Zoe vs. the Children's Book I'll Never Write

Last night Zoe wanted me to tell her a story before bed.

Though I call myself a writer, at the same time I don't think I'm good at making up stories---not off the cuff, not without working them out on paper first, and certainly not children's stories.

But then I remembered Zoe's two favorite subjects: herself and anything disgusting, and I had the ingredients of a bedtime story perfect for Zoe.

This story will never be a children's book. It's like if a gross-out comedy met On the Night You Were Born. You see, I told Zoe about herself as a baby, specifically, how disgusting she was, as disgusting as only an adorable creature without control of her bodily functions can be.

I called it: You Were So Disgusting Then (and You're Still Kind of Disgusting Now).

When you were a newborn, I began, you had chubby little thighs. Everyone said they were so cute. And they were. Except I knew all that cute baby fat had a dark side. Or a dark inside.

I told her how when I gave her a bath each evening, I'd have to make sure to spread apart the fat of her thighs so I could clean within the folds---sweat and dirt got trapped in there during the day and by nighttime it was gross and yucky. And it smelled bad too. Here I made a face for emphasis.

"More," Zoe said, laughing.

Well, if she thought the dirt inside her rolls of thigh fat was disgusting, it was nothing compared to what greeted me when I pried open her tiny fists. The sweaty dirt that had gathered in the creases of her hands put her thigh rolls to shame. It was SO disgusting. And sometimes, as a bonus, when I prized her fingers apart, I discovered the gummy, almost unrecognizable, remains of a cheerio transformed into brownish-gray sludge. Yuck!

"More, more!" Zoe urged.

"Shall I tell you about all the spit-up?" I asked her.

She nodded.

"Well," I told her, "because your digestive system wasn't fully formed, you had a hard time keeping down all the milk you drank. You'd be sucking on a bottle when suddenly: back up it came."

"Ew!" 

"And the spit-up was nothing to when you actually vomited. Milk, some of it curdled from your stomach acid, would just come right up.

"Once, it happened while I was carrying you. I thought you were asleep when suddenly vomit shot out like a geyser directly into my face---straight shot---and I almost dropped you. But most of the time it just sort of flowed out of your mouth, in lazy spurts, to drip down your chin. Out of your nose too. And the smell! It was just ghastly. But do you know the most horrifying thing of all? You'll never guess."

"What?" She leaned off the edge of the bed.

"Your expression never changed. You weren't just disgusting, you were creepy. "

"More disgusting!" she yelled.

"Shall we discuss your snot?"

"Yes!"

"Sometimes you'd sneeze and the snot would hang down your face and dangle in a long gooey rope in front of your mouth so that on the next breath you'd suck it right in. As you got older this got better, but also worse. You might wipe it away from your mouth, but in doing so you'd swipe the mucus all the way up either cheek to your eyes, resulting in this sticky viscous mask. And pink eye."

"Yuck!"

"And it's not so long ago---in fact, I believe it was just the other day---I saw you pick your nose and when I yelled, 'Don't wipe that on the couch!' you ate it instead. Remember how you did that, cutie?"

"I'm disgusting!" she thrilled.

"Indeed, you were, and still are, very very disgusting."

Finally, exhausted from laughing, she drifted off to sleep.

I'd save the one about The Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Diaper Genie for the following night.

Zoe: 151; Universe: 0

If you enjoyed this post, you may like this one, 

in which Zoe confronts a Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day.

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Zoe vs. WikiLeaks: Six-Year-Old's E-mails Hacked!

Dear Mommy,

To be honest, when I first heard the term WikiLeaks, I thought they were talking about some Maori kid who peed his pants. But when my people brought me up to speed, I decided I better write something to set the record straight.

Image credit: Chip Somodevilla/Getty Images

First of all, some of these alleged e-mails have been doctored. I never said, "Mommy is a poopy butt," or if I said it, I didn't mean it, and if I did mean it, it was taken out of context.

There are a lot of contexts where someone can be a poopy butt and it can be a good thing. I can't think of any, but I have a lot on my mind just now, what with my school's candy sale and trying to figure out how I can make money selling chocolate to myself. I can't be expected to remember everything. Besides, I think this whole e-mail hack thing is just a distraction from the important issues, like how many chocolate bars you can buy from me for me, or how much later I can go to bed. 

In the leaked documents, there's also the implication I'm for unfair trade. I think it's very fair when I get more than other people. It's more fair to me. I like chocolate (see previous statements) and, also, to win games. And for you to not say you let me win. That ruins it.

(But let me win.)

Another thing is that, sometimes, as a person living with a lot of stress, I need to vent to close personal associates. Like in my e-mail addressed to the cat that you're upset about---with the expectation of privacy, by the way---where I said Mommy is unfair and never lets me do anything and doesn't want me to be happy or she'd let me play all night and never sleep after eating all the chocolate. I think you need to grow up mentally as much as I do physically. I mean, did you really need to read that to know what I was thinking?

The cat agrees with me.

You may also have heard about the e-mail I sent to everyone in your contacts where I gave them all your passwords. First of all, "1234password" is ridiculous. Make your passwords harder, a higher number at least, like ten thousand one hundred fifty thousand. No one could guess that. It's not my fault if you do these things to yourself.

My public persona and my private persona both question your judgment and also wonder why the cat doesn't wear pants. He's naked and you don't see a problem. But God forbid I pee with the door open. Double standard.

Okay, I guess I did admit in one of those e-mails that sometimes I know when I'm being bad but do it anyway and play dumb because I know, as the Mommy, you have to forgive me. Some call that taking advantage, but I just think that's smart.

I think it's time to move past this and forge a new relationship based on mutual respect and a constant supply of chocolate. To my mouth.

Because you know what they say: kid pro quo. You scratch my back and I let you rub my back till I fall asleep.

Zoe: 150; Universe: 0

If you enjoyed this post, you may like this one 

in which Zoe confronts Donald Trump.

For more of Zoe's hijinks, follow me on Facebook and on Twitter at @zoevsuniverse. 

I need a win here, people. 

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Zoe vs. Boredom: In Which a Child's Ennui Becomes Tedious

"Zoe, time to get dressed."

"Boring!"

"Brush your teeth."

"So boring."

"And get your backpack."

*Falls on floor, apparently overcome by tedious commands.

Lately everything is boring, according to Zoe. Breathing in and out to her is dull and unimaginative in its repetitiveness. And it doesn't seem to matter how busy we are; she'll always find the boring.

One recent weekend, we had soccer on Saturday morning, a late night out at a dinner dance, and then on Sunday we took her to a Renaissance Faire. When we got home she played a few games on the iPad, watched one show on TV, and then, when we said her screen time was over and it was time for Mommy and Daddy to watch the news, she said, "But that's so boring." And, cherry on top, she then said: "I never get to do anything!" 

"Are you out of your mind?" I said, hoping I could interest her in reality.

Then I had to be very boring and list for her all she'd done that weekend, because apparently remembering the previous twenty-four hours is boring, as is appreciating one's old and silly parents. She is six and a study in ennui. 

But is she really bored or is her vocabulary just limited? Or maybe she's a pioneer and is just expanding the definition. Let's review some meanings of boredom. Excited yet?

Boredom meaning #1: A state of disinterest in one's surroundings in which there is nothing one wants to interact with. 

Our apartment is littered with toys that are apparently so boring and played out she will not let me throw any of them away. (Meta-boring!)

Boredom meaning #2: General restlessness, especially that which can overcome the privileged. 

See again all those toys she can't be bothered with. Maybe she has too many things. (Blasphemy!) Maybe she needs occasional dalliances with deprivation or, at least, a mental challenge. I suggested reading or doing math. 

"Ugh! Boring!" 

Little do you know the boredom ahead of you, I told her. 

Then I introduced her to the phrase "PowerPoint presentation." I mentioned speeches at professional conferences, waiting in line at the post office, and (with particular emphasis) having to watch a small child struggle to put on pajamas that are inside out. 

Throughout her lassitude remained intact.

Boredom meaning #3: Slightly irritating, adorably inept, or just plain silly, i.e., providing little or no challenge. 

Yesterday evening Zoe was playing a game on the Nick Jr. website which featured the dogs of Paw Patrol in a soccer match against Mayor Humdinger's villainous cats, aka the Catastrophe Crew. As Marshall the fire dog scored against the kitten who was the goalie, Zoe turned to me and said, "That cat couldn't stop the ball. So boring!" 

Indeed. And just moments later it was time for her tiresome mother to serve her a boring dinner featuring wearisome broccoli, after which she'd have to suffer through the boredom of bath time and the dreariness of being tucked into bed, where she'd fall asleep after much boring resistance and have monotonous dreams she'd be too apathetic to relate the next day.

Boredom meaning #4: Things one's mother makes one do.

Zoe: 149; Universe: 0

If you enjoyed this post, you may like this one 

in which Zoe confronts the meaning of life.

For more of Zoe's hijinks, follow me on Facebook and on Twitter at @zoevsuniverse. 

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Zoe vs. the Renaissance Faire: An Elizabethan Tale of Wonder, Revelry, and No Small Amount of Suffering

Good morrow! Gather round, ye knights and knaves, ye bawdy wenches and virtuous wives, and hear tell of Zoe and her visit to the faire of Elizabethan times, where sweet maidens fair and queens and kings---as well as pirates and the occasional elf---came together in the woods to frolic and carouse and play dress up for adults, the last an excuse to don outfits most inappropriate almost anywhere else on God's green earth.

Twas a long journey we undertook on Sunday morning to get to the faire, and those traveling in our conveyance were both short in stature and patience.

When we arrived thither, we immediately went in search of physical relief, which we discovered in the area overseen by Sir Porta John, a provident gentleman indeed. That bodily need met, complaints were uttered regarding the procurement of victuals. 

We located the food court, though it was like no court presided over by any sovereign I know, being awash in crude picnic tables unfit for nobles such as I decided I would've been had I lived back then.

There we acquired the small pieces of breaded chicken so popular with today's (and mayhap yesterday's) child but that, alas, Zoe now perversely forswore. Verily, she protested in such strong terms, only deigning to eat a handful of the thin fried potatoes, that her mother ended in eating the chicken herself---though she honestly could've given it a pass---because the price had been dear, and, besides, she eschewed waste.

Anon, the child let up a hue and cry, and we made haste again to the land of Sir Porta John, the poor child claiming debilitating cramps in her gut. This was followed by a refusal to walk, and so the father didst carry her.

Twas it the plague? Nay, to hear her keening it was worse.

Presently the woeful child lay upon a bench and, with most piteous whining, requested that her mother rub her back.

Zoe revived by and by, a happenstance queerly coincident with her friends acquiring swords. Of a sudden the color came back to her visage, and she petitioned her parents to purchase her a weapon. In a trice, she was outfitted with a sword whose color was pink but also black and white. 

For shield she had a choice amongst different fearsome beasts emblazoned on their fronts. Would she choose a dragon or a gryphon? A lion, perhaps?

Forsooth, Zoe chose a most terrifying unicorn, of a purple hue. But, by my troth, this mythical creature sparkled in a way that said it could be quite dangerous if provoked.

Don't let the purple unicorn and pink sword fool you; Zoe's a killer.

Following the joust, during which the father again carried the moaning creature, the mother prevailed upon the child to pose for a likeness. It took many, many tries, after which the much-beleaguered woman went in search of an alehouse.

Alas, the only drink to be found was the watered-down swill called Coors Lite, and so the mother repaired to the coffee shoppe. Thither, having spent all her ready money at the armorer's, she purchased a venti iced chai with her Visa.

To those who would point out the anachronisms, I offer this update of an Elizabethan curse:

"May thy iPhone battery be cursed with a short life and thy posts on the book of face go unremarked upon."

Thence we began our journey home, stopping once at a King of Burgers, for Zoe was finally hungry.

To paraphrase the bard, all's well that ends pretty okay.

Zoe: 148; Universe: 0

For more of Zoe's hijinks, follow me on Facebook and on Twitter at @zoevsuniverse. 

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Zoe vs. Hershey Park (Or, The Time I Was an Un-Jolly Rancher)

The last week of August, with camp in the rearview mirror but with the first day of school still down the road a-ways, we took Zoe to Hershey Park. Though she'd been to her share of carnivals and smaller parks, this was her first BIG amusement park.

I'd been to Hershey, and countless other amusement parks, as a kid and I loved roller coasters, so I was looking forward to introducing Zoe to some real rides, at least the ones she'd be tall enough to ride. 

And willing to go on.

I knew the latter would depend on her mood. Funhouse mirrors could learn something from Zoe about distorted realities.

Strap yourself in and keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle, folks, because unexpected turns are ahead.

We were traveling with friends who have two kids---one older than Zoe at 8, one younger at 5---so when we arrived at Hershey Park we checked in at the measuring station to find out each child's candy (i.e., height) designation. Zoe and her five-year-old friend were both "Reese's" (aka my favorite candy, and if I'd met a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup that was more than 40 inches tall, well, I wouldn't be here talking to you now because I'd be a) still eating or b) hospitalized).

They weren't measuring adults, but I'm pretty short, so I checked out of curiosity, and I reached the highest, "Jolly Rancher" height. However, while we were there, we never went on any ride that required a minimum height of "Twizzler," the measurement below Jolly Rancher, since the kids weren't tall enough yet. (The eight-year-old was "Hershey's" height.)

One of the first things I learned at Hershey was that Zoe's OCD was of a different flavor from mine. Every ride she went on, she had to be in the "1st" car, bumblebee, anthropomorphized jet plane or what have you, even if the ride went around in a circle. I have no idea why, but she did it every ride. When some other kid beat her to a "1" vehicle which happened to be a firetruck, I watched her regretfully belt herself into the purple muscle car next in line, marked with a "2."

Another thing I learned was Zoe perversely wanted to go on rides she wasn't allowed to go on but refused to go on so-called moderate thrill rides that allowed Reese's, as long as they were accompanied by an adult. For instance, the log flume. One of the tamest rides in existence. It had one dip. She did go on once but then adamantly refused the next time.

Soon we realized there was a "drama" competition going on between her and her five-year-old friend over who was more scared. They'd get off a ride and one would say, "That was the scariest ride ever." Then the other would say, "I screamed the whole ride." Next: "I'm never going on that again!" Or: "I almost throwed up all over the place." And then, after one ride, her friend said, "I almost had a heart attack." This gave Zoe pause, and she nodded once, soberly. She did not try to one-up her friend after that. Out of respect.

But the biggest thing I learned was something awful about myself. I learned I may be too old for rides.

It had been years since I'd been to a real amusement park and ridden a real roller coaster. I'd forgotten how rides felt, the stomach-dropping plunges, the spinning, the sudden swerving. Also: heights.

Are you "high" enough?

Zoe wanted to go on the Flying Phoenix. Each "car" on this ride was a two-seater flimsy plane thing, open to the air in a way that suggested death and lawsuits. We got on and it went up. And then spun. Really fast. Sure, there was a seat bar, but I think it was the centripetal force that was really keeping us in the vehicle.

Zoe didn't mind how high we were. We could see the whole park. Over and over. At high velocity. Did I mention a lot of the vehicle was open?

I told Zoe she could close her eyes if she was scared. She said, "I'm not going to close my eyes, silly." Meanwhile Silly was sitting behind her, eyes shut tight, clutching the metal bar like it was the last Reese's Peanut Butter Cup in the world.

When we finally got out of that death trap I was a decidedly Un-Jolly Rancher.

Somehow I thought I'd still be able to handle a roller coaster. They'd been my favorite as a teenager. So when the chance came to take my friends' "Hershey's" size son on the Wild Cat, I went.

Now, apparently, your ears change as you get older. The vestibular system of your inner ear becomes less efficient, which means you're less able to deal with abrupt changes in head position and you're more susceptible to motion sickness. Combined with that, there are the aches and pains that become familiar as you reach your forties, when it becomes common to wrench your back sneezing or sustain a neck injury due to sleep.

When I got off the Wild Cat, I felt dizzy. I felt ill. My neck was sore from being jarred so violently, and . . . was that my tendonitis flaring up from how I'd held my shoulders when I was checking to make sure my glasses wouldn't fall off during one of those hard turns? Remember when you were a teenager and you could see? 

But I had a rep to protect, plus I didn't want Zoe to be afraid. So when following that everyone wanted to go on the Pirate ride, I went with her, and even though we had to sit in the middle, special seating for Reese's, where it was less thrilling, I told her I didn't mind at all. And would she mind if I closed my eyes?

Zoe: 147; Universe: 0

If you liked this post, you might also enjoy this.

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Zoe vs. Gratitude: Is It Worth It?

How important is gratitude? Both the everyday thank-you, like the one you say when the barista hands you your change, and capital-G Gratitude, as in the count-your-blessings feeling you have when you look at the World As A Whole, and think, oh my god, aren't I lucky sitting here in an air-conditioned cafe sipping my half-sweet, non-fat, caramel macchiato?

Just like you, dear civilized reader, I was raised to say "please" and "thank you." And naturally I want my daughter to learn the social niceties as well as how to be a good person. It's part of my duty as a parent.

But that parenting philosophy met its true test this week, one I'm not sure the ideal of Gratitude will survive.

This week Zoe had to write thank-you notes.

She'd had her family birthday party a week before and, now that she was turning six, and could write, ish, I figured it was time she expressed her gratitude more formally.

I also thought it'd be good for her to write because school starts soon and we've done exactly nothing to reinforce what she'd learned in kindergarten.

But apparently I'm the one who'd forgotten all I learned. As with the pain of childbirth, I must have repressed the pain of supervising Zoe as she did her homework.

My announcement of Project Gratitude was met with tears and a general falling about. As if I was threatening to pull off her fingernails or, worse, never polish them again, and if I did, she'd be stuck with one color choice forever. Probably white. The horror!

As she carried on, I did what I usually do when she's being unreasonable. I mocked her. Oh, the suffering! I said. How could your mother do this to you? She must be the most terrible woman.

Zoe countered: How could she spend time writing these eight cards that would take FOREVER to write when she HAD TO play?

I said, Well, I can take all those toys away that you just received as GIFTS from people WHO LOVE YOU and then you'd have plenty of time.

Her face drained of blood. Then she muttered under her breath, heaved a shaky sigh, and sat down, the Saddest Child in the World, rejecting one pen after another because using the proper writing implement was important, even if this meant she was eating into the time she probably could've spent playing. I suppose you can't rush an artist. (Drama queens are artists, right?)

As she searched for the Holy Grail of pens, I wrote out our family's names, thinking she could use that as a guide and write out her cards with minimal supervision---meaning I wouldn't have to stand there and spell out "Grandma" fifty times while she deliberately misheard my n's and m's. 

And there were two grandmas to thank, people!

The cold hand of regret squeezed my soul in its gelid fingers as I realized she, the person who moments before had had an emotional breakdown over having to do this, would also take much longer than necessary doing it. She has a "Queens" Grandma and a "Connecticut" Grandma, so obviously she needed to spell out their locations as part of their names. I said, "Grandma" would suffice since when each one opened her envelope and actually held the card in her hand, all would become clear.

But she wouldn't have it. A thing worth doing is worth doing well is a phrase I've never said to Zoe. And never will. I'm all about cutting corners. I'm the Meghan Trainor of shortcuts.

Wisely, I had revised my original plan, which was to have Zoe mention each person's gift in particular and also say "Thanks for coming to my party!" But that was Advanced Thank-You Card Writing. And exclamation points invited unnecessary smiley-face art within their bottom dots. Doing the names---each letter she formed shaving another year off my life---was taking long enough on its own, so I edited the message down to six words (one each for her age): "Thanks for my gift. Love, Zoe."

That would've sped things along, I think, except for the added wrinkle that, after recovering from her initial shock, Zoe now wanted to "have fun." Each card  had to be "perfect," which meant they would look far from it, since when she made a mistake she crossed it out so she could rewrite it. That and she had to add art, lots of hearts, an occasional cat.

So we're about a week in now and out of eight cards she's finished three.

Prayers are appreciated. Just don't expect a note of thanks.

Zoe: 146; Universe: 0

If you liked this post, you might also enjoy Zoe's list of things she is thankful for that she "wrote" when she was 4.

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Zoe vs. Bad Poetry Day

You've waited all year.

It's finally here.

Bad Poetry Day! 

Twenty-four hours set aside

For verse few can abide.

Bad Poetry Day!

Hark! Here it comes.

Grab your bottle of Tums.

For it's the day. The day for bad poetry.

August 18th is Bad Poetry Day. In honor of this High Holy Day, I have written some bad poetry. With Zoe's help.

Taking a page (zing!) from some of the most famous poets in history, we looked to daily life for material, and then we took another page, by which I mean our poems might sound familiar, but with some differences. Terrible, awful differences.

"Cleaning Up Toys on a Tuesday Evening"

Whose mess this is I think I know

She was supposed to clear it hours ago

The toys, some sharp, are three-feet deep

Quite a few were hardly cheap

I've got work to do before I sleep

I've got work to do before I sleep

"To My Child, to Make Much of Time"

Gather ye dead leaves while ye may

Because we're leaving this park in two minutes

"Ode on a Strange Sound Coming from Her Bedroom"

Heard children are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter

What discordant shrieks and mysterious thumps?

What mad raving? What wild possession?

That loud sound was nothing, Mother,

And nothing made that sound

That is all Mommy knows on earth,

And all Mommy needs to know.

"Hope is the thing with feathers"

I don't know what that other toy is.

The one without feathers.

"Zoe-mandias"

I entered her room and found her thus, proclaiming:

"My name is Zoe-mandias, Queen of the World. Also, Brooklyn.

Look on my works, Mommy, and despair!"

Her bedsheets in disarray, ruins tell the tale of a stuffed-animal explosion. 

Around her feet, books spill out from her bookcase. 

And all over the floor just really a shit ton of Legos.

Colossal wreckage, boundless, stretching far away.

Like, that many Legos.

"Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night"

Do not go gentle into that good night

Rage, rage, and keep raging.

Are you still raging even though it's way past your bedtime?

Well done.

Now ask them for water.

"This Is Just to Say"

I peed in your bed

Last night

And not just a little bit.

Forgive me.

I was comfortable

And my legs weren't working.

Zoe: 145; Universe: 0

If you liked this post, you might also enjoy Zoe vs. the Keurig (plus an ode).

For more of Zoe's hijinks, follow me on Facebook and on Twitter at @zoevsuniverse. 

I need a win here, people. 

Quoth the Raven: Nevermore . . . than one post a week, if that, the Raven's tired. 
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Zoe vs. Something Bad

"Do you want to know something bad, Mommy?" Zoe asks in one of her familiar yet chilling non sequiturs.

I pause in emptying her backpack and look up at her, my mind jumping tracks from the did-she-eat-her-lunch suspense to uh-oh-what-fresh-hell suspense.

"Really? What's that?" I ask conversationally, belying my panic. 

As I wait for her to finish basking in my undivided attention, I think: Why does she always drop bombs on me when we're just through the door and I'm sweaty and tired and have to make dinner in five minutes? 

Probably---and by "probably" I mean "definitely"---this has something to do with the basking-in-attention thing. All kids crave attention, but Zoe has extra reason. Her mother is so frazzled on weeknights that it's bath time till the woman notices what new bruises and black-and-blues Zoe's acquired that day.

So I understand her timing. It's just a wee bit frustrating. 

I brace myself as she finally answers.

"I know what this means." She holds up her middle finger, then waits for my reaction.

"And what does it mean?" I ask, still nonchalant.

She sways from side to side, holding her finger. I can tell she's just itching to flip me the bird again, in the interests of science.

"Something very bad."

"You're right," I tell her. "It means something rude and vulgar and we don't do it."

Meanwhile, I'm thinking, Daddy and Mommy give each other the finger all the time super casually just to mess with each other. But it's probably not appropriate to tell a five-year-old how Daddy often puts his hand in his pocket like he's looking for something and then, acting very surprised, pulls out his middle finger, holds it up to me, and says, "I think this is for you." Never gets old! 

"Did someone at camp show you that?" I continue to Zoe.

She nods, then tells me all about how so-and-so did it to somebody-or-other so then so-and-so got in trouble and was in timeout for the rest of the day until his mother came and how the counselors told everyone not to do it because it was bad.

"Well, sure sounds like he learned his lesson, right?" 

She nodded and then she went to play. It seemed like the counselors had done a good job, but naturally Zoe had absorbed the DRAMA and wanted to discuss it. Overall, though, I kind of felt I'd dodged a bullet.

Before Zoe was born, I had this idealized view of the "teachable moment." They would always occur in some lemon-yellow kitchen where the sun eternally shined, and my child would be reading a book with me or we'd be engaged in some art or craft, which in real life I have no patience for, when she'd stop for a moment, look up at me--her all-wise and all-knowing mother---and say, "Dearest mother, why do bad things happen to good people?" And I'd have a speech ready in my hip pocket, one that was carefully nuanced, full of wisdom and lyricism and ending with a recommended list for further reading, and afterwards I'd say it was time for bed, even though the sun was still beaming aggressively into our kitchen, and she would immediately comply and go to sleep with a smile on her face, which is of course the most far-fetched part of this whole scenario.

It turned out, however, that that was not the end of the Middle-Finger Incident. As soon as Daddy came home, she asked him the same thing, and also got the same sober attention as he explained that that was a bad thing to do and she shouldn't do it. What an effect this question was having!

And then the next day we were eating dinner with friends when, into a moment of silence, she turned to our friends and said, "Do you want to know something bad?"

I rolled my eyes, but I have to say I was also impressed. Maybe I need her to start writing my blog titles, because she's a natural at click bait.

Zoe: 144; Universe: 0

If you liked this post, you might also enjoy Zoe vs. The Five Big Questions,

in which Zoe answers "Why do bad things happen to good people?" much better 

than I ever could.

For more of Zoe's hijinks, follow me on Facebook and on Twitter at @zoevsuniverse. 

I need a win here, people. 

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Zoe vs. The Huffington Post: More from the Parallel Universe

Mother has again abandoned me. Not just this week but last week too. She was off doing her little scribblings elsewhere. The nerve. She'd be nothing without me.

Here's where she's appearing if you'd like to go to these sites' respective comments sections to publicly shame her. I would view it as a personal favor if you did.

She's was on HaHas for Hoohas with this drivel:

10 of Your Baby's Most Dubious Milestones

Wow! The woman wrote a numbered list. Haven't seen one of those before! I'm also trying not to take it personally. I never did any of those things she mentions. To suggest otherwise is slander. Or libel. One of those.

Then she was on MockMom this past Monday with something I don't even understand.

Woman Discovers the Virgin Mary in Her Underwear

Like who? And what? Just two of my questions that I'd ask if I even cared.

Then you can hear her voice on this one. It's a podcast called Inside Voice. Someone thought she'd be interesting to interview. She also reads part of the novel she wrote, the one I've been hearing her go on about for years, especially the choice tidbit that she wrote it when she was "unencumbered"---always with the little head tilt in my direction. As if I don't understand exactly what she means. Those are the nights I call for a very special episode of Bedtime: the Extended Edition. Podcast that, lady!

And, finally, she was also on The Huffington Post a couple of weeks ago. Big whoop! The woman's thrilled because she won a contest at BlogU, which sounds like a curse but is actually a conference, whatever that is. At least she wrote about me in this one.

Motherhood: How to Maintain Your Professional Distance

I think that site missed a huge opportunity not calling themselves Huggington Post. Much better name. What's a huffington anyway? I mean, Chuggington, that's something, but huffington?

So there!

Zoe: 143; Universe/Ariana Huffington: 0

For more of Zoe's hijinks, follow me on Facebook and on Twitter at @zoevsuniverse. 

I need a win here, people. 

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