Tag Archives: piperism

Obvious Treasures: Stinky Butts

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Piper begins ballet class this week and as cute as wearing the one ballet shoe is, she really needed a mate. After a successful shopping trip (and let me be clear that I define “success” as we actually bought the necessary shoes, Piper didn’t shout anything too inappropriate, and she only broke one thing) we were trudging back to our car, struggling not to pick up every piece of trash along the way, when a homeless man approached.  Now, nobody loves the homeless like Piper. I’m generalizing, of course, but she appreciates their often mismatched clothes and the shopping carts of obvious treasures. They, too, share Piper’s thriftiness and adoration for found objects. I was attempting to steer Piper toward the car (think herding cats in a parking lot) when the homeless guy begins shouting “Stinky Butts! Stinky Butts! Stinky Butts!” I don’t know if he was searching for discarded cigarettes or not, but Piper appreciates all things potty humor so this sends her into a fit of giggles, which, in turn, cracks me up, too.  We’re dry heave laughing in the middle of the parking lot, appreciating the homeless guy’s random proclamation when Piper shouts back, “My dad says that, too!” The homeless guy turns to Piper and gives her a thumbs up.

The Feel of Trash

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Piper may very well grow up to be a trash collector or a professional recycler or a bag lady. The jury is still out.  The kid will pick up anything, anywhere.  Chewed gum. Discarded napkins if they are shiny in any way. Rocks. She hoards trash in her closet in baskets. And tonight, she picked up this in a parking lot.

It’s plastic.  It’s dirty.  It’s broken on the back.  To Piper, all of that equals perfection.  It’s not as if we don’t buy this kid plenty of real toys.  She doesn’t really need to troll the parking lot looking for things to play with.  But this thing she just couldn’t resist. As I tried to wrestle the filthy football from her hand, Piper protested, “It’s sure dirty but it doesn’t feel like trash.”  I didn’t ask what that meant.  I don’t think her explanation would have been convincing. I did what any semi-rational mom would do.  I took her newly coveted trash to the bathroom to sanitize it.  For the rest of the night, the broken plastic football was her best friend.  He (yes, the football declared its gender) talked to her in the backseat.  She introduced him to Pinky, her lovey. And when her sister climbed into the car Piper used her best manners.  “Sissy,” she said, “I’d like you to meet my new friend.  Football.  He’s in my shoe.  With my foot.”

Is Obama on the Naughty List?

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When you live in DC, you just have to see the White House.  Especially when it’s all gussied up for the holidays.  We waited months for our background checks to clear and to be assigned a date in December. It was a magical morning. There was a choir singing Christmas carols as we toured the decorated rooms and peered over the velvet ropes into history.

Except that Piper almost got us kicked out.  She couldn’t resist all the holiday versions of the First Family’s dog, Bo.  She kept leaning over the barriers trying to do this (note her arm caught in action):

As we came around the corner to the last room, Piper broke loose and scrambled under a Christmas tree for a closer inspection.  I dragged her out by her silver tights and black patent leather shoes, but she’d already discovered that there was nothing under the Obama’s tree.  In a voice much too loud for the occasion, she asked, “How come the President doesn’t have any presents under his tree?  Poor guy!”

Calling All Piperisms!

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You have stories, too.  You’ve probably seen this kid in action.  You’ve heard rumors of her antics and adventures.  I’d love to listen.  I want your piperisms. You can post them in the comment field below or you can email them to me and I’ll share them for you.  We may even vote on our favorite.  Let the piperisms begin!

Touching Base

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Piper is a big fan of her daddy.  He walks on water.  She waits by the door like a puppy when he’s gone and rushes to his open arms with a “Daddy!” even if he’s just taken out the trash.

I have to remind her regularly that I did in fact bake her in my body for 10 months and nurse her for a year and a half.  And that doesn’t even account for that whole labor and delivery thing. You’d think that might earn me some loyalty. To Piper, I’m base. She simply wants me there, omnipresent and available.  Base is safe, but it’s kind of boring.

On a recent drive to pick up her daddy at the Metro, Piper offered sage advice and a strenuous warning.  We were waiting in the car and Piper asked, “Do you think Daddy kissed any other moms at work today?” Because apparently only other moms are my competition.

“I doubt it,” I answered.  “Your daddy wouldn’t do that.”

Then Piper delivered the gut punch that only a four-year-old can.

“You know there are a lot of moms prettier than you.”

I took a nice, long breath, which is the only thing I’ve really learned in almost 10 years of parenting.  Take one breath before you speak.  A sacred pause.

“True,” I acknowledged.  Because it is true.  There are prettier moms than me. “But Daddy is committed to us.  He wouldn’t kiss anyone else.”

Piper was quiet in the back seat for a minute.  Then she saw her daddy walking across the platform toward our car. She put her foot on base and dug her toe in for good measure and whispered, “You never know.”

Homemade Magic

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Once upon a time there was a ballet shoe.  There was only one ballet shoe, but it wasn’t lonely.  The shoe had been passed to Piper from her older sister, who had lost the mate along the way.  But the lack of partner didn’t matter to Piper.  She loved the ballet shoe just as it was.

She wore the ballet shoe to bed every night.  She put it on when she came home from school.  She carried it in her backpack during the day.  The ballet shoe was in good company.  There was also a hot pink ruffled tutu that Piper wore every day.  Every single day.  One hundred and twenty-seven days in a row and counting. It went well with all of her outfits.  Her mother had to wash the tutu while Piper slept with her one ballet shoe to make sure the tutu was ready for morning wear.  The tutu was the first thing Piper put on every morning and the last thing she took off at night.  Sometimes the tutu liked to sleep in her bed so that it could stay close.

Piper said she felt like a superhero in her hot pink tutu and one ballet shoe, and so her mother let the magic take its own course.  The end.

Darth Piper

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Piper loves the dark side.  She roots for Vader, and she cries when he dies. We knew that raising Star Wars girls could have consequences, but we never imagined it might go this far. She’s even perfected her Darth Piper impersonation.

She’s also a big fan of the Emperor.  Shooting lightening out of your hands is cool and apparently not the least bit scary. Her sister is hiding under the couch and Piper wants more blood on the screen. And that’s the thing.  What should scare Piper actually fascinates her and what is not the least bit scary sends her into a frenzy. When we took her to see “A Christmas Carol” at Ford’s Theatre we worried that the pyrotechnics and ghosts might be too much.  We prepped her with the Dickens story, the Kelsey Grammar movie version, and an introduction to spirits of every sort. When the ghost of Christmas future, who looked a lot like the Grim Reaper, floated above our heads Piper laughed out loud.  I had to cover her mouth to hide the giggles. But guess what does terrify her? Mannequins in department stores.

Regardless of the information we provide, Piper can’t decide if they’re real or fake.  She likes to get really close to them, daring herself even closer, then sprint away and clutch one of our legs.  Every time we go shopping, it’s the same set of questions: “Is that one real?  How about that guy? Is he real?  And that one over there? Fake or real?  How about the bald one?  It looks real.  Is she fake?  She looks real.”

And so our search for a Darth Vader mannequin from the dark side continues.

Mulgated Dinner

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Having a meal with Piper is like inviting a squirrel and a talking parrot to the same table.  She wiggles.  She leaps about.  She busts out Lady Gaga lyrics in the middle of your sentence. She either hoards all the food or refuses everything on the table. She intentionally drops things under the table so she climb off her chair and explore.  She brings back the dropped piece of pasta and some black beans from last night’s dinner. She eats both. She interrupts.  We ask her to wait her turn to speak.  She waves her hand obnoxiously in the air waiting to be called on.  Normal stuff, right? Entirely mulgated. Her dinner manners seem appropriate for the ripe age of four.  After twenty seconds of an excruciatingly long wait Piper puts her glass down and smooths the napkin in her lap.  Dramatic pause.  Then she declares something profound like “I’ve decided not to be human anymore.  I’m keeping my options open.” Which logically explains the squirrel and parrot behavior.

Have Kids, Will Travel

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We’ve moved 14 times in 15 years. All voluntarily.  We aren’t running from the law.  Jobs, graduate school, adventure, more jobs, more graduate school, overseas opportunities, etc. Even when we’re planted for a few years, we travel for every holiday. My kids are accustomed to moving and to embracing the unknown. My nine-year-old has the skills to navigate mass transit; I haven’t yet let her travel alone, but she could. They’ve learned how to make friends upon landing.  Most sadness can be overcome with the promise of bubble wrap dancing.  It’s a noisy outcome but it does cure the blues.

Over the holidays we took them on the road for 2 weeks to live out of 4 suitcases and see how we faired. My partner and I dream of travelling overseas for a semester, so we thought this would be a safe trial run. The trip was an absolute success.  Here the girls are exploring Tom Sawyer’s island at Disney, plotting their next adventure:

When we returned home, Piper put down her suitcase, unpacked her beloved Pinky, and just to be sure she was ready for our next move asked, “So, we’re home, right?  When do we have to check out of this place?”  Poor nomadic children or well-adjusted little explorers?  You decide.

Toes in the Water

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In our house potty words are not necessarily curse words, but sometimes the worlds do collide.  Potty words refer to parts of our body and their functions that need to be discussed for obvious reasons in the bathroom but not at the dinner table.  This is an important distinction for Piper.  She loves potty words and receives loads of inappropriate positive reinforcement in the form of laughs and giggles from her parental units when she uses them. We know we should grow up one of these days.  We’re working on it.  Until then we’re just trying to teach Piper how to compartmentalize her language.  This distinction works well until she begins singing lyrics that contain potty words.  Her current favorite is Zac Brown Band’s “Toes” as in got my toes in the water, ass in the sand.

Piper’s dad, who is famous for his own use of potty words, suggested the alternative toes in the water, toes in the sand.  It seems a reasonable compromise and may save us yet another disparaging phone call from her preschool. It’s a ridiculous idea to Piper, though, because it violates the artistic integrity of a great song. So she has solved the potty word problem her own way.  It requires quick action.  Piper stands in the hallway and sings got my toes in the water.  Then she sprints into the bathroom and belts out ass in the sand.

Using potty words has now become her main form of exercise.