Sometimes I Wish I Was Making This Stuff Up

THE DANCE OF THE PUDDLE JUMPER

Zoey and I went to her dance/gymnastics class on Friday evening. They loosely base the class on a different theme every week. If it's Beach Week, there might be buckets and shovels hanging from the ceiling (not much thought or decorations ever seem to be involved with these themes). I really have no idea what Friday's theme was supposed to be, but in hindsight it should've been dubbed Anarchy Week.

It was chaotic from the moment the girls entered the dance room. No one was listening. No one was really dancing. They were all giggling and playing with each other. Comparing tutus. Girlie stuff. I could see the teachers were becoming frustrated, but they don't want parents in the classroom this year, so it was their problem. Deal.

The girls moved into the gymnastics room for that portion of their class. Once again, more giggling, playing, and ignoring of teachers. I was leafing through a magazine when I heard gasps coming from some of the other parents. I looked up, expecting to see an injured child.

What I saw was much worse.

Standing in the middle of the mat at the bottom of the uneven bars was a little girl. She was crying.

She was also standing in the biggest pool of urine I had ever seen in my life.

The little girl then took off running, leaving urine prints all through the gym. I immediately scanned the room for Zoey.

Of course, she was heading straight for the puddle.

My daughter looooooves puddles. She will jump straight up and down in a puddle for ten minutes if I allow it. Knowing this, I ran into the classroom. "No parents in the classroom" rule be damned!

You know those scenes in action movies where the hero runs in slow motion, yelling "Noooooooooooooo!" as he nears a building that's about to explode?

That was me.

I got to Zoey just as she was mere inches away from the urine pool and swept her off her feet.

Ok. She was really ten feet away from it. But it felt like mere inches. She was in her bare feet! I would've had to have them amputated if they actually came in contact with the urine.

I stood there holding Zoey, ignoring the angry glares from the teachers until the HAZMAT crew (the new girl that just started working there last week) showed up with paper towels.

GO NAPKIN YOURSELF

Backstory: Zoey is slowly creating her own language. Granted, she has an excellent grasp on English (or at least I like to think so, but I'm biased), but if she doesn't know a word, rather than actually having to ask someone else what the word is, she'll just make something up.

Not only that, she believes her made-up word is the correct term.

For instance, she has learned the Spanish equivalents for certain colors due to excessive viewings of Dora The Explorer we've been teaching her Spanish words for certain colors. She knows red is rojo. Blue is azul. Green is verde. Every once in awhile, I'll throw in a color she doesn't know. I'll ask, "What's the Spanish word for pink?" She won't even hesitate. She'll make up something like, "Rocoboco." I'll say, "That's not the Spanish word for pink." And then she actually becomes offended that I dare question her.

Anyway...

The four of us went out to eat on Saturday evening. Zoey noticed her place setting (I don't know the correct term either), which consisted of a fork, spoon, and knife wrapped up in a napkin, with a paper napkin holder around the napkin.

She picked it up and proudly exclaimed, "This is called a fucker."

Ella and I both screamed, "WHAT DID YOU SAY?"

She repeated it slooooowly and loudly, as if her parents were the dumbest people on Earth. "This. Is. Called. A. Fuh-ker."

Ella quickly jumped in, "Let's just call it a napkin. So, Zoey, tell me more about Curious George."

GHS: 14 (10 for the urine, 4 for the napkin)