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Sitting in church.
Goose: Can I get a drink of water?
Me: Wait ’til he’s done speaking.
Goose: Why?
Me: It’s rude to get up while someone is speaking.
Goose: But I’m not even listening to it. Can I get a drink of water now?
I’m right behind you.
Family game time.
Me: Which dwarf is missing from this list: Grumpy, Dopey, Sneezy, Sleepy, Happy, Doc?
Mr. T: Happy?
Me: I said Happy.
DynaGirl: Sleepy?
Me: I said Sleepy.
Kids: Silence.
I make my best Bashful face.
DynaGirl: Dopey!
Me: I said Dopey!
Time runs out.
Me: I was giving you a hint!
DynaGirl: Yeah, I know. That was totally Dopey!
I’m thinking this could be a vital clue to what went wrong in my dating years.
In the car.
BigHugs: Mom, you’re the best mom in the whole world. When it’s Mother’s Time Day I’m going to make you a necklace out of beads.
Can’t wait.
Watching Enchanted, the ball scene.
Goose: That’s weird how people dance with other people’s mates.
Mr. T: Mates? What do you think this is? Africa?
DynaGirl: Africa?
Mr. T, with a hel-lo attitude: You know, like Lion King? What did you think I meant?
Well, duh.
Mr. T belchfest while I’m getting ready to put dinner on the table.
DynaGirl: Mr. T, please don’t eat the beans.
Mr. T: I have ways to make gas that you don’t even know of. I don’t need to eat the beans.
They’ve been telling us he’s gifted for years. They had no idea.
BigHugs was sicker than a dog this week.
Me: I’m sorry you’re sick, sweetie.
BigHugs: It’s OK. I still love you. I love you more than a rooster.
Me: Um, thanks. Do you love me more than a cow?
BigHugs: Yes.
Me: Do you love me more than a piggy?
BigHugs: Yes. And I love piggies.
Is there any greater compliment than being ranked above barnyard animals?
Out of the blue.
BigHugs: Mom, do you love me?
Me: Yes.
BigHugs: Thank you. For loving me.
You’re welcome.
Over spilled milk.
BigHugs: I’m sorry, Mom. Do you still love me?
Me: Yes, of course I still love you. Just try to be careful with your cup.
BigHugs: OK, Mom. Thanks for not stopping loving me.
What kind of monster does she think I am?
Bedtime.
Me: BigHugs, go back upstairs and get in bed, please.
BigHugs: But I want to stay with you.
Me: It’s bedtime. Get back in bed.
BigHugs, looking up with her big puppy dog eyes: But I love you.
Me: Yeah, yeah. Go back to bed.
I am so onto her.
BigHugs playing with her Leapfrog alphabet thingamabob.
Creepy Leapfrog Kid Voice, singing: C says “ck” and c says “sss”. Every letter makes a sound and c says “ck”. And “sss”.
BigHugs, singing: C says “ck”. And “sss”. Look, Mom, I’m doing it! I’m learnin’! I’m learnin’!
I hope she never grows out of that excitement. Puh. Who am I kidding?
Watching Pride & Prejudice on TV when an advertisement from Sugardaddie.com* comes on.
DynaGirl: OK, lots of losers must watch this channel.
Goose, to me: Good thing you didn’t use that.
Yeah, good thing. Hey, I’m watching this channel.
*I won’t link to the website because, well, it frightened me. But the tagline says, “Where the classy, attractive and affluent can meet.” Um, yeah, sure.
In the car.
Goose: I want my husband’s name to be Nick or John. Or something else if he’s awesome. Nick or John would have to be awesome, too, of course. But if he was super awesome, I wouldn’t care what his name was.
Husband wanted: only awesome Nicks or Johns or super awesome non-Nicks or non-Johns need apply.
I can’t remember how this came up.
DynaGirl: Exercise isn’t exactly my specialty.
A few days later, on the couch.
DynaGirl: I like laying down. Laying down is my specialty.
Obviously, there is a genetic component to specialties.
Walking in on the end of a conversation between Mr. T and DynaGirl.
Mr. T, scoffing: It’s not like mandatory for all contortionists.
I have a feeling I’m missing out on the best material.
Breakfast time.
Me: You guys already drank all the OJ?
DynaGirl: Mr. T finished it off last night.
Mr. T: There was only a little bit left. It’s not like I drank the whole thing. I will not be blamed for this crime.
I detect a new catchphrase.
Before swimming lessons.
BigHugs, to Goose: You smell like a bathing suit.
Well, duh.
Waiting for present time. (BigHug’s birthday)
Me: You just have to learn to be patient.
BigHugs: But it takes too long for me to be a patient.
That’s a true statement.
Dinner time. DynaGirl’s under the table.
Me: What are you doing, DynaGirl?
Mr. T: She’s hiding away from all her fears and sorrows. She’s emo.
DynaGirl grabs Mr. T’s leg.
Mr. T: She’s got my leg!
That’s funny, usually Mr. T’s the one pulling legs.
Bedtime.
DynaGirl: Can I have a hug?
Me: I gave you a hug.
DG: No, you didn’t.
Me: Yes, I did.
DG: But I don’t feel the love from it.
I give her the look.
DG: I’m serious!
I give her the hug.
DG: One more, one more!
Me: No.
DG: But I still don’t feel the love.
Me: I have no more love to give. Goodnight.
It’s not that I have a maximum capacity for love, but rather a minimum tolerance for stall tactics.
Mr. T’s back from scout camp.
Mr. T: Seriously, I think I have some kind of butt rash.
Me: That is not information that I need to know.
Mr. T: But you’re my mother. You’re supposed to know everything about me. Evverrryyythiiiiing.
I used to think so. (And that sure was a long week without him.)
Today is my mom’s birthday. Hrrmph.
Let’s talk about this instead.
Watching Mr. T pick the flaking skin off his arms and legs.
Me: You need to exfoliate.
Mr. T: What’s that?
Me: When you scrub off your dead layer of skin.
Mr. T: Should I try to molt?
Me: You are molting.
Mr. T: No, I mean like shed my whole layer of skin all at once.
Me: How are you going to go about trying?
Mr. T: I don’t know. Maybe I can buy a manual “Molting for Dummies”.
I would buy that.
Watching Mr. T stick objects in his nostrils.
Me: You know, you better be careful or you’re going to do permanent damage to your nose.
Mr. T: You mean like I’m going to do permanent damage to my reputation by doing this? Does some kind of weirdo dance around the room with his shirt over his head.
Yeah, just like that.
Other Mr. T-isms heard round the house.
“I love making strange noises for no reason.”
“Random acts of rudeness.”
Thank heaven for Mr. T.
DynaGirl woke up the other morning with new baby names to record in her journal. Goose thought that sounded like fun, too, so they sat down at the breakfast table with their journals and started talking about the future.
Goose: I wanna have a baby at 20.
Me: Why 20? That’s so young.
DynaGirl: I wanna have a baby at 25 because I have an almost impossible dream, and that would give me five years to live it. I want to have a #1 hit single, be a famous artist, and have my own cafe called DynaGirl’s Cafe.
Goose: I want a cafe.
DynaGirl: You can’t steal my dreams! You can have a diner.
Goose: No, that’s disgusting.
So apparently, life begins at 20 and ends when you start having children. And you only have five years to try to accomplish all of your dreams. After that you may as well give up and become a mom. Also, cafes are awesome and diners are disgusting.
New baby names:
Fuschia – for a girl, of course
Parsley – for a boy, of course
Chuck handed me a section of the newspaper the other day and said, “I saved this for you.”
Headline: 2009’s swimsuits accept your imperfections.
Article highlights:
“…moderate shaping to power control…”
“…stomach, rear, and side love-handles…”
“…skin oozes out elsewhere…”
“…popping out…”
“…don’t kid yourself that you can hide it…”
Hrrrmmmm.
Getting ready.
BigHugs: You have a hole in your undies.
Me: I do?
BigHugs: Yeah. I know, Mom! Next time we go to the store we can see if there are other big undies there that are your size. Is that a great idea?
Me: Big undies? Is that what I need?
BigHugs, smiling: Uh-huh.
Harumph!
Bonus thinking person caption.
Thinking person #6
Stop staring at me.
Happy Birthday, Susan!
I was at Freddy’s last weekend, picking up this and that when I noticed they had their summer clothes on sale for 50% off. All of my darn kids have grown since last summer (can’t this shooting up a size or two be like a bi-annual thing or something?), so I looked around for shorts for everyone.
I picked out a few things for the girls, and then moved on to the boys section. I looked around, and all I saw was plaid. Plaid shorts everywhere. Now I’m thinking these plaid shorts are pretty cute cool, but Mr. T tends to be on the more conservative side, so I wasn’t sure how he’d feel about them. I called him up.
Me: So I’m at the store looking for shorts for you, and everything’s plaid.
Mr. T: OK.
Me: Are you OK with plaid? Is that what the kids are wearing at school these days? (Is that what the kids are wearing at school these days?!)
Mr. T: Yeah, plaid’s fine.
And then I proceeded to describe to him the different color/stripe thickness combinations to try to get a feel for whether there was a difference between cool plaid and dork plaid because, you know, I’d like to think I’m the kind of mother who wouldn’t buy the dork plaid. Actually, I’d like to think I’m the kind of mother who wouldn’t buy the dork plaid without any special instruction from anyone else, but frankly, I have no such confidence in myself. I have no idea what’s cool anymore. And did I mention I said, “Is that what the kids are wearing at school these days?”?! No wonder my children have taken to rolling their eyes at me.
I used to roll my eyes at my mother when she whistled along to Personal Jesus on the radio (you don’t whistle to DM!), when she said words like “annual” (it’s a yearbook, Mom!), when she came home from a shopping trip with the dork plaid. I swore to myself I would never be old. That Mom old. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Yesterday, driving in the car, I looked over at Mr. T and the slight scowl he had on his face and realized he’s doing his best to settle into that prepubescent angst I’ve been dreading since the day he was born. I worry sometimes that he’s going to start seeing me as That Mom—the woman who has no clue, the one who doesn’t understand him (or anything else, for that matter) at all. The next few years are going to be tough. I’m hoping, at least every once in awhile, he’ll be able to see past That Mom whistling along to Boom Boom Pow (or whatever it is kids are listening to these days) and just let me be his mom.
At the dinner table.
Mr. T: Can I get a handlebar moustache?
Me: Like at the store?
Mr. T: No, grow one.
Me: If you can grow a handlebar moustache, you can have one.
DynaGirl: Why would you ask that?
Mr. T: What? Handlebar moustaches are awesome.
DynaGirl: No, I mean wouldn’t you just be able to decide for yourself?
Mr. T: But I might still be living at home when I grow hair. You never know.
Maybe there’s hope for us yet.
Here’s a little bonus awesome for you:
So, I’m sitting here in my underwear (I was just starting to get dressed after taking a shower when I thought of something I wanted to tell Chuck, so I decided to send him a quick e-mail before I forgot and then I got distracted by Facebook IM because one of my favorite people was on), and BigHugs walks in and says, “Ew, Mom, that’s gross. You need to get some clothes on.” And I thought, “She’s right, I really do need to get some clothes on”, but I was still chatting. And then BigHugs asks if she can have some chocolate teddy grahams and I thought, “Sure, why not? It’s 9:45 am and you haven’t had breakfast yet—go for it.” So I told her yes and she went downstairs to get the teddy grahams and a bowl for me to pour them into. Then, of course, the teddy grahams were just sitting here on the desk, so I help myself because, hey, I haven’t had breakfast yet either, and before I know it, they are all gone and I’m shaking out the bottom of the box into my hand so I can finish off every last dismembered teddy graham appendage. And now my underwear is littered with the carnage of my teddy graham massacre.
Hey, I’m gonna eat you two! Another one bites the dust-ah!
Happy Thursday to ye!
disgraceful, as in:
You are as disgraceful as a gazelle.
Perhaps you do not think it means what she thinks it means. Well…
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