caroline griswold

"Hey Mom. I think I want to help Daddy put on the Christmas lights. I think I'll go on the roof."

I told her that was not going to happen.

"Yeah, that would probably not be a good idea. I'd fall and say 'oomph' or something like that."

everyone's a critic and a supporter

I put on my new cowl neck sweater and asked Caroline how she liked it.

"It's really pretty Mom. But I'm afraid you have it on backwards. The hood goes in the back."

I giggled because she thought the floppy collar was a hood. Oh, tee hee, my little child.

"I'm glad you're not embarrassed, Mom. It happens to all of us sometimes."

dreaming like martha stewart

At midnight last night, Caroline called out from her room. I went in and found her sitting straight up in bed.

I asked her what she needed.

"Mom, I really like the centerpieces."

sexual harassment at the north pole

The saga of the Barbies With No Boobs™ continues. I have been working with her a bit the past few weeks, trying to prep her to talk to Santa without mentioning the whole boob thing. I explained that some people aren't as comfortable talking about boobs, and that we need to respect their feelings. I did not mention that it would be slightly embarrassing to sit in our fancy mall Santa's enchanted castle and have her talk about plastic hooters. Anyway, she gets that she shouldn't mention it to dear old Saint Nick.

Today, we were watching some tv show and there was a commercial for the exact doll we are getting her for Christmas -- a doll she's never seen before, one that meets the Barbie With No Boobs™ standard. She immediately noticed its lack of a rack and started jumping up and down shrieking something I couldn't understand.

I asked her to slow down and say it calmly.

"Mama! Mama! That's it! That's the exact doll I need. And it doesn't have boobs!"

I agreed that it is just like she has wanted.

"And it won't even make Santa nervous! He won't be nervous at all!"

channeling eddie haskell

She walked into the room. "Hey Mama. I really like your face."

I laughed and thanked her.

"I really do. I just really like your forehead, and your eyes, and your ears, and your nose, and your mouth, and your cheeks. And your scalp is really nice too."

I thanked her again.

"So, uh, what about me?"

home alone, she wishes

Caroline has taken to writing stories (which means drawing crazy shapes to the rhythm of her telling the story). Yesterday she was writing one while we ate dinner.

Caroline: Ok, this is going to be a really funny story. But you can't laugh until I'm done telling it.

Parents nod in agreement.

Caroline: There was this time when we were all going on a very exciting trip. It was a trip to Marmy's house. And we got there and we remembered that we forgot something at home. And do you know what we forgot?

Mama: No. What did we forget?

Caroline: It was Syl.

Mama: [trying not to laugh per the rules] We forgot your BABY SISTER?

Caroline: Yes! But we did go back to get her. [Sigh]

target in the bloodstream

I shouldn't be surprised that Caroline has started playing "Target," wherein she shops and we are sales clerks. The other day she said, "Mama, I'm going to write 'Target' on this paper." So I spelled it out for her, and she said "TA DA!" And I looked and she had drawn a little bullseye. We may shop there from time to time.

Anyway, she has been playing Target shopper (complete with her little purse made by Aunt Pat) all morning with Dad as her clerk. She arranged the bench at the foot of our bed like a check out counter, and she walked up carrying something from her playroom to purchase. They discussed what was in stock, if Target carried Barbies with boobs and without, etc. She was making smalltalk with him as she counted pennies to buy her book (for her 10 daughters, you see). Baby sister started babbling across the room, and Caroline turned to her, totally in character, and said, "Excuse me, ma'am. I'm trying to shop here."

oh snap!

She was "writing stories" at the dining room table. She found outgoing stamped mail and attempted to open it to write in the cards. Chuck saw this and took them away, telling her they were very important and giving her a different piece of paper. Then he started to walked upstairs.

She leaned as far as she could on the edge of the chair and hollered up after him, "Daddy, you just emptied my bucket!"

leaving the nest

She was dressed up in her rain boots with her blanket wrapped around her like a cape when she walked in and informed me of the following:

"I'm going on an adventure. I don't live in our city anymore."

I told her I would miss her.

"Well, I just need to be on my own now. Just me. I just don't need grownups anymore. I am just going to be by myself. No more grownups. No more boring stuff. Nope. Just me by myself."

I got sad but said nothing.

"Yep! Juuuuust me. Unless I get scared if there's some fog. Then I'll bring my dad."

two different lenses

I stupidly, stupidly took both girls to Costco on a Friday. A Friday that happens to be pay day for a lot of people. The place was a madhouse, as smarter people would expect.

We finally got through line with a ridiculously not-worth-the-trouble load including little thing of raspberries, milk, bread, and Bar Keepers Friend (who needs predictable), after waiting in line for 14 years.

It was Caroline's first ever trip to Costco, and she really wanted to eat lunch there "in the fancy restaurant." When I saw the long line there, I suggested we just get her favorite treat in the world -- french fries -- en route home. She wouldn't budge.

We waited in that line for 6 additional years, and finally we sat down with a piece of pizza and a berry smoothie for her, and the famous hot dog combo for me. I was all sweaty from moving the cart around the tiny cafe aisles, Sylvie woke up and wanted out of her car seat to see the world, and I was pretty fried at the logistics of how to get through this meal. I just sat there looking at my overcooked beef frank and wondering why I agreed to this, when Caroline piped up with, "Mom, you know, it's a beautiful day here at the Costco."