This post contains the word vagina.

In addition to my Skills Trainer job, I spend Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday babysitting. M/W/F I watch two little boys, Nash who is two, and Max who is six months. Our time together is made up of laugher, spit up, and lots of hugs and kisses. On Thursdays I watch a brother sister duo, M who is four, and her little brother A who is 2. Adventures with these two are readily more complex simpy due to M's age, but made doubly so by the fact that she is easily the sassiest four year old I have ever met.

Thanks to the fact that I am bffs with Nash and Max's mother, and she knows M and A very well, I have many stories stored away on my phone as I text her in exasperation and amazement for each new insanity that unfolds. Enjoy some texts, and some scary moments in child care. (Clarification, Jenna is mom to Nash and Max and Jen is mom to M and A.)

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Thursday December 4, 7:34pm

Me: Oh no. Oh no. I think I just taught M the word vagina.

Jenna: Oh this made my night. What happened?! At least it's not the P word [laughing emoji that won't show up on my blog]

Me: She went to the toilet, and when I came to check on her she was investigating herself. She asked what the part in the middle was and I said, "it's all just part of your vagina" and she said "what's a vagina?"
So that was a scary moment. I tried to explain it as best as I could, saying that girls have them and they are private parts of our bodies, and she said, "so we should just pull down our pants if we need to prove we're girls!!"
AAAH! NO! ABORT MISSION!

Jenna: oh.my.gosh. You can't make this stuff up!!!! Totally innocent moment. Jen will be understanding.

Me: I hope so! I didn't want to just say, "we don't talk about that," or anything, and I was kind of hoping she already knew the word. It's harder for girls, because technically, it's NOT her vagina... Penises are much easier to comprehend, I think.
Oh, my. Haha.

Jenna: I think by that age I called it my vagina... I'm sure they knew the day was coming.

This particular story has an even better follow up. At the end of my nights with M and A I talk with Jen and her husband Kyle and tell them everything that happened in their absence. This particular night had me incredibly nervous, as I wasn't thrilled about having to tell two parents that I had educated their four year old on her reproductive organs.
After telling them the story of what had happened, Jen laughed,
"She DEFINITELY knows that word. She was playing you." They then went on to tell me about life shortly after M had learned the words penis and vagina. Each time a male guest came into their home she would eagerly ask them, "Do you know you have a penis??" Which would then be followed up with a factual, "I have a vagina."
Kyle had been on deployment at this time, and was not sure how and when they would be teaching the V and P words to their daughter. Thus, when he had arrived home and was out driving with M and she quietly asked from her carseat, "daddy, do you have a penis?" He responded, "you know, I'm not sure, let's ask mommy."

I'm pretty certain she told them yes.

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Thursday, January 29, 9:43pm

Me: Funny story.
I arrive at Jen's today and M is screaming, which honestly isn't too unfamiliar.
I come right as quiet time is ending and because M doesn't sleep as much anymore, she's often wreaking havoc behind her closed door. Jen asks me to play with A while she deals with M. When she comes out to tell me what happens she is super serious and says, "M pooped in a drawer. When I asked her why she was naked and if she had an accident, she lied, and so she has lost her book privilege and now I need to go clean everything." And I look at her, and I try to look solemn and serious but then I'm like, "oh my gosh, she POOPED IN A DRAWER?!?! BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Sorry. Sorry. No, but really? Bahahaha"

Jenna: Lololololololololol!!!!

But really, she pooped in a drawer?!

Me: Apparently!! I didn't ask the mechanics, but I really want to know them. Did she squat over the drawer? Did she poop and then move it to the drawer? Why didn't she go to the bathroom? So many questions, Jenna.

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Thursday, February 26, 6:41pm

Me: Adventures with M #5638951

"What are these?" *lifting up shirt and pointing at her nipples*
"Those are your nipples"
"What are they for?"
"Well, everyone has them. You know how A has them too?"
"Yeah, but his are very small! How big are yours?"
"Uh, probably bigger than yours, because I'm bigger than you."
"Show me!"
"No. I'm not going to show you my nipples."
*grabbing at my shirt and then patting my breasts* "oh wow, yah, they are very big!"

I then explained that mommies feed babies with their nipples and she said "MISS JENNA DOES THAT FOR BABY MAX!!"

Jenna: oh.my.gosh. I loveeeeeeeeeee your M convo recaps. They are THE BEST!

Me: We then moved on to belly buttons and I tried to explain that they are where babies are connected to their moms when they are inside and then we cut the chord when they are born. She told me she was there when you guys cut Max's chord ;).

Jenna: Lolololololol I do love that girl. She is hilarious!!!

The adventures with M are never ending, and I appreciate her peppering my life with spunk and stories. Hopefully this year of babysitting will prepare me for my own hobbit-haired children who are certain to poop in strange places of their own and ask to see my nipples. It's all just part of life. Right? Right. 

To send us off for the night, I give you an inspirational quote: 

"Ms. Melly, you should exercise. You're so slow." - M. 

Trust issues

In 1996 I was 4. It was a pretty huge year for me. I moved to England, began my first year of school, made new friends, saw new places, and got my bedtime changed.
Previously, my bedtime had been a very strict 7:30pm. It was enforced by my older sister Sharah (who had clearly shown from an early age a great sort of defiance and bad behavior in order for her to receive such a terrible chore). However, as I was becoming a strong independent and grown 4 year old, my parents heeded to my prolonged, whiny pleas, and allowed me to stay up to a new and better bedtime of "half an hour to 8."
This new bedtime placated me for a good while, until I began to indignantly notice that I would be told, "bedtime! It's 7:30!" And then immediately after when I reminded them my bedtime had been changed, "uh, right, I mean, half an hour to 8! It's that. Now." You SNEAKY parents!

Consequently, from an early age, I was taught the value and success of manipulating young children, a talent which serves me well in my current employment. If this were a continued post about my marketability, you can guarantee it that "manipulating the blind" could be listed.

One large stumbling block for my client at work is his inability, or refusal, to eat regular food. Although he is nearing five, his parents still send baby food with him to school. Since I have begun working with him, his palate has expanded immensely, and he now eats chicken, fish, rice, fruit, bread, and other school lunch foods happily. However, this progress did not come immediately. I found early on that my client had a flat refusal to try any sort of new food, however, if that food found his way into his mouth, he would find that he liked it, and finish the dish. Such began the manipulation of a poor, defenseless blind boy. So many lunch times begin with my putting a new food behind a known food on a spoon, and offering the spoon handle to my client to hold, while my teacher looks on with fingers crossed. The spoon enters the mouth, we wait, he chews and pauses, we cringe, he continues to eat and motions for more. I get congratulated by the adults, and I wonder if this is some horrible form of betrayal. Sorry, buddy. We need you to eat!

Really, though, every form of relationship you have is some sort of manipulation. My sweet little puppy was easily manipulated from the beginning. The first trick we ever tried to teach her was a simple "sit." Sasha learned that if she were to sit upon command, she was immediately awarded with a delicious treat, and wonderful, kind praise. Unfortunately, she still hadn't learned to respond to any other sort of request. Therefore, my parents and I often found ourselves at the bottom of our townhouse's stairs, leash in hand, screaming for Sasha to come. At first we wondered if the poor puppy had some problems with her hearing, or if the house was just muffling our calls to her. Then father found a way.
One day as I stood in our foyer screaming for my puppy, dad came over and said, "watch this."
"Sasha!" He yelled up the stairs, just as I had done. Then, "Sashaaaaaaaa, sit!" We stood in silence for a moment before hearing a rapid "boom boom boom boom, click click click, thump thump thump" as Sasha jumped and ran from wherever she was hiding above us, skid down the stairs, and sat beautifully still right at my father's feet, tail wagging rapidly.

Of course, this is also, I think, how I have such a wonderful, serving husband. I have conditioned him into knowing that he will receive love, kisses, and praise when he feeds and loves me. I recommend you do likewise.

Moral of the story? Children, puppies, and husbands are essentially all the same.

Names

I have already confessed in previous blog entries that I find names an utmost fascinating topic. I think that the concept that our basic and first identities are founded in a string of letters formed together to make an identifying word - name - so interesting. Sometimes I get so caught up in thinking about this that I'll repeat my own name over and over to myself until it sounds even more unusual than it already is, and I get a little dizzy trying to comprehend it. 

In trying to consider such a thing, I find myself getting truly enraged at how little parents seem to care about the responsibility they have to their offspring to give them a name which will stand the test of time and adulthood (while first being acceptable at infancy, childhood, and adolescence). That being said, I also wonder, "well, I mean, what is 'normal'? Who is to say one name is worse than another?'" but then ultimately decide that, no, I cannot fight for some parents' rights to choose a name, because the name they have chosen is hideously offensive. Plus, take a look at what research indicates. 

At one school I worked at I began a list of terrible names which I came across (all students wear name tags in this post 9/11 and school shooting America of ours). Names such as: 

JMark

Holidae 

Island

Jermagisty

O'Breanna  

Parks 

Jilliam 

Power 

Feonix 

A lot of names I started writing down weren't even for their audaciousness, but rather that they were pretty common names spelled illiterately (or creatively, whichever way you want to look at it).  

Myleigh 

Nattaleigh 

Hailee

...a lot of "ee" names now that I look at it...

This got me thinking. One day while Peter and I were both working (this was in the days when I was his boss at the RWC) we compiled a list of the most usual names we could think of and then went about destroying them past recognition. These were our top 2. 

Djöhnne Dayvyd (John David)

Saêruh Uhlyzabef (Sarah Elizabeth)

The art and beauty of these two names is that verbally it seems that we have given classic and common names to both of our children. Their names will be universally recognized upon introduction, with no "Sorry, what was that?" or embarrassing mis-pronunciations by relatives who really should know what their names are, but have forgotten because they don't know Pokémon characters or names of Peter's and mine creation. However, Djöhnne Dayvyd and Saêruh Ulyzabef will still be able to empathize with their peers who never have been able to pick out their own personalised souvenir at tourist attractions, and will learn to explain their names' spellings in the same breath as they say them, (i.e. "Djohnne D-J-O (with two dots on top) -H- double N- E" etc.) 

This, I truly believe, is a compromise that provides our children with both universality and Younique-ness. 

Where is Thumbkin? Hint: in my mouth.

Little kids are illogical. They do things which just simply do not make sense to adults, and often I wonder if the things kids do even make sense to them.

When I was younger I had a lot of favourite things. One of the most important of those things was my left thumb. As far back as I can remember my thumb and I were best buddies, and to keep my best buddy safe and warm, I kept it in my mouth. It's the same reason that Peter wakes up with drool on his nose now; he is my buddy, and I must keep his nose safe.

My protecting my buddy with my mouth is not the illogical thing, that totally still stands up as a smart thing to do, I just don't know why my thumb was so important to me; it isn't particularly delicious, it doesn't know any jokes, and it doesn't even look very pretty. Regardless, that thumb was everything to me.

My deep love for my thumb was a fact that brought great shame to my parents and siblings. I was Troy Bolton in High School Musical, and my thumb was the musical that no one wanted me to be a part of. Clearly my family does not appreciate the importance of a young soul being allowed freedom to dance, sing, and suck... their thumbs! If I didn't have so much love for that finger of mine, I would be making bank in bribes, because I was offered everything under the sun in exchange for it. The problem with the bargaining was that with each new thing that was offered to me, suddenly my thumb seemed to be that much more worthwhile! You'll give me candy for my thumb? THIS THUMB MUST BE BETTER THAN CANDY! And so on and so forth.

Another family tactic was to instil fear in my little heart by telling horror stories about what would happen to me if I didn't stop sucking. Usually, these threats revolved around my teeth and how they were going to be ruined big time (they were), but sometimes people got creative. My uncle Dennis, who lost his thumb to a lawnmower when he was a teenager, told me he had sucked it off, showing a perfect example of how lying to children is an encouraged pastime and tradition of American adults.

You would think that fear would be a good motivation to stop my bad habit, but the thing about children is: they cannot see into the future. Sure adults can't either, but we're much better at it than kids. I can say to myself, if I push Peter down on the couch and attempt to stick my tongue in his nose, he will fight me, and I will probably lose. I have seen my future of that particular decision. That doesn't mean that I DON'T push Peter down and attempt to stick my tongue in his nose, it just means I now what will happen when I do. Kids can't do this. There's that study, by super smart scientists where children are put in a room with a marshmallow and told that if they don't eat the marshmallow in X amount of minutes, they will be given more marshmallows. Spoiler alert!!: many of the children do not make it to the more marshmallow stage. They have a very hard time making decisions based on their consequences. Even if something better or worse is waiting for them, usually they just stick to what is most immediately gratifying. Seeing as I was not swayed by the possibility of crappy teeth or a disappearing thumb in my future, I would hypothesise I would have finished the marshmallow before the scientist had left the room had I participated in that study.

When the bargaining and threatening didn't work, the punishments and plotting would begin.
One particular punishment dished out to me by my mommifer in cahoots with my paediatrician was The Glove. This glove was pink, with different coloured fingers. It originally stretched mid-forearm, but was now a Franken-glove and had the top end of a white tube sock sewed onto it so it could cover my entire arm. It was then attached by glove keepers (heaven bless the '90s) to the back of my shoulder, thus making the skin on my hand completely inaccessible to me, an innocent 4 year old. I was Franken-glove's prisoner, and I did NOT like it. I remember one afternoon, after a trip to the grocery store, Mommifer had put the Franken-glove in place, and left me under the supervision of Barney on TV in the basement (this was where the TV was, not, like, I was put in a dungeon or anything). While normally Barney was a great love of mine, I could not enjoy his escapades while my thumb-buddy was being smothered by Franken-glove, so I spent my allotted TV time gnawing at the glove towards my freedom.
My slow destruction of Franken-glove had to be kept secret, so I reserved all my gnawing for times in which I could be alone, and tried to keep the hole on the padding on my thumb so I could easily hide it in my fist. It was kind of like I was digging a tunnel out of my prison and hiding it behind a poster. I was a totally logical, glove eating 4 year old.

Eventually Franken-glove was defeated and I was free to fill my parents' hearts with shame once more.

Looking back on it, I have so many ridiculous stories about me and my thumb, as well as my refusal to take it out of my mouth. Eventually, my parents paid an orthodontist to glue a metal claw to the roof of my mouth to attack my thumb anytime it entered, so that was fun, but hey, it worked. I am now only sucking on popsicles (like a sane person - Peter bites his which makes my teeth hurt and my soul confused as to why we are married) and filling my parents' hearts with shame in other ways, but much less frequently, and usually interspersed with joy, like when they read how witty and funny I can be on the internet (Hi, Parents!!!).

I tried to find a picture of me with my thumb, but I guess it was a non-documented thing for those full 9 years (oh, the family shame!), so here's a picture of me with a lamb at my thumb sucking age. Look at that awesome overbite.

I love all the children, because none of them came out of me.

I get pretty anxious around small children. "That can't be true!" You may be saying right now, chuckling to yourself, "you silly goose! You work in elementary schools. I bet you're quite the Maria Von Trapp, singing melodies and enchanting children like mice."
First of all, I must thank you, I dream to sing like Julie Andrews as well as be British and elegant as she, so your compliment is not lost on me, but you are, in fact, terribly misled. Children and I mix dismally.
Their tiny feet and sticky fingers are adorable to look at from far away and/or through strong sound proof glass, but up close and personal I get all sorts of anxious that I'm going to break their teeth or seriously scar their lil' bodies.
For church each Sunday Peter and I sit next to our BFFs Dan and Sarah who sit next to a couple with a year and a half old toddler. Every sacrament meeting this little girl wanders down the row interacting with all the adults in turn. Yesterday, it being Mother's Day and all, I decided I was going to have a solid interaction with this girl. The week before my attempt had been a feeble pat on the back as she passed. I accidentally tapped her harder than I expected and she wobbled a bit, but no casualties thus far. So, today I was ready. As she meandered down the row, she stopped to play with Sarah, then Dan, then surpassed me and Peter entirely to babble at the couple to our left. After she had waved and smiled at them nicely, I caught her attention by poking her lightly. In response she waddled over, grabbed the hem of my skirt, and lifted it up to look at my underwear. I swiftly pressed my skirt down into my lap to try and save some modesty, but she determinedly pulled and squatted lower on the floor to find a better viewpoint. All in all, another successful interaction with a child.
Children and underwear seem to be a running theme for scenarios in my life. This morning at work, while I sat on my Fisher-Price chair in the boy's bathroom, I heard I familiar voice say, "Hi!" and feel a tap on my back. As I turn to say, "Hello, Lucas," I'm met with my smiling friend standing with his little boy underwear up, but his pants down around his ankles. I wonder if we have an exhibitionist in the making.
Along with an exhibitionist we have quite the up and coming actor. My client, who I affectionally call Pinocchio due to the boneless way he seems to move his body, took a nap today. This is actually a pretty rare occurrence, but an exciting one. However, as most people are, he was grumpy when it came time for his nap to be over, and even more grumpy to start his after-nap sensory activity. This afternoon's activity was finger painting a paper bag that will, over the course of this week, turn into an octopus. The colour selected for him was red. I can't tell you how uncomfortable it is to try to encourage a screaming blind child to finger paint in red. While this task is normally an easy one, and one we do frequently, today he was crying like I had impaled him and doing anything he could to make sure that paint ended up everywhere but on his paper.

Thick, red liquid smeared and dripping across a crying, pathetic looking blind child, and a frustrated adult doesn't look so good, and I'm pretty sure the janitor we encountered in the bathroom afterwards was close to calling 911 over an assault case and/or attempted murder. Of course, it probably didn't help that my way of explaining the situation was, "he didn't want to do the sensory activity today."

I am grateful for all you mothers in the world. However, I am also truly grateful that I have not joined your ranks yet.   

Lucas, lover of butts.

I work in the Special Education section of an Elementary school.
Other schools I have worked in have terrible Sped departments, but this one is delightful. The staff are more than qualified, there's enough staff, and an abounding amount of resources for every child.

In a classroom that I do not work in there is a little boy with Downs Syndrome. His name is not Lucas, but I am going to call him Lucas.

Lucas is adorable. Seriously, the cutest little boy I have ever seen. All the kids in the school wear name tags and even if they didn't, I've seen Lucas around campus so many times that I know him pretty well. One day in passing he stopped in the hallway and said hello to me.

"Hello, Lucas!" I responded cheerfully.
Lucas stops in his tracks, staring at me, "You know my name." it isn't a question.
"Yup."
"What's your name?"
"Miss. Melly."

At this point the adult accompanying him in the hall reminds Lucas he has somewhere to be. Although he continues along on his journey, he keeps his eyes set on me as he walks past, somewhat like a very confused, but determined vulture.

Since this initial interaction, my meetings with Lucas have become more frequent and flavourful.

My client has a specific cubicle he uses in the bathroom. Partly this is due to the fact that my client is blind and we're working on routine and familiarity with surroundings. It has a little cubby which we keep spare clothes in as he's working on being potty trained. I sit on a Fisher Price sized chair at the door of the stall while he works on deciding whether or not he wants to go into the toilet, or just hold on long enough to get as far from the toilet as possible to mess his pants and then fuss as I try to change him. Now that we were friends, Lucas has made it a point to visit me at this chair anytime he enters the bathroom himself.

"Hello." he'll say, invariably, staring at me and my client.
"Hi, Lucas."
"Is he using the toilet?" he asks, pointing at my client on the toilet.
"Yup. Do you need to use the toilet?"
"No." At this point usually an adult calls into the bathroom to remind Lucas that he does indeed need to use the toilet and that he better hurry up and do it.

One day as I guided my client to his stall, I was surprised to find Lucas squatted on the toilet.

"Hi." he greets us.
"Oh, hi, Lucas" I say, surprised, because as far as I'm aware no other child uses this specific toilet, as it has been set aside for my client. This is not a difficult situation, however. I grab the cubby, and continue on to another stall.

That's when the sermon began.

Some of you may say that a four-year-old boy with Downs Syndrome giving a Born-Again Christian sermon from the toilet is an everyday occurrence, and if that's the case, I'm truly glad for you, because this was my first time hearing such a thing, and it was fantastic. Lucas, in his sweet little mildly lisped voice praised Jesus and harkened the world of sinners to repentance. I listened while trying to keep from chuckling, because I'm sure that would be considered unprofessional. According to my teacher, sermons and hymns are a pretty regular happening anytime sweet little Pastor Lucas has a BM. I almost want to feed him laxatives to hear more, but I'm sure that one is considered even more unprofessional than chuckling to some people. Some people, clearly, need to reconsider their priorities.

Today Lucas decided that our relationship had developed further and it was time for me to receive hugs. Specifically, butt hugs. To be fair, my butt is the highest part of my body that he can reach, however, why he wanted to attempt the hugs from behind, I'm not entirely sure. Regardless of my flawed logic, however, I was blessed to receive three butt hugs today, much to the amusement of my teacher who liked to say, "ooooh, better tell your husband!" after each one.

Just as I suspected, Peter had very little to say about a four year old getting frisky with my butt. For shame, I need to get a more actively jealous husband.