Miss Thing goes to Kinder

Yesterday was kindergarten registration. Bryn was totally excited about the promise that holds for her next year. She just missed the cut off for going to kinder last year, so she'll be one of the oldest in her class. She's tall for her age and has the confidence of a thousand men, so after the few short minutes it took to fill out all the paperwork, all I could think was that there was no way they knew what they were getting into with her.

Some of the papers asked for me to describe her and her interests. What could I possibly say that would communicate her in three lines or less? Bryn is the kind of person you just have to experience.

I was in the middle of filling out the first form (just prior to realizing that the second paper in my stack was in triplicate, so everything I had just written had gone through to that form...argh! who orders the pages that way!?) when Bryn asked me quite earnestly...."Mom, I'm wondering who my friends might be." I, of course, have no better clue than she does about such things, so I suggested she introduce herself to the other little girl (patiently) waiting for her mom to notice that the second form was in triplicate. Without a bit of hesitation, Bryn said, "Do you want to be my friend?"

The girl said, "sure"...and that was that. Bryn did note...aloud..."You'll be my first friend with hair that short." They talked a little bit about the colors they were using to color, the states they'd been to, and such.

When I finished the forms, we were to take them to a table manned by a nurse and a teacher. The nurse checked her immunization record and the teacher looked over all of the other stuff and told us the deal. Just before she handed us a stack of papers, Bryn said, "We were hoping to take a tour of the building while we were here." My jaw dropped. That was, of course, true, but she just said it in such a mature way...I think the teacher was even a little off guard. She proceeded to tell us about kindergarten orientation in August which was a special night that we could tour the school and play on the playground. Bryn's response: "That's disappointing."

Like I said, they just can't know what is in store.

Is it too early to start planning?

I'm guessing that it is probably a little early to start planning a wedding when the bride and groom are only 5. I think their preschool teacher may have mentioned something about her husband one time, and from then on, the entire room was obsessed with pairing up. I heard reports regularly that "Canyon wants to marry me, but I want to marry Dominic." Quite the dilemma before you even start school. I tried to probe for what exactly it was about Dominic that she liked. Her response one time: "I like that he has Bakugans." I guess that's the five-year old version of "he drives a nice car."

Oh, and she wants to marry someone handsome....like Daddy. I'm trying to get her to think more deeply about such things, so one time I added that I'd like her to marry someone who loved God. Her response: "Mom, (incredulously) everyone loves God.....except for bad guys. and I'm NOT going to marry a bad guy."

Tonight's version of the conversation included a detailed accounting for the wedding garb. She's determined that she wants to wear "a sparkly white dress with a crown and the hanging down thing (veil) but just in the back even though Avery said you have to have it in front of your face and then your guy does like this and puts it in the back but I don't want it to do that just in the front." Whew...gotta love a girl who knows what she likes.

TMI Alert: Feeling Womanly

Knowing as I write that this is highly likely a) unnecessary and b) unwelcome information for most readers (assuming there are any to begin with), I feel compelled to share some feelings I've had the past couple of days.

Man, I feel like a woman.

Did I sincereiously just quote Shania Twain?! Ugh, I should go to bed now. (By the way, I mis-spoke this evening and combined sincere and seriously...and kind of liked it. Am going to try to make it an actual word and see if it catches on with others. Beau and I have a deal to try to work it into conversation.)

I am of the ilk who think that breastfeeding is among the highest callings of motherhood. Even working full time, I've made it a priority for both my children. I gladly and successfully pumped for an entire year with Bryn, and continued to nurse her for nearly another year. Colt has been a different story. I don't know the source of the difference, but my milk supply has been very different with him. Work stress has been higher, so that may be part of it, but the bottom line is that we are definitely limping to the one-year mark.

Yesterday, I officially called the pumping bit and didn't even take my pump to work. To punctuate that point, I WORE A NORMAL BRA!!!!

And can I just say, it was uplifting....in every sense of the word.

To the Power of Ew

Usually Bryn is an adventurous eater. She'll try nearly anything, and really loves lots of foods that other kids probably wouldn't touch. But tonight...not so much.

I put some Parmesan crusted basa on her plate with some whole grain rice. Bryn will dive into fish before she'd eat grilled chicken, but that rice. She turned her nose up at that before I even sat down at the table.

"I don't like that, Mommy." Again, before I even sat down.

"Have you tried it yet, Bryn?"

"No, because it smells ew."

"I'd really like you to try it before you decide, please." (We're big on trying, but not on forcing a person to eat something they find to be "ew.")

Kindly, she takes a bite of the rice. I kid you not...she started to shiver and shake her head. We asked if it was too hot, but she was already in the process of spitting it back onto her plate saying, "That is not very good, Mommy."

"Okay, sweetheart. You don't have to eat it if you don't like it. Thanks for trying it."

"But, Mommy, what am I going to do with this rice?"

"Honey, you can just leave it on your plate and eat the other stuff. It will be okay."

She went on to eat all of her fish, and her roll, and her salad. However, halfway through dinner, I look over, and she's quietly holding her nose and eating. Poor thing...suffering in silence.

We gave in and scraped it all into the trash so that she could enjoy her dinner in aroma-peace.

PS: for the record, I also thought the rice was pretty ew.

Where is the mommy radar when you need it?

Just when I was thinking I had a handle on the whole mom thing... Colt has been a little under the weather all week--a low-grade fever, fussy, etc. Since his fever was never very high, and he was never really that upset, we had dismissed it all as teething or growing spurt or just still battling the cold from a week ago.

Ah, rookie mistake.

So, Saturday, while visiting my in-laws for Beau's mom's birthday, imagine my surprise when I look down and see fluid draining out of his little, precious ear! I freaked out, and took him to an urgent care place only to hear that his little eardrum had ruptured. EEK! even writing the words hurts me for him.

So we're running two different types of antibiotics, trying to keep it from crusting over, and otherwise trying to comfort the little bugger while constantly apologizing for ignoring the subtle signs of an ear infection. Now that he can sit up by himself and say "da-da-da-da-da-da" we need to teach him to pull on his ear when it hurts. Mommy promises not to miss that kind of sign.

I guess we all knew the day would come...

The other night, Beau was out of town on business, so bedtime for Bryn was less fun than usual. I was balancing Colt while reading the books and then couldn't sit and sing to her like I usually do. It was pretty lame by most accounts, but--you know what--it was the best I could do under the circumstances.

After the feeble attempt at the bedtime routine, I had barely gotten downstairs with Colt before Bryn was up and out of bed, calling me to come back up for a do-over. I ran back up stairs sans Colt to see what was the matter (and more importantly, what I could say or do to make it stop.)

Amid the "I want my Daddy"s, Bryn busted out with a first (of probably many) "I wish Colt would just go back into your tummy." I tried to explain why that was unlikely to happen, but she was pretty insistent on wishing it to be so. She really wanted him to be bigger than he is. I assured her that he was growing, but she correctly countered, "no, he's not, Mom. He's staying that size all DAY!"

I realized that my powerful analogy about how quickly hair grows was probably no match for her frustration level. So, the best I could do was just say good night and love you one more time.

After a good night's sleep, all was well again...and Bryn adores her brother as much as ever.

The Art of the Papercut

Bryn manages to inject a great deal of drama into literally every aspect of her life. From who gets their shoes on first to which cup she drinks from to injuries...she has an amazing flair for making it a bigger deal than necessary. I love her for it...I'm sure there's a future for her in theater (or therapy, depending on whether or not we get a handle on it early.)

Last night, we were sitting together, with Colt, reading some of the books she got for Christmas. Several of them weren't exactly heirloom quality literature, so we were reading paperbacks. Alas, the key word there is PAPER.

Since I was holding Colt, Bryn was in charge of holding the book and turning pages. Usually, she's great about such responsibility, but yesterday, she managed to get a papercut on the skin between her thumb and pointer finger.

For the record, papercuts do hurt. And a papercut right there, downright, stinks. I get it.

Bryn's reaction, however, was to go berserk. Beau came running into the living room wild-eyed for all of the racket. I calmly let him know that she'd gotten a papercut, because he was getting nothing from her except, "I NEED a bandaid. Owie, owie, it hurts, it HURTS!" over and over.

This is typical interaction for minor cuts and scrapes, but my favorite part of the whole event was, while Beau was fetching the bandaid, Bryn wailed, "SOME-BODY HELP ME! PLEASE, SOME-BOD-EE-EE-EE!"

The bandaid shaped like a yellow crayon seemed to do the trick.

My Head Hurts

I got a book for Christmas that I have been really looking forward to. Now that I'm over halfway through it, all I can say is...my head hurts. I feel like I'm back in graduate school in the most philosophical class anyone has ever created.

I have no idea why the emergent church has captured my attention so. Sadly, I've never thought so much about exactly what I believe, much less been so intrigued by what someone else believes.

Anyway, I'm going to bed before I completely lose my mind. Chapter 7 tomorrow.

Think it might catch on?

I have a friend who firmly believes that everyone should make up their own holiday--complete with traditions--and celebrate it every year. Hers is summer solstice (and she was incredibly disappointed to learn that it is a national holiday in much of Scandinavia). For the past couple of years, she has thrown a summer solstice party, and the tradition is to stay up and watch the sun set on the longest day of the year.

Bryn always likes an "itinerary check" in the car. We had swim lessons last night, but there is nothing special planned for tonight. Instead, Bryn had a great brainstorm on our way to school.

She offered, "Is this a good idea, Mom? Tonight, we should go knock on doors and ring doorbells, and collect good food."

I'm not at all sure of the audience for her invented holiday tradition, but I like her thinking.

And baby makes four....

If there were an easy way to blog and nurse at the same time, I'd have already posted this, but alas, it sat in "draft" for a week waiting to see the light of day.

Our blessed bundle arrived on September 15, five days before his due date on record. (or three days after the first one we calculated or two days before the one estimated at the 20 week ultrasound...again, due dates are pretty imprecise. Babies come when they want to come.)

I have a separate post planned to officially chronicle his birth story, but to just hit some high points of the occasion...

1. Went to work

2. Sat through 2 rather brutal meetings.

3. Was invited to lunch with some colleagues around 1:00, but when I stood up to leave...my water broke.

4. Beau came to take me home...wanted to change clothes, gather my things...

5. Went to the hospital around 2:30 and had my arms mutilated trying to get a Heplock in place with my small veins.

6. Following an intense, drug-free labor and delivery, had a healthy baby boy at 7:08 pm.

He was smaller than his sister, by a full pound, but my, what a difference a pound makes. He looked so tiny...Beau and I just kept looking at him in disbelief that we ended up with a pixie child! (He was labeled LGA, "large for gestational age" so we, apparently, are the only ones who think 8 pounds, 15 ounces is pixie sized.)

Welcome, Colt. We're delighted that you're finally here...no one perhaps as much as your sister.

Lunchbox drama

Part of me really misses Bryn's former daycare/preschool that fed her a legitimate hot lunch; nonetheless, in exchange for a more sound curriculum, we've taken on the task of packing a lunch for her each day. This change dramatically affects the number of vegetables the poor thing is exposed to in any given week, but we make it work.

A typical lunch is a sandwich (either PB&J or ham/turkey and cheese), some type of fruit, milk, maybe some yogurt and maybe something crunchy like cinnamon granola bites or graham crackers. Raisins are a treat as are Fruitabu (if you don't know Fruitabu...get to know them. They are fruit snacks made up of--get this--just real fruit!)

Apparently some of her little compadres show up with slightly more exotic lunches. Clearly, they compare lunches, and Bryn must be coming to the conclusion that hers are fundamentally flawed. Here's the conversation coming home yesterday.

Bryn: Mom, how about this for my lunch tomorrow? ... apples and PEANUT BUTTER! (she exclaims with such enthusiasm as though she was the first to think of this combination.)

Mom: That sounds good, Bryn. We can do that.

Bryn: And, how about some healthy fruit snacks? (we've distinguished between the gummy junk that has princesses, etc on the packages from some gummy, slightly-less junk ones where the first ingredients aren't sugar followed by high fructose corn syrup. Here's where Fruitabu typically comes in, but we've started to cast a slightly larger net to include some sweetened with applesauce.)

Mom: That would be good in a lunch, too.

Bryn: And....(pausing for effect)...a Lunchable!

Mom: (wondering how she has become conversant in a branded product so dadgum quickly)...we don't have any of those.

Bryn: Well, we'll have to get them at the grocery store. (she offers incredulous that I don't know the simplest solution to our Lunchable-acquisition issues.)

Mom: What is it about Lunchables that you like, Bryn?

Bryn: cheese.

Mom: (thinking "OK, I've got this.") Oh, well... you know what, we do have cheese, and some crackers, and some ham, so we could kind of make your very own special lunchable. How about that?

Bryn: But it wouldn't be all together in a little TRAY! I really need the little tray.

Mom: (Pause)... Sorry, you're going to be disappointed about your lunch tomorrow, Bryn.

As a point of follow up, she got everything on her list--except of course the Lunchable or even the clearly sub-standard homemade version. Unfortunately, there's one little thing about peanut butter that's been refrigerated. Apples don't dip into it quite as well as one would hope. Fortunately, she said she liked her lunch, so maybe the secret is co-creation. We'll give it a whirl tomorrow and see how it turns out.

Not winning any awards

I know, I know...it's been awhile even after I almost, half-way promised that it wouldn't be. I'm deeply ashamed. As a child, all the discipline I really required was a stern look and an accompanying "I'm very disappointed" from my parents. So, I'm self-inflicting an "I'm so disappointed...."

There, I feel appropriately chided. But feel free to leave a comment if you think I'm not appropriately remorseful.

So as to not mix cute daughter stories with such negativity...I shall close this post and IMMEDIATELY open another one to continue on a brighter note.

Time Flies...

Apparently, time flies both when you're having fun and when you're desperately trying to keep you head above water. I am completely shocked that it has been nearly two months since I posted anything about what all's going on around here.

Gracious. You'd think I wasn't even trying. :)

Lots of tidbits swirling around in my head...which helps no one until I sit down and write.

So... here's a little of what I've been thinking about lately.

Things I love about being pregnant (in no particular order)
1. Having kind people offer that I seem to be "all baby."
2. Being "all baby" and feeling the little bugger do flips or otherwise shift around in the middle of marathon meetings we've been having at the office.
3. Hearing my husband say that I'm beautiful.
4. Hearing my daughter say that she can't wait to be a big sister. She wants to "pat his back" every night. The other day, she pointed out that she was tired of waiting because it was really taking a long time for him to come out. Indeed, child. Truer words...truer words...
5. Having the baby "measure big" and then my doctor noting that she's not concerned because "we already know that you can push out big babies." (another time, I'll share her previous doubts on the subject...which basically turned into a dare--which I ROCKED! But, seriously, another time.)

Things I most decidedly do NOT love about being pregnant (also in no particular order)
1. Getting worried questions from random strangers about when I'm due, with the subtext screaming "Please, lady, don't have that baby in my checkout line....I'm about to go on break."

2. My wedding rings not fitting...which always makes me self-conscious in public. I technically don't care what people think, but I have a wonderful husband and father of this child, so hate to seemingly misrepresent my situation. Not that I care, of course, I'm just saying.

3. Getting unbelievably inappropriate questions from strangers. I'm immune to the "how much longer?" ones because clearly I'm pregnant and...well... see #1. I think it comes from a place of concern (if you squint). But it was the day that a woman behind the counter followed it with "So, are you getting stretch marks?" that I decided I--in fact--had a limit.

4. Being pregnant during the summer in Texas....and not for the reasons that one might think. I hate the implication that somehow 104 is hotter to me than the rest of the poor people here. That's just plain hot, folks. No matter your girth, it's hot. Let's not dwell on it. OK? Just scoot into the AC, have a tall glass of water, and be thankful that we have such options. Summer was plenty hot in Virginia withOUT central air. I've seen the other side...and I'll take this any day. Plus, I'm married to a blessed man who believes strongly that you should be comfortable in your own home. We keep our house a solid 10 degrees cooler than most people probably do.

5. Seemingly being on the verge of complications at all times. First, it was a "viability" issue because of completely imprecise due date calculation methods. Then, thyroid issues that got "hot-potatoed" for a specialist to deal with. And most recently, borderline high blood pressure. Come ON! I'd love to just ride the wave to the end without all the drama. I'm not into drama.

6. Various people offering that "there's no way you'll make it to your due date." It plants expectations, people. Natural childbirth is all about patience... not rushing things. Now, I have this little seed planted that--somehow--I'm NOT five weeks out. So, now, every week that passes, I grow more impatient when I shouldn't be starting that mess until after the imprecise due date comes and goes.

I'd say, "more later" but I doubt anyone would believe me (and I completely understand). For real, though, Bryn's been very funny lately, so I'll be posting some quotes as soon as I can.

More later...

Big Piano Lesson Payoff

74 words

Speed test

My sister essentially threw down this challenge, so I gave it a whirl, too. (OK, technically, it wasn't exactly posed as a dare or anything, but I love tests...so bring it on.)

As a little experiment, I tried the test on a standard keyboard and an ergonomic one to see if it made a difference. I only got 66 words a minute on the standard keyboard. Hmmmm, interesting.

Feats of Strength

As we picked Bryn up from school the other day, Beau saw her through the door playing on the playground with a friend. I couldn't see her yet, so was unable to completely appreciate his observation.

"Why is someone always riding my daughter?" he posed.

Bryn loves to perform feats of strength. It may be because she's big for her age or because she generally has pixie-sized friends or some combination of the two. Suffice it to say, she's a strong girl. So, sometimes, it's a big bear hug in which she lifts her playmate off the floor. Other times, they'll ride her piggy-back. Not that day.....nope. Creativity hit a new high.

Bryn was on her hands and knees with a friend riding her like a horse. This child just had a birthday, so he's a good three and half months older than her. He was so excited that he'd gotten to ride a "horse," and was quite animated to tell us about the game they were playing. Bryn quickly corrected him: "no, I bucked you off. I was a bucking horse." For the record, she had in fact bucked him off. We often play bucking bulls in the living room, so she knows all about how that goes.

I think Bryn inherited the adrenaline gene from her father because as we left the building, she was on quite a high about the whole experience. She was just beaming and asked over and over, "Are you proud of me, Daddy? Aren't you proud of me? That was good, right?"

See what I mean about the power of his words... A million times, I could have said I was proud, but it doesn't officially count until Daddy agrees. But I don't mind.

Happy Father's Day!

As we were warned, our lives haven't been the same since we became parents. I loved our life before Bryn, but can't fathom not having her in our lives. Fairly regularly I wonder, "why did we wait so long again?"



From the moment she was born--technically before that--Beau was completely taken with her. And she is with him--by the way.



So, today, on Father's Day, I want to celebrate some of the many characteristics that make Beau a great dad.


1. He sang to her in utero so that she would know his voice.
2. He rubbed her feet when she learning to walk because he figured that her "dogs were probably barking."
3. He happily paints her fingernails and toenails, and doesn't mind his buddies knowing that he does it.
4. He's great at bath time. I've been told more than once that I don't do it right. He's made sure she's not afraid of water.
5. He dances with her—at bedtime especially. Bryn will even fore go a second book for the chance to dance with her Prince Charming.
6. He reads to her and gets a little jealous when I get requested too often.
7. He tells her that he’s proud of her.
8. He takes time to explain when she is making bad choices rather than just flying off the handle.
9. He realizes the power of his words to her, and is very careful as a result.
10. He loves her mother.



Thanks, Daddy. For all this and more.

Can you say "Mason Dixon"?

Until very recently, I fancied myself a well-traveled,--dare-I-say--nearly cosmopolitan individual. Growing up, my parents were great about taking us places and showing us things. (Although my sister and I got into more than a little trouble for having our noses in books rather than taking in the sights.)

As a geographer, I am fascinated by different places. I love the idea of travel; seeing new people, places, and things; experiencing a new place as though I lived there.

I found this map generator on a friend's website, and was actually surprised by the pattern it made of my life experiences. Particularly when compared to John's. See what you think.

Very nearly everything above the Mason Dixon line is the result of work travel. Thanks, Job, for exposing me to other "cultures!"

So what can I say? I guess I really am just a Southern girl after all.

If you're interested, create your own visited states map. They have a generator for countries visited, too, but even though I have had a few international experiences, I just couldn't bear the confirmation that there are so many parts of the world that I have no idea about.

**NOTE: We've reached my technological frontier. ("So soon?" you ask, politely.) I couldn't get the map to fit in my old template, so I changed it. This one is clearly less interesting, so I'll eventually change it back or to something else.

Happy Birthday, Mon Cher!

Today is my beloved's birthday.

And, sadly, he's sick. I'm already on notice that he's planning to be extra pitiful about the illness since it's interfering with his enjoyment of his birthday. Makes all kinds of sense to me because, in our family, your birthday is basically your day off. You get to pick what we eat, what we do, what you want to do or not do, etc. He's getting a little gypped on the tradition, so he gets to milk the day for other perks. Bring it on, Honey.

I have a gift in the back of the car that I'm not at all sure will scratch the itch of a man who really only wants cattle, land, and peace and quiet (namely, the demise of the neighbors' yippy dogs), but I hope he likes it. Bryn painted him a picture yesterday (in his presence) and then wanted to hide it until today since it was a surprise for him.

So, Beau, Happy Birthday! I'm so glad that you were born, and I thank God that He saw fit for our paths to cross 16 years ago. (Thanks for helping, Wendy). I love everything about you...even that you get extra pitiful when you're sick. Our lives are enriched daily because you're here.

I love you.

(A Happy Birthday shout-out to GG and Grandpa, too, for having Beau.)

Lessons of the Night

Bryn is prone to the dramatic. I'm not sure that phrase quite captures the extent of it, but the girl can work up some serious tears at will and just wail at the smallest, and sometimes, strangest things.

This characteristic shows up other times, but it is most striking at bedtime. Last weekend, for instance, she had the kind of meltdown that made me just look at her in amazement because a) I couldn't understand her words very well to decipher what she was sad about, b) the offense changed periodically during her attempts to explain what went wrong, c) there was absolutely no obvious trigger to the meltdown, and d) there was apparently nothing I could do to head it off. All I could muster was, "Wow, Bryn. I don't know what's going on here." The reason ranged from where I put the second bedtime book (which she only noticed after the first one was finished..."But I wanted to HOLD i-i-i-i-t!") to the fact that she wanted to turn the pages ("No, Mommy! Don't finish/start reading until I get my finger on the corner!") to her grave concern that she didn't know how to fall asleep. That was my favorite--and it was accompanied with a confession.

Bryn: "But I don't know HOW to fall asleep!"
Mom: "Honey, your body is very tired. I'm sure that if you lie very still and close your eyes, that your body will know how to fall asleep."
Bryn: "No, it won't. Because I always play too much. I make bad choices and pl-ay-ay-ay-ay."

In an effort to hammer home the point that she's in charge of her behavior, we've really talked to her a lot about choices that she makes. One of the most devastating realizations for her (again with a touch of drama) is to note that she's made a bad choice.

Well, the bad choice of playing when she was supposed to be sleeping came back to bite her tonight.

Because of daylight savings, bedtime may as well be at high noon because her room is still bright when we turn off the lights that we didn't need to read books. She laid in her bed (as far as I know) for about 30 minutes before I heard her call that she needed to use the restroom. By all means...

Here's where "bad choices" and parental assumptions collide in a serious way. I assumed that after I heard the toilet flush that she'd be heading back to bed. Alas...I had forgotten rule number one of Bryn's routine..."playing too much." After about 15 minutes, I hear Bryn calling me saying that her eyes hurt.

Eyes and feet--we take care of eyes and feet--oh, and teeth--in our family, so I ran up the stairs to see what went wrong. Her room smelled very strongly--a familiar and pleasant, but strong scent--but I couldn't identify the source when my baby's eyes were hurting without cause (she thought naively). She was rubbing her eyes, and when I felt her hands they were unbelievably greasy. "Bryn! What is on your hands?!" I ask. She didn't know or at least couldn't tell me through the tears.

I ran to the bathroom to get a rag to clean her hands and face, trying to get the whatever out of her eyes. At this point, Beau came up to help, so we got Bryn to SHOW us what is on her hands. And, who would have thought...

She had smeared ALL of an English Lavender jar candle all over her face and upper body. And it was an awesome candle, too....the kind with lots of essential oils to make it smell awesome (ah, yes, I remember that smell now!).

Bryn was profuse with her apologies. Poor thing, her eyes are burning and yet all she could muster was "sorry, Mommy. I made bad choices and played."

We were way more worried than angry. While Beau gave her a(nother) shower, he quizzed her about the lessons that she learned tonight. Here's her summary.

1) Don't put anything in my eyes.
2) Don't play with anything unless I ask Mom or Dad.
3) Go to sleep when it's bedtime.

We'll be quizzing her from now on.

PS: Her room still smells nice. I hope that the trauma hasn't been forever linked with the smell of lavender.

Adventures with Homophones*

"Mommy, do crowns bite?"

I was sitting in the backseat with Bryn one evening, when this question occurred to the Princess of Random Thoughts.

"What do you mean, honey? Like the sharp points pinch your finger or something?"

"No, crowns. Do they bite?"

"Ummmm. (glancing at Dad in the rear view mirror for some help that was not to come.) I don't understand your question."

"Crowns. Crowns. Can they bite your finger?"

"Are you saying crown like a princess wears?"

"No, Mom. CROWN," she says enunciating the word slowly and with slightly more force.

"Are you saying crayon?" (knowing full-well that, although her pronunciation of crayon sounds a LOT like crown, it made even less sense in this context.)

"I'm saying CROWN. You know, CROWNS?!", growing exasperated by my embarrassingly miserable attempt to communicate on a very simply topic.

---Dad to the rescue.--- "Honey, do you mean clown? Cl-Cl-Clown?"

Bryn throws her hands up and shouts, "YES!"

Me: "Oh, then, no. Clowns usually don't bite."


*I was trying to remember the term for the "they're/there/their" phenomena, and somehow miraculously I came up with homonym. Not wanting to embarrass myself, I googled that to be sure it was correct. The first entry was Alan Cooper's Homonym List. Quite an interesting find. I'll be forever thankful that I also clicked on "About the List" because I learned that what I was talking about wasn't actually a homonym, his title notwithstanding. Thanks, Alan, for illuminating the confusing subtlety of the English language.