"You counted all the way to Woof!"
Today my daughter has gym at school. She loves gym. But more than that she loves the idea we came up with that while she's at school her brother goes to O-school (his name begins with an O) and does the same stuff. So he has O-gym (which sounds like a really lame empowerment gym the sad women on Sex and The City would go to) today too. That way he doesn't miss out. Better still is that our dog apparently also goes to Woof School. This morning we laughed about how while she was at school her brother and the dog accidentally got on the wrong school bus and ended up at the wrong school. Which is just silly and tenuous enough an idea that it sounds like a movie someone would make with Hillary Duff and a dog that they'd dress up like her. So all morning she's been replacing all the standard words for EVERYTHING with the word, "woof." So to count to ten you go, "woof, woof, woof....' etc while counting with your fingers. The colors of the rainbow? You'll never guess what they are. Or the words to the amazing song Woof Woof, Woof Woof, Little Woof ("...how I woof woof, what you woof...."). It was mildly amusing and cute at first. Now it's distressing. Especially as she's tried to fit the dog's bark collar to my son and also loudly rebuked him for peeing on her favorite tree outside. To make it more tolerable to me I've asked her to tell her teacher that her brother and the dog have school too, and that hopefully won't pee on anything.
My daughter announced in bed that she knows how to whistle. Which is interesting because she has no idea and usually just makes a face like an anteater trying to lick it's own chin (if they have chins...). After revealing the secret of whistling my wife laughed and told her I was write on the Internets about it. Which I said was too easy and that I wouldn't write what she said. So instead I videoed it.
Nice work. I particularly like the two finger technique myself. Although I find if you get too much of a good purchase and shove too hard you can direct the air inside your body to another exit point that - if you train correctly - can also produce a whistle.
As I'm building a delightful picture of my daughter here maybe I should display some of her other talents. For example, her drawing and writing is really coming along. Combine this with her admiration for Angry Birds - andm ore importantly crass knock-off versions of Angry Birds - and you get pure Win. I sometimes play a loose adaptation of it called Match Day of The Dead. It's pretty much a football player kicking balls at zombies. My daughter doesn't see the death or grim nature of it and thinks it's a game where you kick balls at people filled with jelly - with the aim of the game being to knock the jelly out of them. She calls the game Angry Balls. I'm hoping she never ever tells other people that I sometimes play Angry Balls on the computer. In tribute to the game she made me this motivational poster titled, "These are my Daddies balls."
As you can see it's displayed proudly on the refrigerator. My daughter explained in detail to her mother how I destroy the Jelly Men with my interchangeable Death balls from on top of a car. Except she made it sound cutesy and innocent. That's me in the bottom left on top of the car. The structure is a building that the Jelly Man is stood on that I'm about to twat with a flaming ball (her favorite).
Moving on - we went to a very poor rummage sale last Saturday. It was in a small church near our house and consisted of three tables. One had random junk on it. One had about forty unopened jigsaws. And best of all, the last had three old television sets and about twenty roll-on deodorant sticks. Skipping the urge to try out the deodorant sticks (and fearful that my daughter would spend ten minutes sniffing each one to check if they'd been used) we nabbed some tat from the junk table. We got a Theo Leisig book, a litle sparkly purse thing for my daughter and this cool wooden snake -:
It's a pretty cool snake. My son spends a lot of time snaking about with it. In general it's good fun, but being a wobbly mace-like thing he can employ it as a weapon if the situation calls for it (and has a few times). One of his favorite games is to pretend it's trying to get him while he's riding his wolf (bear with me). At which point he squashes it. Unfortunately when photographed it looks like this. Which is visually unappealing.
But it's still nicer than an innocent rubbery toy my daughter has been chucking around since Easter. I actually had no idea what to call them. We'd been through Frizzles, Wobblers, Goof Balls, Spangles and other equally silly names. But now we've settled on Hair Balls. If you look at the photo you can just about see some of my daughter's hair still attached to one of them. That's because if they touch her hair at all then they become surgically attached. I thought perhaps the first time was an accident. But after it happened the second time and I feared i may have to actually cut them out I banned them. This photo was taken mere moments before I chucked them in the garbage.
And lastly - tying the whole blog together like a rug that a Chinaman will hopefully not pee on (Of course Chinaman is not the preferred nomenclature. It's Asian-American, please) - we have a book my wife got out of the library for my daughter. She slipped it in the pile of kid's books, gave it to me to take to the desk and have checked out by the attractive young woman there who's most noticeable (and seemingly most difficult to contain) attributes are also the title of this book.
Obviously I didn't know this book was on top of the pile. Otherwise I wouldn't have cheekily smiled at the librarian and said, 'I'd like to take these out please...." and then slid it across to her.
Would have been weird if she had though.