Why is it that “Not Feeling Well” in the minds of children constitutes carte blanche to abandon all pretenses of civilized behavior?? I Protest!! There will be order!!!

HOUSE RULES:

*No biting
*No kicking
*No hitting
*No scratching
*No yelling
*No screaming
*No running with pointy objects or in high-heeled Cinderella shoes
*No name calling
*No singing of Backyardigans, Wonder Pets or Wiggles songs
*No playing in the toilet
*Bathroom doors are to stay closed at all times except when exiting or entering
*Ditto for closet doors, office doors, and the door to the master bedroom
*Bedroom doors belonging to children’s rooms must stay open at all times
*Only a sane amount of toilet paper is permitted in one sitting
*Band-Aids may only be accessed for the purpose of using them in the manner stated clearly on the box
*The use of color crayons is restricted to the dining room table during supervised coloring sessions and permitted only on provided writing materials
*Ditto for Play-Doh
*The use of Sharpie markers is strictly prohibited
*Absolutely no toddler access to toothpaste or any conceivable form of tape, paint, glue or glitter at any time without direct maternal supervision
*Under no circumstances may paternal supervision be construed as equivalent to maternal supervision
*Banana slices may not be used either as finger puppets or as shampoo
*No feeding the kitty baby food
*No feeding the baby kitty food
*No playing with the ice dispenser
*No exceeding the recommended daily allotment of Kleenex or baby wipes without filing of the proper consent forms
*No climbing the refrigerator or any other scalable surfaces on the premises
*No eating of yogurt, ice cream, jello, pudding, peanut butter, or jam without direct adult supervision
*No stuffing of kitties or small children into dwelling spaces intended to only be inhabited by Fisher Price Little People
*Absolutely no licking of the mirrors, windows or patio doors or any other hard surface intended to be clean and shiny
*Toothbrushes are to be used for cleaning only the teeth to which they have been assigned to and nothing else
*No chasing the kitty
*No bopping the baby
*No jumping on anything or anyone except Dad
*Absolutely no participation is permitted in any activity directly or indirectly resulting in clean-up requiring in excess of three Mr. Clean Magic Sponges
*Only one pair of underwear is to be worn at any one time
*No yanking of the tot-locked cabinets open by sheer brute force
*No hiding of the tot-lock key magnets
*Absolutely no hiding of anything else either
*Individuals leaving tubes of Desitin or anything with chemical properties similar to those of Desitin within toddler reach will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law
*It is not permissible to access to any of Mommy’s makeup or anything in her purse at any time
*No cramming of anything real or imaginary into the couch cushions or into the sound hole of Mommy’s harp--Ever
*No stocking feet outside
*No shoes inside
*No shredding of any form of paper unless you have an OfficeMax manual to prove you are a bona fide paper shredder
*Visitors must enter at their own risk and may be required to sign the following disclaimer:

DISCLAIMER OF LIABILITY

Neither the Family In Residence nor any of its agents or consultants shall be liable for any improper or incorrect use of the information described and/or contained herein and assumes no responsibility for anyone’s use of the information. In no event shall The Family In Residence or its agents or consultants be liable for any direct, indirect, incidental, special, exemplary, consequential, psychological or emotional damages as a result of your visit. Refunds will not be provided due to dissatisfaction with the facilities either upon or after arrival. If the house staff are unable to provide the expected level of service for any reason, including but not limited to service outages, toddler tantrums, acts of war, God, or negligence of any form, neither The Family In Residence nor any of its agents or consultants may be held liable for any costs or damages, real or imaginary.

Jacqui: sighhhh Are we dair yet?

Ken: Pleeeeease stop asking that.

Me: She's just excited...

Jacqui: Dair's some snow Dad! Stawwwwwwp!!! Can we jess stop dair an' play?

Ken: No.

Jacqui: Why not?

Ken: Because.

Jacqui: 'Cause why?

Ken: We need a nice hill for the sled. We're not there yet.

Jacqui: I fink you need ta dwive fasser. Dis is takin' a reely very long time.

Ken: sigh Jacqui... just stop...

Jacqui: sigh Dis was posed to be zillerating, not zausting.

Me: What???

Jacqui: (scowling) I not sayin' it gain. You heered me.

Kyle: Ooooooo. Druck. Vrooooommm!!

Ken: (just before a very long hill) I think we're going the wrong way. I think we should have turned back there.

Jacqui: No! No turning! Dis is da very right way ta go! Up da hill Dad!

Ken: sigh Jacqui ... no more talking.

Jacqui. Hmmph! (muttering under her breath) Dis is too da right way...

Ken: I think we need to turn around...

Me: You're serious?

Ken: I think we were supposed to turn back there.

Me: The other road went back down.

Ken: I think it goes down and then back up.

Me: Sure. That's what one usually does when they are in search of high-altitude snow.

Ken: What?

Me: Go down and then back up.

Ken: (look of death while turning the car around)

Jacqui: No, no, noooooooo! Dis is da very wrong way!!! Go back dat way!

Ken: Jacqui! I said no more talking. I mean it.

Jacqui: (muttering while pulling Ken's cap over her eyes) I jess can't watch dis...

Me: (watching the snow get sparser) You're sure this is the way we're supposed to go?

Ken: (another look of death in my direction)

Me: Seems like we're just going down and not very much up...

Jacqui: I telled you... dis is da very wrong way. You needta go back dat way Dad!

Ken: Jacqui... enough already.

Jacqui: (more indiscernible muttering)

Me: (giggling)

Ken: (another look of death)

Kyle: Druck, druck, druck! Vrrrrrooooooom!!

Ken: Everyone just be quiet please!

Jacqui: (mumbling softly to herself in a sing-song-ey voice) Who do ya ask wen ya don' know which way ta go? Riiiiiiiiiiight... Da map! (begins singing "The Map Song" from "Dora The Explorer" in a whisper) ...I'm da map, I'm da map, I'm da map...

Me: (uncontrollable giggling)

Ken: (yet another look of death) Absolutely no blogging about this.

Me: (mock salute)

Ken: I mean it.

Me: (more giggling)

Ken: Ok. Hand me the map.

Me: Uhhh. Yeeeeah. About that...

Ken: Well?

Me: We don't have one.

Ken: What do you mean?

Me: Well, you remember when we bought the car the year before last?

Ken: Yeah...

Me: Remember how the glove box was empty except for the manual?

Ken: Yeah...

Me: Still is.

Ken: Still is what?

Me: Empty.

Ken: We never got a map?

Me: Well, actually we did. Last night when I was grocery shopping, as a matter of fact.

Ken: Well, where's that one?

Me: At home on the kitchen counter, I believe.

Ken: (another look of death)

Jacqui: Snow is dat way peeple!!

Ken: Jacqui!

Me: I think we should have stayed on the road we were on.

Ken: The resort was at milepost eighty something on highway 'X'.

Me: And we're on highway "Y"?

Ken: No. We're on highway "Z".

Jacqui: (mumbling) Oh, jess stop counting numbers... da snow is dat way...

Me: So if we're supposed to be on highway 'X', why are we on highway 'Z'?

Ken: sigh I think highway 'X' turns in to highway 'Z'.

Me: But you don't know?

Ken: (another look of death) Well, I would know if I had a map, wouldn't I?

Me: (sheepish grin)

Me: So do you think highway "Z" has turned into highway "X" yet?

Ken: (completely exasperated) I don't know.

Me: Well you said it was at milepost eighty-something. What milepost are we at now?

Ken: Gee. I don't know. It's a little hard to see those two-foot high milepost markers under four feet of snow.

Me: Oh. Yeah. Right.

Ken: (eye rolling).

Jacqui: (apparently gives up all hope and begins singing softly to herself a tune of her own creation) Dis da wrong way... da very wrong way... we never gonna get dair, dis a no snow day... wrong way... dis da wrong way...

Me: Ok. I think we've explored the downhill option long enough.

Ken: You think we should turn around?

Me: (rolling eyes) Uh... Yeah...

Ken: (turning car back around) Alright...

Jacqui: (peeking out from under Ken's cap) Well. At least we are driving da car to da mountain 'gain. Daddy? Will dair be enny snow left wen we get dair?

Ken: sigh

Finally reached our destination. Arrived mid-afternoon instead of mid-morning as planned. Kids had a ball. More to come in following posts - stay tuned!

Ken: (on the way back home) So I was thinking we should try taking highway 'Z' back home instead of highway 'X'.

Me: (look of death)

It was a cold crisp day in December 2005. I didn't know it yet, but inside our sleepy little house, the beginnings of a Christmas mystery was afoot. In spite of the busy weeks prior, our Christmas tree was up and decorated, garlands festooned the house, and the first batch of Christmas cookies had been baked, much to the delight of three-year-old Jacqui. Aside from last minute shopping and the wrapping of presents, all that remained of the Christmas check-list was to put the lights up outside the house.

Now in most households, the outdoor lights are a guy thing. You know, voltage, power cords... the macho side of Christmas. Yeah, well not at our house. Christmas lights just aren't Ken's thing... I'm really not sure why. All I know is that if I start mentioning that it's time to put up the Christmas lights, I'm suddenly the only one in the room. And, since I can't imagine a Christmas without Christmas lights, out into the wet December chill I trudge without fail.

This dubious tradition suddenly became a challenge however, at the onset of Jacqui's toddler-hood. Nap times were never long enough, and there was no way to keep her out of the enticing tangles of green power cords while she was awake. After three days of attempting to get them put up during her 45-minute-if-I-was-lucky nap time, I was getting no where fast. On day four, the weather man claimed that monsoons were in the forecast and I worked frantically to get the rest of them in place while Jacqui napped. All too soon though, Jacqui was awake. Not with your typical post-nap whimper, but a clamoring of static through the baby monitor as chubby fingers grappled with the speaker, "...Hey! Heyyyyyyy!!! I no sleepy no more!! Hey! Mommmmmmmy! You heered me? I no sleepy no more! Heyyyyyyy!!"

I looked around at the last loops of unstrung lights at my feet and knew I had a good ten minutes of work left to do... there would be no way she would wait that long. Back inside I trudged and freed the little inmate from her crib. She squealed out into the living room, still enamored with the lights of the Christmas tree right near our big living room windows. And then I had an idea...

"Jacqui, how would you like to wave at Mommy through the window while she puts the rest of the lights up?"

"Yay! Christmas lights! OK, Mommy!!" She clapped her hands in anticipation.

"OK, you stand right here and watch Mommy out the window..."

I slipped out the front door and Jacqui stood waving, smiling and tapping on the window. I began looping the remaining end of the light string into the little green stakes intended to edge the walk leading up to the path, stuck a few in place and then peeked back at the window. Jacqui was still there, peering out at the lights with a giant grin. Click, click, click... a few more in place... check the window.... yep, a grinning little three-year-old still plastered to the sill. And on it went, with me putting a few lights in place then stopping to wave at Jacqui as she watched. Finally, I clicked the last strand in it's place and turned on the lights in all their glowing, twinkling Christmas glory. I turned and waved at Jacqui. She was in the midst of making slobber faces on the window when the lights turned on and she stopped for a full moment of stunned silence before clapping and cheering with glee.

I trudged up the walk, removed my boots and opened the door. Before I could quite put my finger on what was wrong, Jacqui bellowed "Oh Noooooo!!!!! Mommy's home!!!!" She then charged blindly down the hallway as fast as her pattering tiny feet could carry her.

"Jacqui?" I called after her, looking apprehensively around the room, trying to determine what the fuss was all about. "Jacqui, come back here right now and talk to Mommy..."

She peeked out of her room, one eye and two tiny fingers trying to blend into the doorjamb. "Jacqui..." She trudged down the hall, head hanging low. "Jacqui, what did you do?"

She looked up at me, her eyes wide with fright. "Oh, Mommy! So very many noddy fings!"

I rubbed my temples, "Like what?"

She reached up and grabbed my hand and began tugging me down the hall into the living room. In the tone of an over-anxious real estate agent she said, "Well, let's go see..."

First stop on the tour of horrors: She led me behind the tree next to the window where she had appeared to be standing during the entire 10 minutes that I was outside. She pointed to the wall where I could see very odd, sticky looking pink substance smeared in decorative, almost festive patterns. It was sparkley too, and familiar, although I couldn't quite place it.

"I did feen-der pain-ings on da wall wif toof-paste, Mommy. Dat was very noddy of me, huh?"

I sighed wondering again for the millionth time what posessed the previous owners of our home to paint the entire interior in flat paint. No way that the paint would out-last the toothpaste in the scrubbing that wall was going to require. "Yes, Jacqui. Very naughty."

She looped her hand up through my arm and tugged me toward the center of the living room. Great. There was more. She pointed at the couch. The white and blue striped couch. I wondered for the millionth time what had ever posessed me to think that white was a good color for anything - ever. Spattered all over the couch were reddish splotches. I pinched the bridge of my nose as the explanation began.

"... An' over dair on da couch I dump-ded my juice box all noh-ver da place. Dat was very noddy too!"

"Yes. Yes it was. Why were you being so naughty?"

"I jess don't know, Mommy. Dis way, Mommy..." I was being pulled to the dining room. What more could the kid have possibly done as she grinned at me through the window? I didn't have to wonder long. There on the carpet in front of the sliding glass door a whole bag each of birdseed and peanuts had been dumped and scattered. I had set the bags on the counter to go fill the feeders while Jacqui had been napping and had forgotten about them.

"I tried to feed da skurl, Mommy. He was so very hon-gery, but da door was lock-ded and I drop-ded da skurl and birdie food all over da floor! Am I very noddy?"

"Oh, Jacqui... You know you're not supposed to try and open the door! Yes, you have been very naughty and you're going to have to help me clean all these messes up."

"Ok, Mommy. I will help. Can I help fix da norny-ments too?"

"What ornaments?"

"Da ones dat I broke-ded."

"How many did you break?"

She tapped a finger to her chin as her mischievous little eyes sparkled. "Hmmm... I don't a-member. Wet's go count 'em!"

Again I was tugged across the room to yet another disaster zone. There, neatly lined up on the coffee table lay the hapless victims...

Jacqui cleared her little throat and then with a dimpled little pointy finger began counting off the casualties... "One... feee... seben... lebbenty-two... FIVE!!" And so there were. Five broken Christmas ornaments, all fixable, except one filigree metal ball that seemed to be in need of an elfin-sized welder. "Um... Jacqui... One of them is missing the head."

Her eyes widened importantly as she looked up at me nodding solemnly. "Yes, I know dat. Dat's da cowboy norny-ment, Mommy."

It was a clown, but whatever. She wanted to call it a cowboy, then it was a cowboy. Cowboy or clown, it was still minus a noggin. "So where is it?"

"Where's wat?"

"The head."

"Oh. Itsa miss-ery."

"A what?"

"A miss-ery Mom. You not heered me?"

"I heard you. What do you mean, 'It's a mystery'?"

"Dat means you gotta figgure it out like a teck-tive."

"How about I figure it out like a policeman instead?"

She grinned, glad that I was playing along. I picked her up and set her on the couch and stared her down. She didn't blink. "Ok. Here's how policemen solve mysteries... Jacqui, tell me right now what you did with the clown's head or you're going back in your room for another nap."

Not even a flinch. She grinned at me. "You forgetted, Mommy. Itsa cowboy, not a clown!"

"Ok, tell me where the cowboy head is or you get another nap."

"Hmmm... we gotta be very good teck-tives and fink about where it could be..." She crinkled up her nose and tapped her head as she thought. "Oh! It might be under da Christmas tree..."

We looked under the tree. No clown head. "Oh! it might be a-hind da couch!"

We pulled out the couch. Lots of fun things were back there... hair bows, bouncy balls, miscellaneous crackers and cheerios... no clown head though. "Guess again Holmes."

"Who's Homes?"

"Never mind. Tell me where the clown head is."

"Cowboy head, Mommy!"

"Fine. Cowboy head. Where is the cowboy head, Jacqui?"

"It is a very good miss-ery, isn't it?"

So it was. She certainly had me stumped. "Ok, I give up. Where is it?"

"Oh, Mommy! We don't ebber say dat, 'member? We don't say 'I give up', we say 'I can do any-fing wif pwactice!' Member?"

I went a few more rounds with the mini Agatha Christie and then resorted to the nap threat. No use. Even after a long nap, the kid wasn't talking. I began to wonder if she even knew where it was.

"Did you lose the clown head, Jacqui?"

"Cowboy!"

"Cowboy. Did you lose the cowboy head?"

Didn't matter the question, the answer was always the same... "Itsa miss-ery!"

I searched while vacuuming, while taking down the tree, while packing the ornaments away. The clown head was no where to be found. Eventually I packed away the mystery of the head-less Christmas clown with the rest of the Christmas trappings.

For a whole year, no one thought of the poor headless Christmas clown and the injustices of Christmas past. And then, once again it was Christmas. Out came the ornaments and decorations while a gleeful four-year-old and her new baby brother watched with excitement.

First out of the boxes came the Fisher Price Nativity set... The stable, the palm trees, the wisemen, the shepherds and their sheep, Joseph, Mary and her baby, the manger...

Why did the manger rattle?? Had it always rattled? My fingers searched along the seam where the plastic hay met the plastic trough. Suddenly, it gave way and open it popped... out rolled the missing clown head.

"Mommy! You figgered out da miss-ery! Wat a very good teck-tive you are!"

A whole year later and those were the first words out of her sealed little lips. As I glued the head back in place, I muttered to myself about how very long it was going to be before Jacqui would ever be entrusted with her first Nancy Drew novel.

"You funny, Mommy! Dat cowboy's name izzin't Nancy! It's Bob!"

And so the Christmas mystery was solved. Bob, the cowboy clown, got his head back and was returned to his spot on the tree, although to this day he remains very puzzled as to why he's wearing a dress. The best part? Ken put up the Christmas lights that year. I insisted.![]

While Christmas shopping at the mall, Jacqui saw Santa sitting in his big velvet chair, chatting with children about Christmas wishes. We don't make a big deal of Santa at our house, so I was a little surprised when Jacqui stopped in her tracks and exclaimed, "Mommmmmmmm! I muss go see Santa! I needta tell him somefing very 'portant!"

"Are you sure?" I asked, eying the length of the line.

She placed a hand on a hip and crinkled her eyebrows, "Course I'm sure! I woon'ta said anyfing if I wasn't!"

Well OK then. Off to the end of the line we went. As we waited, Jacqui wiggled about in anticipation like a Christmas puppy. "Is he da reely reel Santa?"

"What do you think?" I had answered variations of this question many times, but for some reason, Jacqui just loves to ask questions that she already knows the answer to. I've tried to interest her in other hobbies, but no. This one suits her just fine, thank you.

"I fink he's jess preten an' da reely reel Santa was Santy Nickles and was very nice to little boys an' girls a reely long time ago. He's probly in hebben now."

"Why do you want to talk to a pretend Santa then?"

"Moooooommmm!! Dats more fun 'bout it! It's jess fun to play preten, Mom. You telled me dat it's good to maj-inate fings, 'member?"

"Yes, so I did."

Ken and I really struggled with what to do with the whole Santa thing. We basically decided to not make an issue of it and keep the focus of Christmas on Jesus where we believe it should be. Jacqui, however, is not easily put off by such things. She likes to ask question after question in ever increasing detail and somehow we just couldn't bring ourselves to answer her inquisitiveness with "Why of course he's real!" Instead, we told her the real story of St. Nicholas and explained why people like to remember the kind things that he did. It seemed to satisfy her curiosity and she deftly categorized the whole 'Santa bringing presents' issue as a fun and elaborate game of make-believe. I have no idea if we did the right thing here, because honestly, we are just making up most of this parenting stuff as we go along!

The line crept along and Jacqui became exponentially more excited until at last it was her turn and she bounded up into the unsuspecting mall Santa's lap.

"What do you want for Christmas, little girl"

"Wot's my name?"

"Ho, Ho, Ho! Why don't you tell it to me?"

"If you're da reely reel Santa you should know my name."

Poor Santa didn't look so good.

Jacqui arched an eyebrow and looked suspiciously at his whiskers. Fortunately for him we had already discussed that the pretend Santa's beard was very real and she should not bother him about it, nor should she under any circumstances tug on it to see if it would come off. I prayed like crazy for the moment to pass without a major incident. Jacqui tilted her head back the other direction as she evaluated him. Finally she said, "My name's Jacqui. You know how to spell it?"

Santa sat there looking like a stun-gun victim.

"J-A-C-Q-U-I. Dat's howya spell Jacqui. Dat's me."

Santa coughed. "Well Jacqui, what would you like for Christmas?"

"Jacqui clapped her hands and giggled. She then began chattering at 120 miles an hour... "For Christmas I would like allotta fings! A Dizz-inny Princess Talkin' Vannerty (vanity), A pink Fur-Berry, Da Fur-Real Pony, Dizz-inny Princess Dress-Up stuff, and A Real Lovin' Baby... Are you writin' dis down?? You're jess a preten Santa so you shood mebbe write fings down so you don't fergit dem. You do hab very nice white gloves though, I like 'em a lot! Mommy an' Daddy need toys for Christmas too an' I will help dem play wif 'em, OK? And don't bring me a purple yo-yo. Dat's Daddy's job, not you. Now I needta tell you what Kyle wants for Christmas 'cause he's too little to tell 'ya..."

The poor pretend Santa sat there valiantly fighting off the impending migraine while contemplating the meagerness of his paycheck. Finally, Jacqui released her velvet and ermine-clad captive and bounced down from his much-relieved lap while calling over her shoulder, "Don't fergit... No purple yo-yo's! Dat's Daddy's job."

The pretend Santa smiled and waved and motioned to one of his elves. Probably to schedule a pretend Santa break from all things pertaining to the North Pole.

I looked down at Jacqui and she was grinning ear to ear and skipping along with one hand in mine.

"Did you tell him the very important thing that you needed to?"

"Oh, yes! I telled him! Dat was fun Mommy! He's not so very good at pretenning as me."

Huh. I was completely stumped as to what had just happened and why. "So what did you tell him that was so important?"

She looked up at me with sparkles in her eyes and laughed, "Oh, I jess needed to tell him not to bring me a purple yo-yo for Christmas in case he was still pretennen' to be Santa on Christmas cause it would hurt Daddy's feelin's if da preten Santa brought me Daddy's present. Daddy said he would get me a yo-yo for Christmas an' teeched me to do da yo-yo tricks!"

"So then why did you tell him all the other stuff if you knew he was just a pretend Santa?"

"Moooommm!! I all-reddy telled you! It's jess fun to play preten an' I'm a very good maj-inator. Dat's more fun about it if you maj-inate fings." And she grinned and gave another skip as she dove towards Ken through the crowd. "Dad! Don't worry! I telled dat Santa not to bring me a purple yo-yo!"

Ten minutes later when we walked by Santa's chair once more, he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he went to go write things down... like maybe a list of phone numbers from the Help Wanted ads...!

The Backyardigans are big at our house. It's actually a pretty cute show, but Ken and I often joke about the insidious ability of the show's songs to invade all available brain space of non-toddling individuals and render them senseless through sleep deprivation. The second - and I do mean the second your head hits the pillow, out come the goofy little tunes to rattle relentlessly through your cranium.

The show also inspires a unique variety of imaginative play among the toddler set. Well, at least at our house it does. One of the more recent episodes was called 'Cops and Robots'. This action-packed tale contained an annoying little ditty which tormented all resident adults' hours of conscious thought without mercy. The entire set of lyrics consisted solely of the repetitive phrase, "Can't stop... Can't stop the cops... We're the best in the gal-ax-sy..." And was sung to the tune of 'Shoo Fly'. They (the dastardly producers) set the songs to familiar tunes - just in case you are in danger of forgetting the lyrics. But I digress. The end result of this particular episode was to inspire all resident 5-year-olds to speak in robotic monotone for two weeks...

"I-do-not-wan-na-eat-buh-sket-ee-for-din-err... I-wan-na-eat-peez-uh-in-stead."

"I-need-ta-wear-my-air-ee-ul-swim-gogg-ulls-to-da-go-fur-ee-store... Cuz-I'm-a-row-bot...
Row-bots-all-ays-wear-air-ee-ul-swim-gogg-ulls... It's-da-row-bot-rules."

Lots of fun, this particular episode. We've gotten a lot of milage out of it. Public conversations were especially entertaining...

"No-laff-ing-at-me. I'm-a-row-bot. You-muss-nev-ver-laff-at-row-bots. It-makes-em-mad.
Den-dey-splode."

"Doughs-are-not-swim-gogg-ulls. Dey-are-my-row-bot-gogg-ulls. Dat-makes-me-mad...
Mal-fun-shunnn... Mal-fun-shunn... Please-push-my-stop-dat-mal-fun-shun-but-un."

The novelty eventually wore off and we went on to the next episode, and the one after that. However, you never know when one of those reruns is going to pop up and getcha. Yesterday I was ambushed by a rerun.

We were driving home from Jacqui's morning play group when suddenly, an ambulance, with siren blaring, came roaring up from behind. I started making my way over to the shoulder and just about jumped our car onto the sidewalk when a shrieking voice came from the backseat... "Oh no!! It's da cops! Step on it Mom!!"

Huh?

"Hurrrrrry!! No-no-no!! Don't slow down! Dey'll frow us in jam!"

"Jacqueline! You scared me silly! No more yelling." The ambulance was getting closer.

"Mooooommmmm!! You gotta get us outta here! Dey'll frow us in jam!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Jam!! Dey'll frow us in jam, Mom! You bedder move it!"

"What in the world do you mean, 'They'll throw us in jam?' What's jam?"

"Poh-leese jam Mom!"

"What's police jam?"

"It's da jam dat poh-leese peeples frow da bad guys in!"

"I'm not a bad guy."

And then came the rapid-fire confession... "I stuck-ded some of da berries outta my yogurt on da under-neef side of da table tuh-day! I'm a bad guy! Dey'll frow me in jam!"

I looked up into the rear-view mirror at her horrified little eyes and tried not to laugh. A hand was clasped in theatric distress to each side of her face as the ambulance closed in... and then whizzed past. The relief that washed over her baby features was palpable. And comical. She looked as if she might just about pass out. I couldn't help it... I laughed.

"Not funny!!" The little con-artist suddenly regained her composure.

I pulled back out onto the street and headed the car towards home. Looking up at her once more in the rear-view mirror, I somehow couldn't resist asking, "So... Could you tell me about this police jam?"

"I reely jess don't wanna talk about it right now."

"Why not?"

"Too scary."

"When you say jam, do you mean jail?"

"Noooooooo!! Jam!! I...SAID... JAM!!"

"I think you're making stuff up."

"Nooooo! Dere's a jam dat poh-leese hab! Dey put da bad guys innit!"

"What exactly do you mean when you say jam?"

"I mean JAM! Zack-ly JAM!!"

"Like jam we put on your toast?"

"YES!! But diffuhrent! You know, da poh-leese jam kind!"

"What does it look like?"

"Kinda like grape, I fink, but lots stickier. Da bad guys can't get outta it for never and never!"

"Where did you hear about police jam?"

"From Off-sir Tyrone an' Off-sir Neequa on da Backyardigans Mom! I keep telling you dat you really needta pay duh-tenshun!"

I couldn't for the life of me remember anything about 'police jam' on the episode. I made a mental note to tune in and 'pay duh-tenshun' on the next re-run.

There was however, another matter that warranted some immediate 'duh-tenshun'...The issue of the heretofore unknown breakfast crimes. "So, Jacqui... Why do you suppose the police didn't throw you in 'police jam' just now?"

"Ummm... Jess lucky I guess."

"Nope."

"Not lucky?"

"Nope. They didn't put you in police jam because they know that little girls that smear yogurt berries under the table top have to go somewhere else."

Both hands flew up to clasp whitened cheeks as eyes widened in anticipatory horror... "Someplace else??????!!!???"

"Yup."

I pulled into our driveway, got out, slid open her door and gave her a maniacal grin...

"Welcome to 'Mommy Jam'."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! I don't wanna go ta Mommy JAM!!!!"

Jacqui sniffled her way through the front door as I cheerfuly sang, "Can't stop... Can't stop the Mom... Can't stop... Can't stop the Mom... Can't stop... Can't stop the Mom... She's the best in the gal-ax-sy..."