Ridiculous conversations

Every once in a while I find myself in a totally ridiculous negotiation with Lena. Here is the first list in what I'm sure will be an ongoing series:

1. Lena, please don't spit milk at the dog.
2. Lena, please don't put sand in your umbrella.
3. No, Lena, you can't eat the oven.

I think I'm in for it.

Me: Lena, it's time to brush teeth. Come on.
Lena: No. I'm still sulking.

By the way

If you buy a 12 pack of multicolored glow sticks at the dollar store and take them into the bathtub with bubbles and turn the lights out so the bubbles all glow different colors it's a "rainbow bath" and it's awesome.

Best $1 I ever spent.

It's what's for dinner.

True.

Lena, as we're driving down our hill to preschool: Bye bye, top! We're going to bottom.

Breaking the fast

With rock n' roll, obvs.

Simple pleasures.

Car trip to San Francisco. Lena kept herself entertained for a good hour playing with (and under) this bag.

What fever?

Lena got sent home from preschool today with a 100.4 degree fever.

Me, watching Lena be totally silly and hilarious: She's sick?
Lena: I'm not sick, I'm funny!

I must be doing something right.

Lena, stomping feet and yelling: Ouuutttt!
Me: Lena, what's wrong? What do you want?
Lena: I want to go outside and make a barbecue with Daddy.

(that's my girl.) 

It's in her blood.

Lena, having eaten almost nothing at dinner: I want to get out [of her booster seat].
Me: Ok, if you take three more bites, you can get out.
Lena: Um... how 'bout one bite?
Me: No. Three bites.
Lena: How 'bout two bites?
Me: No. Three.
Lena: Two bites? (implied: final offer before tantrum)
Me: I've been doing this longer than you. Three.

Lena is going to be so bummed when she finds out she's not the center of the universe.

Greg: I'm going outside.
Lena: No! That's MY outside!

I swear I didn't teach her this.

Lena: I'm a pirate. Aargh!
Me: You're a pirate?
Lena: I'm a baby pirate. (In a tiny, high-pitched, baby voice) Aargh!

I hate you, baby red dinosaur.

Things I'd never actually say to my daughter (but want to), #1:

I hate your baby red dinosaur. Truly hate. I hate his tiny, adorable yellow tummy. And his goofy smile, and his dumb yellow spikes. I particularly hate that you like this stupid, cheap, plastic, China-made goodybag filler piece of crap more than the sweet handmade toys I picked out painstakingly before you were born. Tell me, what the hell is wrong with that adorable sweater owl, all recycled and retro colors? How about your cute patchwork hedgehog? No?

No. You want your little plastic baby red dinosaur, who gets lost in the middle of the night, wedged between the crib rails and the wall. Whose absence makes you cry in despair when you lose your grip on him during what I can only hope was a particularly baby-red-dinosaur-free part of your dreams. I hate that even though baby red dinosaur makes frequent escape attempts, breaking your heart every time, you keep begging for him to come back to you. At 5:30 am. Waking up the entire house. Heaving with sobs.

He's just going to hurt you, sweetie. Let him go.