G'night, whacko

Tonight, I tucked everyone in – too late as usual – and settled down with a glass of wine & Facebook (I make lousy company). I was smack in the middle of some crafty begging for a ride for Norah from a birthday party (who has a party on a Saturday night? In Christmas Party Season?) when the door cracked open & nearly sent me out of my skin (I should have had some music on I guess).

Norah: “Mom, my toenails are too long. Can you cut them?” Classic stall tactic.

Me: “Where were you last night when I was cutting all the other fingers & toes in the house?”

Norah: “I didn’t know you were doing that” (right outside my bedroom. With the door open. with me looking right at you. Saying “eww! gross!”)

Me: “OK, let’s take a look” The reason why the classic stall tactic works: results.

Snip, snip, snip. “Ouch” (me)

Norah: “Are you ok, Mom?” For someone who has a medically diagnosed difficulty in sensing others' feelings, she is remarkably tuned into when I'm hurt or sick - or at least appear that way!

Me: “Oh yeah, one just pwinged (don’t think I used that word) into my hand (I hold my hand around the digit to try in vain to prevent the future shivs which only happen to me from jabbing into my feet, even though I wear slippers or even runners, they’ll find me) and it stings when they do that”

Norah: “STINGS???!!” (she doesn’t care for the concept of pain)

Me: “Not like a bee. Sting means it hurts in a way that’s not all that bad, but sticks around for a bit”

Norah: “Oh. Is that the worst part about cutting toe nails?”

Me: (wtf??) “Um. There really isn’t any particularly bad or good part about toenail clipping, honey”

Norah: “Oh. Well, what’s the best part about toe nail clipping?”

Me: (smiling lovingly & shoving nudging her head back to her pillow, while everso briefly thinking “short toenails”) “You’re a whacko”

Norah: (giggling) “That’s the millionth time you’ve called me that, mom”

Me: “Rrrrreeeeally? Let’s figure this out shall we?” (OK, writing this out, I realize maybe it’s not all her) “You’re 8 years and (counting on my fingers) 9 months old.” (grabbing calculator – NOT in a holster!!! Just beside the computer – it’s there because Max requested it NOT ME!) “So that’s (quickly realizing there’s been 2 leap years in there, but not actually figuring out days in the year) about 3,194 days you’ve been on this planet”

Norah: “Uh, OK”

Me: “So” (typing – NOT furiously!) “That means I would have had to have called you a whacko 313 times per day since the day you were born! Have I called you a whacko 313 times today?”

Norah: “Yes” (see, here is her tactics in action – when confronted with facts, just change them)

Me: “and yesterday”

Norah: (giggling) “yes”

Me: “and on the very day you were born, I looked at you lovingly, kissed your nose and called you a whacko 313 times that day?”

Norah: (more giggling) “yes”

Me: “ok” (more typing) “so I have called you a whacko every two-and-a-half minutes of every day since the day you were born?”

Norah: “Mom… sometimes when I say ‘a million’ I just mean ‘a lot’”

And Max has the nerve to call ME pedantic…