Thursday, August 28, 2008

There's a new kid in town



The questions used to be easy to answer. That’s not to say they were not tedius, don’t get me wrong, but they were definitely easy. “Why do you stop at red lights?” and “How do the lights change colour?” and “What are we having for supper?” and the like. Boring, maybe, and sometimes I’d turn up the radio a little and ask if we could just all be quiet for a few minutes. She’s a good kid, pretty receptive, and her sister is only one so she can’t talk. I’d get a minute or so of relative quiet and then the questions would start up again.

For the last month or so, though, it’s like a different child is sitting in the back seat. For starters, it does look a little different back there. She’s on a booster seat now, no longer in the toddler car seat. Little sister gladly traded up and out of the bucket seat that had her reclined and backwards facing, now happy to face forward like a big kid. Can’t talk, but if she could I know she’d be telling me she wants to be just like that older sister.

So she’s taller, and can see out of the windows better. But that’s not the big difference. Nope, it’s this whole new style she has, a way of talking, thinking, and asking questions that has me up in arms. It started after a friend’s daughter came to play. At five, and entering kindergarten this fall, Hannah Montanna is apparently all the rage. Until recently, all I knew of Hannah Monntana is that she is Billy Rae Cyrus' naked posing daughter. Not exactly the role model I dream of...

Along with barely dressed teen pop stars, she also loves to sing along with the summer anthem "I kissed a girl, and I liked it," telling me she's only going to kiss girls, boys are, and I am quoting here, "too loud."

But maybe the worst is that she has also discovered the computer. For the longest time, she thought that barbie.com and polly pockets were only available on grandparent computers.
(def: grand·par·ent (n): person, older, with oodles of patience, sole purpose of which appears to be making parent look like frantic, no-saying, fun police. i.e. "Would you like to play dress up Barbie on barbie.com for two hours? That sounds great. I have nothing else to do today, because I made dinner for tonight already; I just have to toss the fully balanced and delicious meal in the oven. I keep up with the laundry and the house is spotless. And you know, I love barbie.com. Maybe next we can look at pictures of baby girl monkeys on Google Images.")

"Nope, we don't have that here," I would say, making my face a mixture of consternation and empathy.

Her dad, always trying to one up me (and aspiring grandparent in a very distant future), says things like "Oh, of course, honey, let's go play!" and now my WORK computer is in constant jeopardy of the horrific viruses. Who knows, I fear all my serious documents will be replaced with chippy sentences. Instead of formal, accountant prose, it will now read "and then the accountants found their really cool clothes, for the fall conference, and they all got dressed up really fun. Two really good friends actually skipped the boring conference and went shopping. How cool is that!"

I'm sorry, I just don't think I can do these sites justice for how excruciating painful they are. Somehow I will have to have them, ahem, removed from our computer. "What? omigod, barbie isn't here anymore...it must be broken."

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