So at my childcare job (which ends Friday, hallelujah-praise-Jesus), I have a shadow in the form of a leggy, befreckled 8-year-old girl. For the sake of this post, I’ll call her Shelly.
Shelly adores me, apparently. Regardless of where I am or what I’m supposed to be doing (or what she’s supposed to be doing, for that matter), she simply must gasp upon seeing me, exclaim “MISS FRANKIE!!!” and run at me with gangly arms extended to give what I’m beginning to think is a purposefully rib-crushing hug. She loves me so much she wants to squish me, I do believe.
But though Shelly has taken to claiming me the “best teacher EVURR” (a title I do not deserve, as my patience with her age group is always painfully threadbare), she still finds it enjoyable to examine every aspect of my being. Examine it...and criticize it.
I’ve gotten used to this phenomenon since working with kids; apparently there comes a point when the baby-chillens turn on you, and it seems that point is around birthday number 8. And in her defense Shelly has said some nice things to me…she recently told me I was “skinny” and had “really white teeth,” although when I thanked her for it she said “why would you take that as a compliment?” Fail. So for your enjoyment (and because these gems of verbal battery lose some of their vicious sting when repeated), I give you:
My Favorite Kid Quotes, A la Shelly
Shelly: Miss Frankie, why are you going to South Carolina?
Me: To see my cousin get married.
Shelly: How old is your cousin?
Me: Twenty-four.
Shelly: (pause) He’s younger than you?
Me: Yes.
Shelly: (pause) He’s getting married and he’s younger than you?
Me. Yes.
Shelly: (pause) How sad. You must be reeeally jealous!
_______
Shelly: (pointing to my “Gucci” bag) Is that real, Miss Frankie?
Me: Hmm?
Shelly: Is your Gucci purse real?
Me: (stunned that an 8-year-old knows about Gucci) Well, what do you think?
Shelly: (pauses, looks me up and down, pauses) I think you’re way too poor to have a real Gucci purse.
_______
Shelly: Where do you live, Miss Frankie?
Me: Here in Norman.
Shelly: In a house?
Me: Yep.
Shelly: Alone?
Me: Yep.
Shelly: You live in a house alone? And you’re twenty-five?
Me: Yep…
Shelly: Do you have a boyfriend, Miss Frankie?
Me: N-no…
Shelly: So you live in a house, alone, and you’re twenty-five and you don’t have a boyfriend?
Me: Yeah……
Shelly: (patting me on the back) I bet you’re very lonely.
And my personal favorite:
Shelly: Miss Frankie, have you ever been to jail?
Me: No, I have not.
Shelly: Do you want to go to jail?
Me: No, I do not.
Shelly: How come?
Me: Jail is not a place most people want to go, Shelly.
Shelly: But it’d be exciting.
Me: No…
Shelly: Yes it would. You know it would.
Me: No…..
Shelly: So you’re telling me you think that this right here- what you’re doing with your life right now….(dramatic pause, points around the room at countless whining, crying, sniffling baby-chillens)…is more exciting to you than being in jail?
She may be a minion of the Antichrist...but dammit, she has a point.
Much love.
Showing posts with label baby-chillens. Show all posts
Showing posts with label baby-chillens. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Why I'm morally opposed to being set-up.
So I’m sitting at the front desk of the church childcare center, basking in my 1.5 hours of the workday that do not involve snot-nosed busted-lipped crying whining 3-year-olds. I love the baby chillens, I do. But I’m constantly amazed by their sheer and utter grossness. (If you have a strong stomach, be sure to ask me about the day Joey forgot that he’s potty-trained. Yeah, that was epically disgusting.)
But I’m sitting there, and in walks a parent of one of my favorite baby-chillens. She stops to talk and starts chatting about work or weather or some other such nonsense. Then, without word of warning she says, “So Miss Frankie, how old are you?” (The baby-chillens call me Miss Frankie, and thusly so do their parents.)
Immediately I become apprehensive.
If you’re happily married (or at least married in some capacity), you may not understand my aforementioned apprehension. But. I’ve been blissfully single for most of my adult existence, and I’ve therefore learned the DANGER! DANGER! signs that indicate I’m about to be propositioned with someone’s uncle’s cousin’s half-brother thrice removed who is also, GASP, single. And when somebody new to my life starts a sentence with “so” and ends it with “how old are you,” it’s safe to assume the next words out of her mouth will be, “well I just so happen to have this friend…”
So I pause, give myself a brief BE STRONG THIS IS A TRAP mental pep-talk, and say, “I’m 25.”
“Oh really? Miss K thought you were 20. Well I just so happen to have this friend…”
(I KNEW IT.)
“…and he’s a great guy but he only ever dates psychotic girls.”
Long pause. This is when I’m supposed to be complimented by the subtle inference that I’m not psychotic, therefore allowing her to blindside me with her upcoming proposal. Luckily and/or tragically however, I’ve been tricked like this countless times before. You ain’t getting me that easy, lady. I am an experienced evader of set-ups, and implying I’m not a psycho just proves you don’t know me from Adam.
So I say, “Oh yeah? I completely understand…I only ever seem to date psycho guys! That’s why I’m on a dating sabbatical. “ And just in case “sabbatical” isn’t a word familiar to this stay-at-home mom, I add “meaning I’m not dating. At all.”
(After countless awkward conversations where I’d admit to being available, get set-up with the King of the Douchetards, feign illness or unexpected travel, piss off my set-upper and then be deemed “too picky to find love,” I finally developed a strategy for these type of scenarios. Now whene’er I sense the DANGER! DANGER! signs meaning I’m about to be set-up, I act jaded and deeply cynical and say things like “I’m never dating again” and "men are pigs.” Nobody wants to mess with a woman scorned.)
So she looks at me, cocks her head and asks, “bad break-up?”
“Several.”
(I’m intentionally vague in hopes she’ll assume my last dating go-round ended in arson, mandatory anger management classes and/or restraining orders.)
She nods the way people do when they don’t really get what you're saying but would like you to think they do nonetheless. “Well I guess that makes sense then. I was just going to say that my husband’s friend Blane is a great guy, and you’re just such a sweet girl that I thought I’d get y’all together.”
Things get very awkward for a moment as she waits for me to succumb to the pressure and say, “ahh what the hell, my number’s 555…” But though the take-this-as-a-compliment-and-say-you’ll-go-out-with-him silence is deafening, I stick to my guns.
'Yeah...I’m just reeeeeally not dating right now.”
“Hmm. Okay. But he really is a nice guy...he’s got a great job, and he’s really cute!”
And just as my armor of cynicism begins to break under the awkwardness, she decides to elaborate on my potential manfriend, Blane.
“Yeah, Blane’s great…I think he’s good looking-"
(“I think” means “he’s really not but I don’t know how to tell you that and still get you to go out with him.”)
"He’s 35-"
(Umm, did I stutter? I said I’m twenty-five! A 10 year age difference does not a good match make.)
“He has a two-year-old but never sees her-"
(He’s a dad…and he’s a deadbeat dad at that.)
“And he's got a fantastic job. He’s a prison guard!”
..........and that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I’m morally opposed to being set-up.
Much love.
But I’m sitting there, and in walks a parent of one of my favorite baby-chillens. She stops to talk and starts chatting about work or weather or some other such nonsense. Then, without word of warning she says, “So Miss Frankie, how old are you?” (The baby-chillens call me Miss Frankie, and thusly so do their parents.)
Immediately I become apprehensive.
If you’re happily married (or at least married in some capacity), you may not understand my aforementioned apprehension. But. I’ve been blissfully single for most of my adult existence, and I’ve therefore learned the DANGER! DANGER! signs that indicate I’m about to be propositioned with someone’s uncle’s cousin’s half-brother thrice removed who is also, GASP, single. And when somebody new to my life starts a sentence with “so” and ends it with “how old are you,” it’s safe to assume the next words out of her mouth will be, “well I just so happen to have this friend…”
So I pause, give myself a brief BE STRONG THIS IS A TRAP mental pep-talk, and say, “I’m 25.”
“Oh really? Miss K thought you were 20. Well I just so happen to have this friend…”
(I KNEW IT.)
“…and he’s a great guy but he only ever dates psychotic girls.”
Long pause. This is when I’m supposed to be complimented by the subtle inference that I’m not psychotic, therefore allowing her to blindside me with her upcoming proposal. Luckily and/or tragically however, I’ve been tricked like this countless times before. You ain’t getting me that easy, lady. I am an experienced evader of set-ups, and implying I’m not a psycho just proves you don’t know me from Adam.
So I say, “Oh yeah? I completely understand…I only ever seem to date psycho guys! That’s why I’m on a dating sabbatical. “ And just in case “sabbatical” isn’t a word familiar to this stay-at-home mom, I add “meaning I’m not dating. At all.”
(After countless awkward conversations where I’d admit to being available, get set-up with the King of the Douchetards, feign illness or unexpected travel, piss off my set-upper and then be deemed “too picky to find love,” I finally developed a strategy for these type of scenarios. Now whene’er I sense the DANGER! DANGER! signs meaning I’m about to be set-up, I act jaded and deeply cynical and say things like “I’m never dating again” and "men are pigs.” Nobody wants to mess with a woman scorned.)
So she looks at me, cocks her head and asks, “bad break-up?”
“Several.”
(I’m intentionally vague in hopes she’ll assume my last dating go-round ended in arson, mandatory anger management classes and/or restraining orders.)
She nods the way people do when they don’t really get what you're saying but would like you to think they do nonetheless. “Well I guess that makes sense then. I was just going to say that my husband’s friend Blane is a great guy, and you’re just such a sweet girl that I thought I’d get y’all together.”
Things get very awkward for a moment as she waits for me to succumb to the pressure and say, “ahh what the hell, my number’s 555…” But though the take-this-as-a-compliment-and-say-you’ll-go-out-with-him silence is deafening, I stick to my guns.
'Yeah...I’m just reeeeeally not dating right now.”
“Hmm. Okay. But he really is a nice guy...he’s got a great job, and he’s really cute!”
And just as my armor of cynicism begins to break under the awkwardness, she decides to elaborate on my potential manfriend, Blane.
“Yeah, Blane’s great…I think he’s good looking-"
(“I think” means “he’s really not but I don’t know how to tell you that and still get you to go out with him.”)
"He’s 35-"
(Umm, did I stutter? I said I’m twenty-five! A 10 year age difference does not a good match make.)
“He has a two-year-old but never sees her-"
(He’s a dad…and he’s a deadbeat dad at that.)
“And he's got a fantastic job. He’s a prison guard!”
..........and that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I’m morally opposed to being set-up.
Much love.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Matthew.
So I’ve started my new career as a daycare worker, and to everyone’s surprise (but especially mine) I’m really getting the hang of it. If (when) they cry, you hug them and say “So and So, it’s Lydia’s day to be Line Leader.” If (when) they fight, you threaten to make them take another nap. And if (when) they hurt themselves, you tell them how brave they are and always give them a band-aid…band-aids are the kid equivalent to a stiff drink; they make them feel invincible, courageous, and slightly superior to everybody else.
And though I know it’s uncouth to pick favorite baby-chillens, I do so on a daily basis. (What? They’re not my offspring.) Today my favorite is Matthew.
Matthew is not technically one of my kids. I work in the 3 to 4-year-old room, and Mathew is a semi-potty-trained-terrible-2-year-old. However, I also have the pleasure of working Aftercare. This means from 3-6:00 PM every night I have the responsibility of keeping twelve 2 to 10-year-olds alive. It’s harder (and more maddening) than it sounds. Fortunately Matthew is one of my captives, and thus I have a ray of sunshine to break up the “but Travis said we COOOOOULD” whining I receive from the 5th grade girls.
(Incidentally, 5th graders are the teenagers of 2009. DAMN those hormones in our drinking water.)
But despite my newfound adoration of him, Matthew and I actually got off to a very rocky start. He came to me on the playground, white-blonde hair standing on end and a severely distressed look on his dirt-smeared face. “Thaaand inma choooo!” He said to me. Umm…..what? “Thaaaand inma CHOOOOOOO!!” Then he grabbed my leg for balance, pointed to his sandal and yelled “CHOO. CHOOCHOOCHOO!” But I was still massively confused. So I looked at him, used my 25-years of tried and tested logic to analyze his sign language, and finally deduced his wailing to mean that there was sand in his shoe. Ahha! You’d think it’d be easier for a grad student to understand a toddler, but nay. So I hoisted him up into my lap and carefully removed the accused sandal. Then I wiped off his tiny (and filthy) foot, shook the sand out of his shoe, and said “There ya go, sweet boy. All better.” Everything seemed on the up and up; he was smiling and saying words I didn’t understand, and I felt as if I’d done right by him.
Then I went to put the sandal back on.
Immediately his toes curled and he let out a scream almost too high-pitched for human ears to register. I instantly froze; 2’s are not my forte, and I was afraid I’d inadvertently broken this mini-person’s leg or ankle or foot or what have you. Then my worst fears were realized. He looked at me with pure disdain in his eyes, and in the loudest voice he could muster said “DON’T HURT ME AGAIN.”
Well that pretty much made me want to quit life.
And yet I was confused…I couldn’t imagine what I’d done to hurt him, so I tried to shake it off and be the Grown Up. “We have to put you shoe back on, Matthew” I said. And he said “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! NO SHOE!!!! NO HURT ME AGAIN! NOOOOOOOOOOOO!! YOU HUUUUUUUUURT ME NO NO!!!!”
By that time the other teacher on duty was looking at me warily; it was clear she didn’t want to expend the energy to intervene, but she also didn’t want me to kill the poor child (which is precisely what it sounded like I was doing). But thanks to Jesus, after 7 more excruciating minutes of “DON’THURTMEDON’THURTMEDON’THURTME” wails I finally succeed in velcroing the damn sandal back on Matthew’s squirming foot. The cries stopped immediately. He looked at me, glared, and hopped down from my lap to reenter the sandbox…and I spent the rest of the day fighting back the assumption that I’d soon be visited by DHS.
But that next afternoon I learned a valuable lesson about 2-year-olds; despite the fact that they know some words (and use them, loudly), they don’t necessarily understand what they mean.
For when I ventured back into Aftercare and was met again with the challenge of monitoring scary-breakable-2-baby-chillens, I heard the familiar screams of “DON’T HURT ME YOU HURT ME IT HURTS DON’T HURT ME” emanating from deep within Matthew’s being. Poor Miss Christie looked just about as terrified as I had felt the day before; she was tugging gently at Matthew’s hand saying “we need to go potty,” and he was responding by accusing her of child abuse.
And that’s the moment when I first realized I speak Toddler.
Matthew knows that being hurt is bad. Matthew also knows that, when it’s not what he wants to do at that moment, things like putting on one’s shoes or going to the bathroom are also bad.
Hence, anything that makes Matthew unhappy…hurts. And whoever is the culprit of said unhappiness…is hurting him.
AaaaahhhhhhhHA!
Now he and I understand each other almost flawlessly; when I tell him to stop throwing rocks and he tells me “DON’T HURT ME AGAIN,” I raise an eyebrow that means I’m not falling for it this time, and he puts down the rocks with defeat and anger in his eyes. (Kids can give THE BEST “go to Hell” looks.) But beyond his terrible-two’s tantrums, he’s really an adorable kid…he speaks a language all his own and has a laugh like you wouldn’t believe, plus he loves to crawl up to me on all fours and bark with every ounce of his might. He’s playing dog. It’s freaking adorable.
Now that my DHS investigation scare is passed, I feel relatively confident with my abilities to keep small baby-chillens alive…and even happy (except for the 5th grade girls, who hate me with a passion and are conspiring to have me fired. You can’t please everyone…especially when dealing with hormone-crazed spawns of Satan.)
But despite my success with Matthew, I'm sure there will be countless other Epic Fails over the summer when these precious lil Monster Babies and I do not communicate properly. And especially now that I have two (count them, two) childcare jobs, I assure you God Willing will recieve the brunt of my "welp, I pissed off another one" stories. So, keep checking in. Maybe next time I’ll tell you about Kavith, who has never spoken a word of English to me but who likes to sit half-nekked on the bathroom floor and sing jibberish to himself. Imagine the possibilities...the possibilites are endless.
Much love.
And though I know it’s uncouth to pick favorite baby-chillens, I do so on a daily basis. (What? They’re not my offspring.) Today my favorite is Matthew.
Matthew is not technically one of my kids. I work in the 3 to 4-year-old room, and Mathew is a semi-potty-trained-terrible-2-year-old. However, I also have the pleasure of working Aftercare. This means from 3-6:00 PM every night I have the responsibility of keeping twelve 2 to 10-year-olds alive. It’s harder (and more maddening) than it sounds. Fortunately Matthew is one of my captives, and thus I have a ray of sunshine to break up the “but Travis said we COOOOOULD” whining I receive from the 5th grade girls.
(Incidentally, 5th graders are the teenagers of 2009. DAMN those hormones in our drinking water.)
But despite my newfound adoration of him, Matthew and I actually got off to a very rocky start. He came to me on the playground, white-blonde hair standing on end and a severely distressed look on his dirt-smeared face. “Thaaand inma choooo!” He said to me. Umm…..what? “Thaaaand inma CHOOOOOOO!!” Then he grabbed my leg for balance, pointed to his sandal and yelled “CHOO. CHOOCHOOCHOO!” But I was still massively confused. So I looked at him, used my 25-years of tried and tested logic to analyze his sign language, and finally deduced his wailing to mean that there was sand in his shoe. Ahha! You’d think it’d be easier for a grad student to understand a toddler, but nay. So I hoisted him up into my lap and carefully removed the accused sandal. Then I wiped off his tiny (and filthy) foot, shook the sand out of his shoe, and said “There ya go, sweet boy. All better.” Everything seemed on the up and up; he was smiling and saying words I didn’t understand, and I felt as if I’d done right by him.
Then I went to put the sandal back on.
Immediately his toes curled and he let out a scream almost too high-pitched for human ears to register. I instantly froze; 2’s are not my forte, and I was afraid I’d inadvertently broken this mini-person’s leg or ankle or foot or what have you. Then my worst fears were realized. He looked at me with pure disdain in his eyes, and in the loudest voice he could muster said “DON’T HURT ME AGAIN.”
Well that pretty much made me want to quit life.
And yet I was confused…I couldn’t imagine what I’d done to hurt him, so I tried to shake it off and be the Grown Up. “We have to put you shoe back on, Matthew” I said. And he said “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! NO SHOE!!!! NO HURT ME AGAIN! NOOOOOOOOOOOO!! YOU HUUUUUUUUURT ME NO NO!!!!”
By that time the other teacher on duty was looking at me warily; it was clear she didn’t want to expend the energy to intervene, but she also didn’t want me to kill the poor child (which is precisely what it sounded like I was doing). But thanks to Jesus, after 7 more excruciating minutes of “DON’THURTMEDON’THURTMEDON’THURTME” wails I finally succeed in velcroing the damn sandal back on Matthew’s squirming foot. The cries stopped immediately. He looked at me, glared, and hopped down from my lap to reenter the sandbox…and I spent the rest of the day fighting back the assumption that I’d soon be visited by DHS.
But that next afternoon I learned a valuable lesson about 2-year-olds; despite the fact that they know some words (and use them, loudly), they don’t necessarily understand what they mean.
For when I ventured back into Aftercare and was met again with the challenge of monitoring scary-breakable-2-baby-chillens, I heard the familiar screams of “DON’T HURT ME YOU HURT ME IT HURTS DON’T HURT ME” emanating from deep within Matthew’s being. Poor Miss Christie looked just about as terrified as I had felt the day before; she was tugging gently at Matthew’s hand saying “we need to go potty,” and he was responding by accusing her of child abuse.
And that’s the moment when I first realized I speak Toddler.
Matthew knows that being hurt is bad. Matthew also knows that, when it’s not what he wants to do at that moment, things like putting on one’s shoes or going to the bathroom are also bad.
Hence, anything that makes Matthew unhappy…hurts. And whoever is the culprit of said unhappiness…is hurting him.
AaaaahhhhhhhHA!
Now he and I understand each other almost flawlessly; when I tell him to stop throwing rocks and he tells me “DON’T HURT ME AGAIN,” I raise an eyebrow that means I’m not falling for it this time, and he puts down the rocks with defeat and anger in his eyes. (Kids can give THE BEST “go to Hell” looks.) But beyond his terrible-two’s tantrums, he’s really an adorable kid…he speaks a language all his own and has a laugh like you wouldn’t believe, plus he loves to crawl up to me on all fours and bark with every ounce of his might. He’s playing dog. It’s freaking adorable.
Now that my DHS investigation scare is passed, I feel relatively confident with my abilities to keep small baby-chillens alive…and even happy (except for the 5th grade girls, who hate me with a passion and are conspiring to have me fired. You can’t please everyone…especially when dealing with hormone-crazed spawns of Satan.)
But despite my success with Matthew, I'm sure there will be countless other Epic Fails over the summer when these precious lil Monster Babies and I do not communicate properly. And especially now that I have two (count them, two) childcare jobs, I assure you God Willing will recieve the brunt of my "welp, I pissed off another one" stories. So, keep checking in. Maybe next time I’ll tell you about Kavith, who has never spoken a word of English to me but who likes to sit half-nekked on the bathroom floor and sing jibberish to himself. Imagine the possibilities...the possibilites are endless.
Much love.
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