This whole Mommy title carries an air of grown-uppish-ness (ha ha) that sometimes I have to admit, I absolutely LACK. I can be a complete failure of a grown-up, probably more often than not.
I laugh when someone farts. Nearly every time.
I also laugh when people fall down, as long as they aren't really hurt. Let's face it: with my complete lack of natural grace, *I* am usually the faller. And, I bounce, so it's all cool.
So of course if the toddler lobs one up...99% of the time, I *AM* going to spike it. I have to. It's just who I am.
I have recently noticed that this mirth-seeking, Tiggeriffic trait seems to be rubbing off on my significant other.
*He* normally tends to be much more of a grown-up. He buys stamps, and thinks of things like getting the car tuned up and whether those leftovers are sprouting deadly mold colonies and lots of important, mature stuff like that. So when he does let loose with a little immature fun, I am the first in line to give him the rah-rah, GO YOU! cheer. It's rare and beautiful and thus makes me feel like less of a tool.
Case in point:
Monkey has loved phones since day one. The first toy she ever grabbed for and held on her own was a phone-shaped rattle (with which she had a peculiar love/hate relationship). Ev.er.y.THING becomes a phone: shoes, goldfish cracker cases, remote controls, whatever. If she's without a prop, she will just hold her hand to her ear and start having animated, one-sided conversations, complete with the hand gestures.
So a week or so ago, we're rolling off to church on Sunday morning. Monk's in her car seat, Daddy's driving and I'm riding shotgun as usual. He and I were chatting to each other, and she's chatting to herself, when I tune into what Monkey's actually saying: she is on on another pretend phone call, apparently to The Princesses, figuring out who will and will not be in the nursery for playtime today. She's going on about how very busy she is, and every other phrase is, "Oh, YEAH! I know-- wait, hold on."
There's the lob... Imagine my glee when *Daddy* spiked it, by inserting the unmistakeable BEEP tone of call waiting.
Here's what followed.
Monkey: Uh, Daddy?! Stop doing that.
Daddy (smirking): Stop what? ...I'm not doing anything.
M: That... that... BEEPING! Stop dat.
D: Not me, honey. I think it's your phone. <pause>.... BEEEEEP
M: UGhhggggghh!!! STOP DAT.
D: What? I think you have another call.
M: Ok. I am reawwy mad at you right now.
(At this point, I am convulsing with quiet laughter, though trying to hide it.)
M: Mommy!!!... Why are you bouncing wike dat?
(Didn't say I was *good* at hiding it.)
M: UUGUGGGGGHHH!! STOP! DAT! BEEPING!!!
Mommy: Hey, uh...maybe you should answer your other line?
<A large pause. An even larger sigh.>
M: ...Dat... is NOT. FUNNY. OK? <crosses arms and grunts angrily>
(No further conversation, as Daddy and Mommy could no longer breathe from laughter.)
I freely confess: I am an immature dillweed who is still laughing at this.