Mgazi Requests Her Privacy… in Writing

My husband and I just bought a new house. Our number one reason? So we could have our own bathroom. We bought a WHOLE ENTIRE HOUSE so we could pee in private.

Turns out, I have my own bathroom  but I never seem to have it to myself. And I’ve been quite vocal about it to my girls, Mgazi and Zaffron. If I’ve told them once, I’ve told them a thousand times (<– Oh my God, how did my mother get here?)…

“Mommy uses her bathroom. You guys use yours.”

Last night, Mgazi was sitting on the pot (her own pot) and the bathroom door was wide open. I walked in and asked if she needed help. After all, she’s only five and any responsible parent conducts random inspections.

Me: Hey Gaz. You need any help wiping or anything?

Mgazi: Mommy! Get out! Can’t you read?

Me: Get out? What are you talking about?

Mgazi: I made a private sign. Daddy helped me write it.

Me: What’s a private sign?

Mgazi: It’s a sign that gives me privacy! I want to be in the bathroom all by myself.

I looked around the bathroom and behind the door that had been wide open!

Me: Honey, I don’t see a sign.

Mgazi [rolling her eyes and exhaling a sigh that indicates she'd just about run out of patience with her dimwitted mother]: It’s right there, Mom, on the kitchen table!

 

One Minute of Peace — That’s All I Ask

Mgazi was eating breakfast at the island in the kitchen. I could dangle a hundred dollar bill in front of her face. She wouldn’t bother to look up from her plate. Nothing gets between Mgazi and her food.

Zaffron was watching Saturday morning cartoons in the family room. Zaffron turns into a zombie in front of the TV. I can wave my hand between her face and the screen and she won’t flinch.  I know this because I videotaped myself doing it once. She didn’t even blink. I’m not positive she even knew I was there. Very little gets between my daughter and her television.

I went into my bedroom. I quietly shut the door and locked it. I walked over to my bed, sat down and pulled out my iPhone. Swiped until I found what I was looking for — a stopwatch app.

How long would it be until one of my children knocked on my door?

I pressed start on the stopwatch. And I waited…

53 seconds.

 

Don’t You Hate it When You Pee on Your Hand?

Don’t look at me like that!

You know what I’m talking about. All of us girls have done it. We’ve just gone to the bathroom, we’re wrapping things up, and something happens. Something startles us and suddenly we realize that we weren’t quite done with the job we set out to do. There’s no shame.

This exact thing happened to me a few days ago. I was in my bathroom, finishing my business when I heard Zaffron scream. The kind of scream that makes a mother freeze, just for a moment, because the quality of the scream has an edge that puts it past typical (the shriek of a child discovering that the cat pooped in her bed AGAIN) and more toward terrible (the wail of a child that’s been hurt).

This scream was smack dab in the middle of the two and my body clenched and I peed on my hand. Then she started yelling for me and I could hear her running toward the bathroom. I  did my best to tidy up and rushed out to meet her. She was sobbing and I scooped her into my arms and pushed her face into my neck.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I… I… I fell and I hit my head on the closet door.” She was sobbing.

“Oh, sweetie, show me where it hurts.”

“It… it… it… hurts here,” she said, pointing to a spot on the side of her head. Her sniveling broke my heart and I hugged her close.

I felt her head. It was it’s regular shape. No bump, no swelling.

I tried to make her smile. “Oh baby, Mommy was in the bathroom when I heard you scream. I got so scared I peed on myself! I think you’re going to be okay. Should we get you some ice just in case?”

“Yes, please. I think that ice is a good… wait!” She pushed away from me and looked me straight in the eye. Her sniffles vanished. “Did you wash your hands?”

 

Something to Sink Your Teeth Into

It has been a rough Saturday morning — full of children bickering, children complaining, and children generally pissing me off.

Mgazi and Zaffron were downstairs, supposedly watching tv, when I heard a thud, what I swear was a battle cry, then a crash.

I hit my limit.

Me: GIRLS! <– yelling

the Girls:  Yes, Mommy? <– sweetly, in unison

Me: Get upstairs! Now!

I’d like to say that they came upstairs, hanging their heads, abashed and guilty in the knowledge that had once again driven their mother to the brink of a breakdown. But no, they came up reluctantly, and loudly protesting the interruption of their television time with stomping feet and exaggerated sighs.

They stood in front of me as I ticked off the reasons I had had enough.

Me: I have had enough. I’m done with all the name-calling. I’m done with all the whining. With the yelling and arguing. I’ve had enough of all the hitting and all the biting and –

Zaffron: But, Mom! I only bit Mgazi one time! You can’t have had enough with all the biting if I only bit her once!


Glass of white wineRecommended wine: Did you know that wine may rot your teeth? I guess whites do more damage than reds because of acidity. Riesling is the worst offender. Lucky for me, I think Rieslings suck. So, I’m going to recommend a red today. Something very un-Riesling. I love love love Cloudy Bay’s Pinot Noir. Yum.


 

Liar, Liar, Does Anyone Smell Smoke?

Yesterday, Mgazi’s kindergarten teacher sent a note home in her book bag. “Please return Mgazi’s library book. It was due yesterday.”

Me: Mgazi, did you return your library book yesterday?

Mgazi: Uh huh.

Me: I got a note from your teacher that says you didn’t.

Mgazi: Well, I put it in my backpack and then suddenly it wasn’t there. It went away somewhere.

Me: Mgazi… where is the book?

Mgazi: What book?

Me: Gazi! The library book that you were supposed to return yesterday. Where is it?

Magzi: Well, I put it on the table and then when I looked for it, it was gone. And that made it so it didn’t get back to the library.

Me: Do you know where your book is?

Mgazi: Umm, at the library?

Me: Mommy thinks that maybe you are lying to me. Is that possible?

Mgazi: Uh huh.

Conversations like the one above occur frequently. She’s a talented liar. Her face can produce a look of bafflement so pure it would fool even the expertiest of behavioral scientists. But her real gift is her ability to sniff out the lies of others. Lies to Mgazi are like truffles to a dog or a pig or the Suillia fly (google it, don’t just sit there wondering).

Remember when that concrete wall abruptly (and without warning) hit my husband’s brand new electric verhicle while I was innocently driving it? She accused her father of lying when he said he wasn’t mad and her sister of lying when she said the damage didn’t seem that bad. She was right, of course, on both counts. For some reason she readily accepted my twisted version of events and to this day believes that the wall defied physics and rudely slammed itself into my husband’s car.

Or that time when I accidentally (no lie) stepped on a snail? When I tried to cover up the murder, Mgazi was on me like… well, like the gooey body of  a squished snail on the bottom of a sneaker. She caught me lying to Zaffron and had no problem saying so. “Oh no, Zaffy. She is lying to you. Mommy killed a snail.”

And then there was that horrible time when I blogged that Zaffy was a “little shit.”  For some inexplicable reason I let Zaffron read the post and, of course, it hurt her feelings terribly. When I tried to backpedal and soften the blow, telling Zaffron that I had not in fact believed that she was a little shit when I wrote that she was a little shit, Mgazi piped up without hesitation. “Oooh, Zaffy, I think Mommy is lying to you.”

And then there was that time… hmmm. Suffice it to say that approximately 10% of my posts on this blog have the tag, “lying just a little bit.”

When Mgazi joined our family at 2 1/2 years old, she knew exactly three words in English. Jesus, hallelujah, and banana. Now, at 5 years old, I hear the word “lying” every single day.

“Ooh, Mommy, I think my Daddy is lying to you.”

“Ooh Daddy, I think Zaffy is lying to you.”

“Ooh Zaffy, I think our Mommy is lying to you… just like yesterday… you know, when she was lying to you.”

I knew she was obsessed with lying on Election Day 2012 when I overheard the following conversation between her and an adult friend of mine.

Mgazi: Yay! Oback Obama is going to win the election!

Friend: How do you know that Barack Obama is going to win the election?

Mgazi: Cuz my mommy voted for him.

Friend: Why did your mommy vote for Barrack Obama?

Mgazi: Because he lies less than Mitt Romney!

 

My Kids are Gross…They Disagree

In the car, after the children spent some time with a babysitter:

Me: So, what did you guys do today?

Mgazi: We watched tv and played games.

Zaffy: We ate a snack.

Mgazi: I licked the bottom of Zaffy’s foot.

Me: Ew! What in the world? Why would you do something like that?

Mgazi: It tasted like apple juice.

Me: Mgazi, that’s disgusting.

Zaffy: I don’t know, Mom. I think it’s a compliment.

 

Zaffy’s Got Sticker Envy

Mgazi had to get her polio vaccine last week. She screamed. She kicked. She did not bite me, but just like last time she got a shot, I had the distinct feeling that she wanted to. In the end no amount of cajoling, cuddling, bribing, or threatening would calm her down. So I plopped her on my lap, pinned her arms to her sides with a bear hug, and yelled at the nurse, “GO GO GO!”

It wasn’t pretty. And all she got in the end was an effective defense against a horrible disease and some measly stickers.

As we left the office, my five-year old was sniffling from the indignity of it all. My seven-year old, who had been waiting in the waiting room, was miffed because “some crazy baby was screaming like crazy in one of the rooms and I couldn’t hardly read my book! Mom, it was awful!”

Hmmm.

In the car:

Zaffy: Hey! Why did you get three stickers?

Mgazi: mumble mumble sniff mumble

Zaffy: I don’t think that’s it. I’m awesome and I never got three stickers.

 

Need Last Minute Gift Ideas? How About a Deadly but Curable Disease?

Sweet Mgazi

Please select the answer that best completes the following phrase:

The conversation below took place in the:

a) Bathroom
B) Bedroom
C) Vatican
D) Car

The correct answer is D, of course. I actually have a tag that links to all conversations that have taken place in the car. All the best do!

Mgazi: Mommy, can you give me a TB shot for Christmas?

Me: What?

Zaffron: What?

Me: Gaz, do you want to me take you to the Dr’s office to get another vaccination? Honey, you cried like crazy, don’t you remember? You kicked. You screamed. You actually bit me!

Mgazi: I didn’t bite you.

Me: Okay, you didn’t bite me. But I could tell you wanted to.

Mgazi: I want to have the shot so I can give it to you and daddy and Zaffy.

Me: Do you mean you want to administer the Tuberculosis vaccine to the entire family?

Zaffron: No, mom! Geesh! Don’t you get it? She wants to jab the needle in our arms and push the thingy down so that we can stay healthy and not get diseases! [Zaffron throws her hands in the air, exasperated that once again she has to explain something to her dense, and obviously slow, mother.]

Mgazi: Uh huh. I want my family to be healthy. So I’m going to stick you here [she points to her shoulder] and here [she points to her leg] and here [she lifts up her left butt cheek and pokes at it. (Or maybe it was her right, I'm not sure. I was watching all of this through the rearview mirror.)]

Me: Sweetie, that is a very kind thought but it’s not going to happen.

Mgazi: Fine then. If you won’t do it, I’ll just ask Santa!

Mgazi Puts Her Foot Down

Two of my co-workers got married this year. In the first wedding, my girls were flower girls. They got new dresses, little gifts from the bride, a lot of attention, and cake. They were thrilled.

The second wedding was for adult guests only. My kids weren’t even invited. Zaffy accepted this fate, content that she would attend the rehearsal dinner (Russell was officiating). Mgazi was ticked off.

Mgazi: So, what? I cannot go to Auntie Jen’s wedding?

Me: No, you can’t go to the wedding, honey. It’s for grown-ups only.

Mgazi: Auntie Jen just wants all the cake!

She put her hands on her hips. I believe she considered her lack of access to wedding cake to be the most egregious aspect of the whole matter.

Me: Gaz, sometimes adults just want to hang out with other adults.

Mgazi: Well, this makes me mad. I’m not inviting Auntie Jen to my wedding. I’m not inviting any grown-ups to my wedding.

Me: Sweetie, you are five years old. You’ll be a grown-up yourself when you get married.

Mgazi: So? No grownups.

Me: So, you and your husband will be the only grown-ups there.

Mgazi: Good.

Me: Okay, I support you. But you realize that I’ll have to support you from afar. Under this rule, I won’t be allowed at your wedding either.

Mgazi: I’ll bring you some cake.

All I Want for Christmas Is to Knock Out My Kid’s Two Front Teeth

Wow. That title sounds bad.

Would it be better if I told you that she asked me to do it?

My daughter had thrown herself face-down on my bed and I heard a muffled, “Please, I just want this over with.”

“What’s that?” I was barely paying attention, absorbed as I was in making a mental list of the presents I needed to buy so my husband would have something to give me on Christmas morning.

“Just get it out of me. I don’t want to do this anymore.” My 7-year-old flipped over, flailing her arms and legs. “PULEEEEZ! Please, please, please! I want it out!”

Since I was pretty sure she wasn’t giving birth, I decided that she must be talking about her loose tooth. A top front tooth had been loose for months. During the last few days, it had been aggravating her to no end.

“Okay,” I said, “Let’s see what we can do.” We sat facing each other on my bed and recreated a scene we had acted out twice before with her bottom teeth. “First, I’m going to twist it to the right.”

I began turning her tooth slowly until she pulled back with a gasp. “Ahhh!”

“Eeew!” I answered with a shudder. “Okay, again, but the other way this time.” I gingerly twisted her tooth to the left.

“Ow, ow, ow!” Zaffy pulled away, covering her mouth with her palm.

“Eeew!” I flapped my hands at my sides. “Ick!”

“Mommy! Why are you saying ‘ick?’”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that wiggling her tooth out of its socket gave me the heebie jeebies, so I semi-lied.

“It’s just that I hate hurting you, honey. It goes against a mother’s nature.”

This wasn’t a lie per se; it just didn’t apply to this particular situation. I couldn’t have cared less about what she was feeling. I was more concerned with not puking on my candy cane-striped sheets because I found the whole endeavor so gross.

My daughter patted me on the shoulder and shook her head, saying, “Mom, it’s just part of the job. Sometimes a mother has to hurt her child. Please get this tooth out of my mouth.” She looked me in the eyes. “I’m begging you.”

Dutifully, because it was part of my job, I knocked my knuckle against Zaffy’s front tooth, putting a little bit more force behind each try until I felt the crunchy, wet crackle of the tooth’s connective ligaments snap and give way. I suppressed a gag.

Zaffy threw both hands over her mouth and her eyes widened in surprise. “What have you done?”

“What do you mean?” Was she turning on me?

“What did you do? Why did you do this? I never wanted this!” She started to cry.

“Are you kidding me, you little … ?” I stopped. To finish the sentence wouldn’t have been very merry, and I’d been trying awfully hard to have the holiday spirit.

Breathe.

“Are you kidding me, Zaffron?” I asked. “You begged me to do this. You actually used the word!”

“I did not. You made me do this. I want the tooth back! PUT … IT … BACK!”

“Zaffy, remember when we talked about the word ‘ambivalent’?”

“Mommy! Pay attention!”

I stared at her.

“I’m not going to look cute for Christmas!”

“Oh for God’s sake, is that what you are worried about?”

Zaffron gave me a look that only a daughter can give a mother, the one that communicates her deep desire to never have emerged from the likes of you, and ran out of the room.

I walked to the kitchen, where my husband was making eggs for the kids.

“Zaffy lost her tooth,” I said.

I heard a distant yell from another room. “I didn’t lose it! Mommy knocked it out!”

I sighed and returned to my bedroom, defeated by my latest parenting fail.

When it was time to get into the car and drive to school, Zaffron sidled up to me and slid her arms around my neck. “You helped me lose my tooth,” she whispered in my ear and gave me a hug.

“Is that your way of saying you’re sorry?” I asked, hugging her back.

She squeezed tighter. “I’m really not sure.”

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This post was originally published on Families in the Loop, I’m very grateful for their support.

[Photo credit: westy48 / Foter / CC BY-NC-SA]