Don't Call Me Sassy

Second verse, same as the first...

My keys went missing yesterday. George always gets blamed for lost keys, but this time we had solid evidence, since he was last seen with them. Yesterday I asked George frequently, "Where'd you put the keys?" and then Kiki and I followed him through each room in the house as he talked about finding the keys.
At one point he said, "I put them in your backpack," and I tore through every bag, even ones on the top shelf in my closet, because he might have chucked them in the air, and watched them sail out of reach.
George has always been an independent kid, especially when I compare him to Kiki who tethered herself to me until she turned 4 and half, lengthening the cord only because she realized kids her own age are better at playing imaginary games, like mama and baby kitty.
We went to Tahoe over the weekend for my nephew's baptism. It was the first party where I could relax, not constantly interrupted to usher to the bathroom, feed or sooth a kid. My kids ran along in the pack and occasionally I'd venture off to find them. They were in the most off-limits spaces, a loft up a spiral staircase, all sitting on the top bunk. It was easy to herd them back to the living room, especially with the promise of cake.
Before we cut the cake, family and friends gathered around my baby nephew, who was resting in his favorite spot, face deep in my sister's chichis, and we sang "For he's a jolly good fellow." My sister anticipated our getting carried away in the never ending loop, and when we all drew in a deep breath and threw our arms out in a cheerful back and forth, to start up on round two, she raised her arms and shushed us. My niece and I sat down on the couch and shared a piece of cake. She refused a fork, so her saliva soaked finger worked on one half of the piece, and I ate the other half.

It's George's mysterious personality that always makes him suspect. He's always up to something around the house, quietly tooling away, and once someone figures out what he's up to, he gives a devilish grin and runs away squealing. Kiki is too loud and opinionated to fly under the radar. The man who runs our local Baskin Robins is always hounding her to give him her Minnie Mouse sunglasses. He's not reading his audience at all, because she will be terrified, shouting, "Bad man! Leave me alone!" running for the door, as he continues teasing, "Give me your sunglasses!"
I notice a lot of people call their daughters "sassy" when they are giving people a piece of their mind. To me, "sassy" is the most god awful word in the English language, in any language actually. Sassy is a highly gendered word, used to be dismissive of an opinionated young girl. When you call a little girl sassy your basically saying, "I'm not taking you seriously, so shush."
For a lot of women, "panties" is their least favorite word. "Panties" is a close second for me. Saying, "Panties," brings to mind the image of a sweaty gross man spending his free time in chat rooms run by Subway Jared, not being sexy-empowered from non-functional drawers.

I found the keys this morning when I was picking up Kiki's room. They were buried under toys in front of her closet. I don't know which kid lost them, but I don't care. I ran through the house screaming with excitement because I didn't have to explain to my work that I lost office keys somewhere in my unorganized house.
There are so many other playful things I can call my kids when they are acting like, themselves, really; rascal, scallywag and weisenheimer. I'm going to buy the Tile Key Finder (for reals, this time) so my keys can't ever disappear again. Next time I see George walking around with the keys, and I lack the foresight to take them away from him, I can say, "Do what you want with those, you scamp, I've put a tracking device on them!"
Moments later I'll probably hear them plop into water, followed by a flushing sound.

Time for cake