She Sees Things Differently Than I Do

Alexis is on a quest to wipe out at least one rainforest per year. While I should probably tell her to chill out on the paper usage, pretty much every single day I wind up with something like this:

Sorry, but if my kid wants to proclaim her love for me with crayons and paper every single day, SO BE IT.

And if the kid wants to draw pictures of me? Even better. Especially since she's kinder to me than gravity has been. Ahem.

P.S. There are a couple of giveaways going on over at the Review Page, including a chance to win a $100 Visa Gift Card.

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Not to be outdone by the delusional pediatrician, Alexis found eight words that instantly caused a traffic jam of words in my head.

"How do babies get in a mommy's tummy?"

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The first time she asked, I think I managed to spit out something like, "Hey, look! Did you see that deer? I think it had the same hair as Justin Bieber! On its butt! It had glitter all over it, too! SHINY! SPARKLY! THING! OVER! THERE! LOOOOOK!"

Hey, now. You'd change the subject, too, especially if Britney Spears was blaring through the radio with a song about having a threesome.

The second time the topic came up, Alexis decided to be a little more vague with her question, "Where do babies come from?" she asked.

I was slightly more composed in my response that time, despite the fact that I was eating a veggie hot dog at that exact moment. "Ask me later," I said.

Look, it's not that I'm afraid of talking about sex with the kid. I would MUCH rather that she heard it all from me than from some misinformed creep at school. I just was hoping that I would have a little time to prepare for The Talk.

So, that's what I've been doing lately. Preparing for The Talk.

I realize that I need to avoid having the discussion while we're in the car, just in case the soundtrack to our conversation were to end up being something that would traumatize me for life. And, yes, I said traumatize ME for life. I'm not worried about Alexis. It's me that could use a little Xanax when it comes time to think about my kid and sex in the same sentence.

(I just cringed, LITERALLY, typing that sentence. Go figure.)

I also need to avoid having any food that could be confused with a phallic symbol in front of me while we're chatting about sex. I mean, really. I'm worse than a 14-year old boy.

Considering all of that, I decided that an age-appropriate book was the way to go. I'll just read it to her during our usual nightly reading session and it'll be no big deal. For her. I plan to weep openly after it's done.

I tromped around Amazon for a bit, reading reviews and write-ups about various books guaranteed to keep the conversation on target. I found a few that have potential (this one and this one, specifically), but then discovered something truly amazing.

Some people really have issues.

Like, REALLY.

Reading some of the reviews turned out to be so funny that it's almost worth knowing that I have to deal with The Talk with the kid. There are reviews that say things like, "This book is far too graphic. Kids don't need to know all of this stuff." There's also "The drawings are too graphic and will likely frighten anyone (child or adult)." There's, "If you want to turn your kid into a pervert and have him whoring around in preschool, then you'll get what you want." And my favorite, "This book read like a manual for pedophiles."

Two words for some of those reviewers: Projecting much?

I guess I'm not the only one who gets a little uncomfortable thinking about discussing sex with their kid. Thank goodness I'm not so scared of The Talk that I get all wound up over some cartoon drawings and the word "vagina."

Hell Froze Over

If you hand me some pompoms and a short pleated skirt, odds are I'll starting chanting, "Snow! Snow! Goooo, snow!" Of course, I'll probably throw up if you actually make me touch pompoms and a short pleated skirt, but whatever. The point is I'm one of snow's biggest fans.

There is a rule to my dedication to Team Snow. The rule clearly states that Team Snow is only allowed to be in play between November and February. Once the calendar flips to March, I break up with snow faster than Joy Behar can say something pointless.

Often, I feel like I'm a One Man Snow Cheering Machine. I'm surrounded by people who think snow is a stupid poopface, to which I say, YOU LIVE IN PITTSBURGH. It snows in Pittsburgh. Every single year. If you live here, you should probably learn to like the snow. If you can't, MOVE SOUTH. Or shoosh. Or both.

The only thing is that after nearly two solid months with snow on the ground, a wicked storm that seems like it happened yesterday (technically the calendar says it has been a year since SnOMG, but I swear it seems like yesterday), and a strong desire to get started on some spring projects that I have plotted out in my head, I'M READY. Snow, be gone! Bring on the sun and 60 degrees! NOW!

I kind of want to punch myself for being impatient, but first I need to figure out if I can pay Phineas and Ferb to build a giant blowtorch that will abolish the snow that is currently falling on the city. I want to see the snow burn, dammit.

Alexis still likes the fluffy stuff, though. The little traitor.