did. That was fun, but like the vast majority of Halloween costumes, it really was just a joke.
A few days after Halloween, however, my younger brother, who was five, woke up in the morning, and said, "Cornelia, the tooth fairy didn't come!" I told him to go back to sleep, and once he had gone back in his room, I looked all around our small house in search of a quarter (which was the going rate for teeth in those days). I think I finally got one from my dad. Anyway, I went in L's room, and slipped the quarter under his pillow, and took the tooth, and thought everything had gone just fine. But then, not long afterward, he came in the living room and announced, "That wasn't the tooth fairy, that was you!"
To which I replied, "How do you know I'm not the tooth fairy?" and he got a mystified look on his face, as though he were seriously considering it.
I loved this story and told it fairly often in the next few years.
My older sister had her oldest child five years later, when I was twenty. When I was twenty-five, her family moved to Australia.
A short time after that, her oldest (if you count, he was five by then) started losing his teeth. In a phone conversation with my sister, she mentioned casually that I was the tooth fairy for her children. I said: What? She repeated herself. She said that she tells her children that every family has a tooth fairy, and every family has a Santa Claus, and every family has an Easter Bunny. In their family, the tooth fairy is Aunite Cornelia, and the rest is a mystery for them (the children) to figure out.
I went with the flow. When my sister's next child got old enough to start asking such questions as, "Does Auntie Cornelia come here by magic to get our teeth?" I told her that I could deputize people. It's only in hindsight that I realize that I never explained what "deputize" means, but maybe that's all for the best. She (having never seen me at work, and perhaps only having a hazy idea of exactly what a tooth fairy does) drew me wearing a dress made of teeth. Just for the record, the teeth themselves are not my favorite part of the job. I was a little weirded out by the thought of that picture, but I let it ride.
So, I was just a theoretical tooth fairy, but then my other sister who has children started telling them that I am the tooth fairy, and then I started having to go through with it. I decided that one golden dollar is sufficient, per tooth (the price is double, as it was when I was a child, for teeth with roots-- roots normally mean that the tooth in question has been pulled). I dressed up in the shiniest clothing I could find. My younger sister made me a wand.
So this is how it works. I get a call that goes something like this: "Miss Young Person's loose tooth just came out today at lunch. Can you come down on Friday or Saturday?"
And I say, "I think Friday will be fine." And I pack an overnight bag on Friday, and I take my "Tooth-Fairy Kit," which has two fancy dresses (I let the child who has lost the tooth pick which one I wear) and a wand and, of course, gold dollars. I used to get the gold dollars at the post office vending machine, but then I figured out that I could get them at the bank, so that is where I get them now. The kit also has a light-up tiara, because one time when I was going on a Tooth-Fairy run (as I call them), one of my roommates gave it to me-- a friend had given it to her-- because, in her words, she couldn't think of anyone more fitting than the Tooth Fairy to own such a treasure. The last Tooth-Fairy run I made, I discovered that that particular niece has a light-up tiara almost exactly like mine, only with slightly different colors. She won hers at the library's mother-and-daughter-book-club party, where she won a frog-kissing contest (the game is sort of like pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, only it's pin-the-lips-on-the-frog).
I used to make the children go to sleep first, but now I just make them pretend to be asleep, because it is funner for all involved, and I am here to tell you that there is absolutely no other point to this game than having fun.
Here are some advantages to being the tooth fairy: I always win my round of "liar's club" (a popular game around here wherein a person tells two truths and a lie about themselves, and the others have to guess which is which. As long as I tell a reasonably truthful-sounding lie, no one is likely to believe that I really am the tooth fairy). Being able to announce that I am the tooth fairy gives me immediate cachet with the under-twelve set, in particular, though now that I think about it, it really has a certain cachet with all age groups. I hadn't realized until recently that the coolness factor also extends to the parents of my fairy-ees, as well; my younger sister says that other parents are always impressed that she has an outside tooth fairy. She also appreciates that she doesn't have to do it. The last and best advantage to being the Tooth Fairy, though, is that I get to spend time with my nephlings (word copyrighted by my youngest sister, being gender-neutral term for children of one's siblings) on a regular, if unpredictable, basis.
It makes them happy, and it makes me happy. I can't think of a better reason to perpetuate mythological creatures than for the perpetuation of happiness.
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