Mostly Buffy

All the Eclat of a Proverb

Several times a day, Buffy will come up with a gem. For her it's a gem of profundity, for us it's a gem of hilarity. She's just funny, even when she's trying to be serious. Note, everything has to be repeated three times, or it doesn't count.

Two from this morning:

"Mo-oom! Mo-om! Mo-OooOOOom!"

"Yes, Buffy?" (harder since I've lost my voice)

"My doggie flower must be there! My doggie flower must be there! My doggie flower must be there. And it is!"

I look where she's pointing and see that her favourite flower, a poppy (geddit?) has indeed bloomed in the garden.


"Mo-om! Mo-oom! Mo-OOoOOoooom!"

"Yes, Buffy?" (hoarse whisper followed by hacking, painful cough)

"Water doesn't make cheese. WATER doesn't make cheese. Water doesn't make CHEESE!"

"Too right, cupcake. Water doesn't make cheese. I'll remember that. Better yet, I'll put it in the blog."

And so I have.

I Must Not Ever, Never Forget This

Tonight I got ready to read the girls their bedtime stories. Sort of. I read stories to Buffy and Katie either listens or ignores us, depending on how riveting her story is. Based on tonight's heavy participation, Enid Blyton has a lot to answer for. Before that, though, I asked Buffy which stories she would like. I usually engineer this by enthusiastically suggesting whatever it is I want to read. I pull out a book from the shelf with, I imagine, all the flair of a magician's assistant. Tonight, though, nothing doing.

Buffy was screaming for the small, orange Charlie & Lola book. She pointed and screamed in the direction of a high shelf. The high shelf reserved for Katie's big girl books and special editions like the beautiful collection of Hans Christian Anderson stories from her Anderson-christened godparents. No Charlie & Lola up there. We offered the small, orange copy of Naughty Little Sister stories. NO! Offensively wrong. How about the smallish, orange Amelia Jane stories? WRONG! What is wrong with you people?

While Andrew offered a zillion more options, each more hideously vile than the one before, I searched through the lower shelves for Charlie & Lola books. Finally I offered her, "I Will Not Ever, Never Eat a Tomato" and was met with a delighted grin and enthusiastic clapping. Ah, yes. THAT small, orange Charlie & Lola book. The one that is large and blue. Parents can be so dense.

The thing is, kids can be even thicker. That same determined, loud, clever and precocious little screamer did something absolutely stupid last week. So stupid, I haven't had the stomach to write about it. Until now.

Buffy is struggling with her toilet training. She's making it to the toilet just fine. Heck, she's even dry at night. Really, she's doing brilliantly, considering she's not even three yet. Stellar. Except for this fierce independent streak that has her sneaking off upstairs to poo, "wiping" herself, putting her clothes back on and going about her business. A few times I haven't noticed anything at all until the smell starts to fester. Then I check her bottom and have to spend the next twenty minutes hosing dried faeces off of our baby's bum.

After more of these than I care to recount, but fewer than a week's worth, we finally convinced Buffy to call us when she makes a poo. Last week she went upstairs and I was on high alert. I called every few seconds to see if she needed me. She called back merrily each time, "No gank-yoo!"

"Buffy, are you making a poo?"


"Buffy. Are you making a poo?"

"Um. No gank-yoo."

"Buffy! Are you making a poo? Do you need me to come upstairs?"



"Um. Yes. Will you come up please?"

So, I go up and she's already pulled up her panties and made a mess of everything. Worse still, she's chewing something. Something dark brown. Panicked, I shout at her, "DID YOU EAT POO?!"

She nods solemnly, so I freak out and start washing her mouth out in the sink. Eventually it dawns on me that this is chocolate chip cookie and not poop. She looked guilty because she stole a cookie I baked for our picnic. The little sneak. She could have burned her hand! I relax for a second, remember the mess on her clothes and the floor and freak out again. I put her in the shower and hose her down longer than necessary because I am still so pissed off.

Sometime later I call my mom to help talk me off the ledge. She offers to talk to Buffy who gleefully tells Gramma that she did eat poo. I calmly explained that it was a cookie and not poo. Buffy looks at me solemnly and carefully explains to her dunce of a mother, "Yes. It was poo. I eat da poo."


Several furious teeth-brushing sessions later I got the whole story. A bit of poo had dropped on the floor. Curious and stupid, she picked it up and ate it. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Grandpa Ron would call her a shithead. He'd be right, too.

Wales, Whales, Dolphins. It's all good.

In a few weeks Katie will be out of school and we will pack up the hire car and drive five hours down to Wales. It's an annual pilgrimmage, which we all thoroughly enjoy. It starts off a summer of British fun. The week after Wales, Buffy will celebrate her third birthday. She's been counting down to it, in her own inimitable way, since Katie's birthday in March. Once she even came down to breakfast dressed in a school uniform announcing she'd had her birthday overnight and was now ready to go to school. We eventually realised she'd eaten some cake the day before and cakes=birthdays.

Now we have a specific reference for her to grasp onto: She will turn three after we go to Wales. Buffy's at that age where she has a very vague understanding of the subtleties of English. To her mind (and Katie's at the same age) Wales=whales. She is very excited to go swim with the whales. She tells us several times a day, "After we go to whales, it's gonna be my birfday!"

Except yesterday, when she got it muddled.

"After we go to Dolphins, it's gonna be my birfday!"

Naughty, Naughty

If Buffy has more than half a second's nap in the day, even as early as 11am, her nighttime routine is shot. We stick to our end of the routine bargain, but Buffy absolutely will not. She will lie in bed, mostly quiet and absolutely not asleep until eight, nine, sometimes even nine thirty. Insane! Every single night before we put her to bed, we ask Buffy if she's going to be good and not chat or wiggle or throw off her covers. Every night she promises to be good. Very rarely she is what would meet the Katie standard of "good".

Yesterday morning the little stinker ran into our room and waggled a scolding finger at her Daddy. She put the other hand on her hip and cocked her head to one side and said in a high sing-song voice, "I wasn't good for you!"

No baby, you weren't. But, man are you funny!


Buffy's version of Frere Jacques:
Share a zsa-zsa
Share a zsa-zsa
Tommy Zoom
Tommy Zoom

Buffy, singing at the top of her lungs a song of her own composition:

I don't know the people
Under the ocean
And the skyyyyy
And the PEOPLE!

She Doesn't Need Her Cardigan

We have five minutes before we have to go pick up Katie at school. Buffy is doing a puzzle and singing quietly to herself (to the tune of Baa Baa Black Sheep), "I don't need a cardigan, I don't need a cardigan. I don't NEED a cardigan, I don't need a carrrrdiiiigaaaaaaaaAAAAANNNN!"

I just asked if she is ready to go. She said, "Yes, but I don't need my cardigan."

You don't say.

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