best.dress-up picture.ever

They come by it honestly, I suppose. I mean, I’m the funniest person that I know. I kid. No, really, I am pretty funny.  Well, sometimes, but never when I intend to be. But whatever.

Anyway, the girls and I spend quite a bit of time in the car going to and fro, fro and to school, gymnastics, the always dreaded Kumon and the like.  When Vivi burst onto the scene we had to do some creative configuring in the car to accommodate everyone and their carseat.  Mo was already in a booster, and upgraded (that’s debatable) to a spot in the very back of the car.  Co kept her five-point harness and first officer position behind the passenger seat, while V took prime real estate behind the driver.

This arrangement worked out well for a while, until Mo and Co realized having a conversation was really impossible. Mo would lean forward to ask Co a question. Co was so ensconced in her carseat, all she could do was flail her arms and legs as she fruitlessly tried to turn her head in response.  Quite a bit of shouting, “What did you say?” took place.  Add to the fact that dear, sweet Co was all thumbs when it came to buckling up her car seat, no matter how many times I  implored dear, sweet Morgan to help her. I found myself doing Gabby Douglas type contortions to reach round and snap her in because inevitably, she would wait until I was all buckled up to announce, “I’m having a problem with my car seat”, or simply grunt, grunt, grunt in frustration that she couldn’t make the clasps close across her little bird chest.

Yes, I know that I could have (and probably should have) just gone around to the side of the car to check on her before I got in my own seat, but that would be the smart, and practical thing to do. Besides, she’s got a Montessori, “I-can-do-it-myself” mentality and who am I to get in the way of progress.  And of course, if I had done that, well, then I wouldn’t have anything to talk about now, would I?

*full disclaimer* I make sure that my children are properly secured in their seats before operating an automobile.

Anyway, the seating was less than ideal. Eventually, Co made weight (finally), which meant she could move to a booster.  Woo-woo!  Talk about a graduation day; I flipped the seats around and now, Mo and Co were seat mates once again.  Catching them in the rear view mirror was like watching a Waldorf and Statler reunion, albeit a modern day version starring two elementary aged Black children, but I digress.  It’s the dialogue that has got me shaking my head.

For instance, over the week-end, they had watched My Little Pony on the Hub (yes, I let my kids watch TV. Probably more than I should, but hey, sometimes, I like to pee without an audience). The next day on the way to school, I was informed that I would be taking Rainbow Dash and Prance-a-lot  to the Pretty Pony Academy in – – -wait for it – – – Canterlot. Oy. I don’t watch MLP, so I don’t know if this is made up or not, but whatever.  On the ride, every time we passed some landmark they knew, Rainbow Dash, or maybe it was Prance-a-Lot, would exclaim, “Oh look, pony sister! Only a few more miles until Pony Academy in Canterlot. I’m so excited, I’m tossing my mane!”

Seriously.

This said in all serious and with accents, mind you.  I mean, not like British or French accents, but the type of voices little girls do when they are trying to convey gravity and maturity. For my girls, that’s something akin to a Southern Belle impersonation in a high register.

Fast forward to after school the other day.  Mo and Co settled into the backseat, passing snacks between them and plotting what they wanted to play once they got home.

Mo: Well, we could play Monster High. I could be Clawdeen Wolf and you could be my sister, Howleen.

Co: No, we did that last time we played Monster High. Let’s play Mermaid Splash palace and put the sprinkler in the backyard.

*and here’s where I had to stop that little seed from taking root.  Sure, it’s 70 degrees outside, but it is January, after all. *

Mo: Let’s play princesses!  What princess are you going to be? But wait, Co, you have to pick one of the brave princesses, like Merida or Pocahontas or  something.  NOT one of the “Help! Help!” princesses.

^^ That right there was a proud mommy moment!

Later on, I reminded the girls that whatever they decided to play and wherever they decided to play, they would have to clean it up when they were done.

“Yes, Mommy,” came the monotone response.  Then there was a pause followed by this little gem.

Co: I don’t have to clean my room because I never play in there. tra-la-la-la-la.

Okay, she didn’t really say tea-la-la-la-la, but she might as well have! I mean, that was too much.  If that’s her thought process at 5? Oy, are we in for it.

During the Super Bowl last night, Mo tossed up the following tidbits:

(during Alicia Keys singing of the National Anthem) “Take that, Beyonce!”

(when they showed a picture of Colin Kaepernick on TV) “Wait, is he Persian?!” — I’ll admit, I haven’t followed the 49ers since I would play Tecmo Bowl on the Nintendo and hit Jerry Rice high and tight for the Hail Mary touchdown pass.  First time I’ve seen the 49ers on TV all season, so I asked the Hubs, “Is he Persian?” and who knew? Mo had been listening the whole time.

(during a commercial for the Beyonce Half-Time Show) slapping her own forehead “Ugh! She’s SO dramatic! I can’t take all her drama!”

Let me clarify all the shade that Mo is tossing towards Bey.  She’s overheard me talking about how I’m just OBed (over-Beyonced).  The chick is everywhere.  I’m not detracting from her abilities as an entertainer.  She’s the consummate performer. I listen to her music when it comes on the radio. I workout to her songs on my iPod.  HOWEVER, I’m tired of seeing her all over the place. Like Taylor Swift. And Lena Dunham. Ugh, don’t even get me started on those two.  It’s like that scene in Mean Girls when Gretchen keeps trying to make “fetch” happen.

In this, case however, it’s happened. The world domination of Beyonce has happened.  I get it. Stop beating me about the head with it! I’m liable to get a concussion.

Better not say that too loudly.  Somebody’s bound to repeat it.