Tag Archives: chicken and dumples

Majesty, Monsters, and Mexico

At the dinner table, Dumples is without her favorite condiment. She says to her father, “Could I please have some more ketchup, Your Majesty?”

“Excuse me,” I interjected. “Did you just call him Your Majesty?” She nods. “So what does that make me?”

Without missing a beat, my favorite four-year-old replies, “You’re The Boss.”

Can’t argue with that logic.


Ketchup makes the rounds and Chicken tells a story from first grade land. A classmate is moving away. “She had to move,” Chicken tells us, jabbing her fork in the air for emphasis.

“Do you know where she moved?” Your Majesty asked.

“Ummm. Yeah. She moved to Mexico,” Chicken replied, almost stabbing herself in the face with her fork.

“Mexico?!?” I said. “Really? Why did she move to Mexico?” Because when you live in Minnesota and you’re fleeing the country, you go to Canada. It’s right there.

Chicken shrugged and applied six-going-on-seven-year-old logic. “Probably there were no houses to buy in Minnesota.”


Dumples and I are attending a parent-child class every Monday night in March. She receives undivided attention from me while she does (mostly) the same stuff she does at home — paints, builds, puzzles, asks a lot of questions, sings, points at other kids who are doing interesting things, etc.

The last fifteen minutes of the class is separation time. That means she eats Scooby Snacks while the grown-ups go into another room and talk about love, logic, and chore charts.

I came to collect her afterward. We were the last to leave, and her teacher said, “Did you tell your Mom what kind of cookie you want her to make you?”

Apparently, the snack time convo fell under the topic of “What’s your favorite kind of cookie?” and the teacher’s answer of “monster cookie” was making Dumples drool.

The teacher told me, “I guess you’ll be making monster cookies now.”

We walked out the door but not out of earshot when Dumples announced, “I know you won’t make monster cookies, Mom. Because you can’t cook!”

I heard the giggles behind me. But it’s true. The Boss can’t cook. Your Majesty is in charge of the monster cookies, the ketchup allotments, eye injuries, and any plans for our future exile. In other words, he’s King of the Castle.

Jenna The BIG Purse

I recently traded in my Baggallini for a BIG purse. I don’t even think I can still call it a purse. A pocketbook? A handbag? No, this thing is just plain LUGGAGE.

Although Dumples has named it Jenna.

Jenna has a fantastic depth. I had to add 10 minutes to my daily commute to make time for the morning key hunt. There’s a few dollars for tolls in there, but forget about finding them; I had to reroute my trip instead. Pay by check? I know that checkbook is in here somewhere… And if rain blotches my glasses, I am doomed, because there is no way I could find my glasses cleaning cloth within Jenna’s ample bosom.

Here are some random things I pulled out of Jenna.

Pencil Sharpener

A pencil sharpener. This is to sharpen my pencil for sketching nesting dolls, which also often ride along in Jenna. The pencil sharpener, however, is only of use if I can find the pencil, which is doubtful.

Flashlight

It’s a flashlight and a flare. Does it work? I have no idea. Could I find it in a time of panic? Doubtful.

Gloves

An extra pair of gloves. Because I spend a lot of time in North Dakota.

Tomato

A tomato given to me by a coworker. Because Fargoans are sharers as well as great home gardeners. Hopefully the tomato and the pencil did not meet up.

 

Three Notebooks

Not one, not two, but THREE notebooks, of varying sizes. The nuclear one is for nesting doll ideas. The black one is for work notes that I will likely never read again. The tiny one is Chicken’s grocery list. It’s not a list of things to buy at the grocery store; it’s a list of items she SAW at the grocery store and wants to recreate at home.

I fit an 18-count box of Cafe Bustelo k-cups in there the other day.

In fifteen years, Jenna will accompany to my back surgery appointment. Because she’s not easy on the spine. Until then, she and I will fill up on secret peanut butter cups, paperback novels, and fast food napkins. And I’ll never find anything again.

The Light Up Backpack

Dumples started preschool last week. It’s only two hours, two days a week. Basically, there’s time for a song, an art project, and a snack. She needs her own backpack now, and she picked out the only one in the whole store that lights up when you shake it.  She uses it to bring her art projects home and, I presume, to engage new friends.

After the first day of preschool, I asked Dumples if she had made any new friends. “Yep!” she said, beaming.

“Tell me their names,” I coaxed her.

She thought for a moment, then eureka’d, “Silas!” She added, “Silas is my best fwiend.”

“Oh yeah? Did you play with Silas today?”

“No.”

“Did you talk to Silas today?”

“No.”

“But he’s your best friend?”

“Yep.”

I’m pretty sure this best friendship is all about the light up backup. I can’t see how it could be based on anything else. If Silas even knows who Dumples is.