More Funny Little Snowflakes

In November of 2009 I wrote  Funny Little Snowflakes  about the oddly endearing, quirky, little conversations of my children. In that piece I wrote, “There’s something magical about the conversations of children—often strange, nonsensical and hilarious, sometimes touching and oddly insightful. I treasure these conversations that float around my home like funny little snowflakes.” 

I remember thinking at that time that it wouldn’t be long before my kids would be too “cool” (aka “painfully self-conscious”) to carry on such unabashedly weird conversations or exhibit such blatantly wacky behavior with zero shame. And I thought at that time how sad it would be to have these funny little snowflakes disappear from our lives. It turns out I worried needlessly. I’m not so sure their conversations are often “touching or insightful” these days, but “strange, nonsensical and hilarious?" Those snowflakes are most certainly still floating around this house on a regular basis. And I treasure every single one.

Here’s a random sampling, in no particular order, and with limited or no frame of reference (exactly the way I typically experience them):

• One morning near the beginning of the school year, Ben stood next to me in the bathroom making vacant, emotionless, vaguely thuggish faces in the mirror. “Mom, do you think I look scary?” I glanced over and said, “Yup.” He smiled broadly & took off for his room with a bounce in his step. Remembering that it was picture day, I quickly called after him, “But don’t do that in your picture! I will be mad.” His closed bedroom door couldn't muffle the heavy sigh before he shouted back, “OK, mom.”
• In October I stood at that same bathroom mirror putting on mascara and smiling at the sound of Ben in his bedroom across the hall, announcing the songs on his iPod in his very best DJ voice for no one’s benefit but his own. Then, as if we lived in a sitcom and a ridiculous visual was needed to take us into commercial, Dylan walked by right on cue wearing mirrored sunglasses and a mullet wig.
• Walking to the car after school one day, Ben said, “Bigger is better—unless you’re talking about rats,” for no apparent reason.
• One weekend I ran across Dylan whacking Ben repeatedly with a huge rubber snake and yelling, “Hiya!” while Ben laughed hysterically. As I passed them, Dylan paused and said, “Wait, let’s have a sophisticated battle.”  Curious, to see what that might look like, I peeked back over my shoulder to see Dylan hand Ben a 3-pack of sanitizing wipes from a nearby shelf. Ben, completely unfazed, began beating the snake with them and I walked away thinking, “Yep—that’s sophisticated all right.”
• Lucy ran into the room one evening and said, “Look, Mom! I have a hatchet in my head.” Feeling no particular sense of urgency about that statement, I held up one finger without taking my eyes away from my book and finished the paragraph I was reading before I looked up to see she was wearing a headband with a hatchet embedded in it. I smiled as another mom might smile at the sight of her daughter in a beautiful party dress and said, “That looks great, honey. Nice work.”
• The kids and I still read together at bedtime when our schedules allow it. Sometimes the rapid “settle-down” required to fit it in leads to some antsy kids.
• Once as I was reading, I glanced over and saw Ben with his head buried in his armpit. When I asked what he was doing, he answered, “Smelling my armpit…why?” No reason.
• That same night I noticed Lucy pulling up her shirt and folding herself in half. I paused in my reading to ask what she was doing. “I’m trying to lick my belly button.” Oh sure. Obviously.
• Another time, I watched out of the corner of my eye while Ben examined one of his fingers closely, put it in his mouth briefly and said, “Huh. Finger tastes like chicken.” That time I just kept reading. Seemed like the only logical response.

I was working on this earlier today and just when I started thinking, “This piece is a little Ben-heavy,” Lucy plopped down and told me she couldn't wait to spoil her grandchildren. Feeling pretty sure she was about to solve my problem, I stopped writing and gave her my full attention while she regaled me with her vision of the grandmother she would one day be in a series of long, run-on sentences delivered without stopping once for air.

“I’ll make them 40 pounds of jello but I won’t give them walnuts because they might be allergic to walnuts so I’ll give them dark chocolate instead. I’ll read to them and work puzzles and let them watch TV and we’ll camp out in the backyard because I’ll be very flexible so I can lie down on the grass. I’ll live three blocks away from my kids so my grandkids can ride their bikes to my house which will look like a castle, be three stories tall and have a plastic elephant tree-house in the backyard. And when me and my husband get old we’ll have a hot chocolate machine in the round room on top of the house that makes it looks like a castle and we’ll just hang out there and drink hot chocolate.” “Will your grandkids drink hot chocolate with you?” “Uh huh. And Ben’s grandkids. Because sometimes they’ll come over too.” Oh good. I’m sure those kids will have plenty of conversations that will seem like funny little snowflakes floating around that house too—the house that looks like a castle (with a hot chocolate machine in the round room on top).

I hope Ben and Lucy will never be too self-conscious to openly have these quirky conversations with me and with each other, to act like complete goofballs, to let their freak flags fly (so to speak), but I know it might happen, so I’ll cherish these funny, little snowflakes while they last.

(But I really hope to be able to post “Even More Funny Little Snowflakes” in 2014.)