My neighbor recently told me the story of when her husband was a boy, he saw his dad waxing his Porsche. Ever the helpful one, he decided to pitch in, only he didn’t grab a soft pad to wax with, he grabbed Read the rest of this entry
She also asserts frequently and with great confidence that the last day of this coming summer will be the best day of her life because then she gets to start Kindergarten the next day. Let’s see how long her enjoyment of school lasts, shall we?
“MOMMY! Paul won’t give me the big sticker!”
“Well, John, why don’t you suggest a solution? Maybe find out why he’s saving the big sticker, or maybe see if there’s another sticker he *would* give you, or maybe trade two of your little stickers for his big sticker. Could you try to work something out?”
…PAUL!!! MOMMY SAYS YOU HAVE TO GIVE ME THE BIG STICKER!”
-from one of my favorite FB friends (Names have been changed.)
When one of the children loses a tooth, it is a very big deal. Not because they think, “Yea, I’m becoming a big girl!” or even “Cha-ching! Come on, Tooth Fairy!” But because it means a whole lot less whining going on around here.
Initially the loose tooth is an exciting topic of conversation, meriting daily, if not more frequent, updates as in, “My tooth is a little wiggly!… I can move it back and forth!… Now I can move it left to right! See!” (open mouth shoved in face.) “Now I can touch the bottom of it with my tongue!…It’s hanging by a thread!”
You would think by the time we’ve reached that last level of development we’re sitting pretty, but no, that stage lasts about a week. These children will keep that tooth in there as though their lives depend on it. Why? Clearly they aren’t motivated by greed. They don’t worry they’ll have nothing to talk about once the tooth is gone. They’re not even concerned about diminished chewing quality when one tooth down. Nope. It’s the simple fear of pain.
Here’s where I go from being World’s Greatest Mom to, uh, something a little closer to the opposite extreme.
Let me explain. Read the rest of this entry
At dinner one evening my sister noticed a small white glob adhered to her eight-year-old son’s cheek. She couldn’t understand how he got toothpaste on his face at dinner time.
“Wash that toothpaste off your face,” she told him.
“It’s not toothpaste,” he insisted.
“Then what the heck is it?” she asked. Read the rest of this entry
In October we visited a pumpkin patch that smartly offered a pumpkin coloring sheet. If you colored it and brought it back, you got a discount on admission. Mistaking this sales gimmick as a bona fide coloring contest, my eight-year-old colored a Read the rest of this entry
If you are still reading, then you can’t say I didn’t warn you. (Forgive me that there will be no pictures to illustrate this post.)
Ever since our youngest started using the potty many moons ago, her bowels have become a family affair. The older sisters love to see her creations, often assigning a shape and/or name. “Look, it’s an ‘L’!” Or “a snake!” Or “a G!” Once it was even called the great euphemism of “moonlight.” Your guess is as good as mine on that one.
But this one really took the … Well, you’ll see. Read the rest of this entry
Special thanks to contributor Lena for these stories!
1) One girl found a play doctor’s kit and started to give me “shots” with the play syringe. The other kids soon joined in, and I was being repeatedly beaten with plastic syringes. Finally, one of our boys threw his hands in the air and cried “Stop! In the name of Love!” The other kids immediately stopped. Then he came over to me and put his arm around me, saying, “I am very sorry for the inconvenience.” Read the rest of this entry
Have you all… Pardon me, y’all. Or better yet, yins, heard that Jeff Foxworthy joke: “You might be a redneck if you mow your lawn and find your car”? (Now you have. You’re welcome.)
Well, it might be time to vacuum your carpet if in it you find six bodies, a hatchet, and a piece of pie. Read the rest of this entry
It’s kind of a shame that our seven-year-old can read so well. When I’m at the computer reading some sordid article or having a private conversation through I.M. on gmail, I have to be sure she isn’t anywhere in eyeshot if I don’t want the inquisitive little bugger to read something inappropriate, scary, or just none of her beeswax.
I never thought I’d have to be concerned about her reading junk mail. When my husband came home and plunked the mail on the counter, G. meandered over and soon started crying. More specifically, she was weeping. She wasn’t sobbing and shaking uncontrollably, she just couldn’t stop the tears from streaming down her face. Why? Because: Read the rest of this entry