Update

 

This is the part where I update my blog. You were wondering when I’d get to it, weren’t you? Wondering if I won the Washington Post’s Peep Show contest, if the Pixie’s ingested any potentially hazardous substances lately, how I felt about Susan Boyle’s performance  on Britain’s Got Talent, if I’m enjoying reading Twilight, if I’ve gotten my stimulus check yet.

Questions one and two will be addressed together because she ate my contest entry. You read that right. She ate my diorama. The little marshmallow artist, Grant Wood, glasses and all. His backside was glued to a tiny hay bale. This did not deter her. He had a small paintbrush in his hand, which I’d made. Amazingly she did not eat that. Probably an oversight. I’m sure she meant to, because she ate everything else. The marshmallow bunnies posing for Mr Wood, also glued down? Eaten. The marshmallowy hay bales – covered in actual hay? Eaten.

Eventually we may have to consult professionals. I’m talking psychiatric help; everyone at the Poison Control hotline knows us already. Last week she bit a light bulb. Let me say that again. Last week. She bit. A light bulb. I was talking to her sister (because I do have other children, honest) and I glanced over to see the Pixie with an odd look on her face. Her cheeks were puffed. “What have you done?” is the question I warily ask several times a day before approaching her, for fear she’s stuck her finger in a socket or caught a venomous snake and is about to bring upon us destruction that I don’t want to touch. So I asked “What have you done?” and crooked my finger at her. She didn’t answer. She looked like Sylvester the cat with that “I tawt I taw a puddy tat” bird in his mouth. An uncomfortable half smile and she slowly held up what she had behind her back. The metal end of a light bulb, jagged and broken.

I tend to go cold and distant at moments like this. We seem to have a lot of them, so that’s probably best. Her sister took her cue from me and became my surgical assistant, wordlessly handing me wet paper towels with which I fished shards of glass from a bloody mouth. Finally I was satisfied she might not die and asked why on earth she would do such a thing. She is five. We should be beyond this. She shrugged. A mouthful of glass is no big deal to her. “I couldn’t get it to open.” She had been turning and turning the screw-in part and it wouldn’t open. So she bit it. To see what was inside. Again: She bit a light bulb. She sees this as an obvious solution to a problem.

Am I doing something wrong?