Thursday, April 11, 2013
Youngest came into the kitchen while I was doing dishes the other night. She was talking funny, and the mom in me worried that she might be having a stroke. I was able to understand her somewhat garbled speech enough to hear, “Hey, Mom! Look! I have a tongue ring.” In the split second between her uttering that sentence and the moment she stuck out her tongue, my heart stopped a little because she is only seven and I wondered who I was going to have to kill for maiming my baby. Then I saw her tongue. She had put a finger ring around her tongue, not through it. She is trying to kill me. I am more than a little thankful that her ring wasn’t meant for a tongue.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
I was having a conversation with Middlest about the latest episode of Duck Dynasty and how Miss Kay was sharing with the grandkids about how she conceived their daddy. The kids were as horrified as you would imagine, and we were laughing about it. Then Youngest asked what conceived meant. I told her, then continued my conversation with Middlest. As many of our conversations do, this one spiraled to the eventual place of me saying how wrong it is to name your kids after where they were conceived. At that point, Youngest said, “like vagina?” After I got done laughing, I told her I was thinking more like Toyota or Dallas. Strictly speaking, though, she was dead on. She may not always get it right, but that girl is a thinker.
Monday, April 1, 2013
I was going through Youngest’s Friday folder and looking through her school papers for the week. They have been doing clubhouse activities lately and had to write about their own dream clubhouse. I always enjoy reading what my babies write, but this one gave me a start. See if you can spot the thing that freaked me the eff out. Youngest’s clubhouse is “huge, sparkily and pink.” No surprise there. Further down the page, “My clubhouse has a chocololite fountin, pizza parlor, plazma grinade, pool, diving board. . .” As my brain screeched to a halt, I silently gathered my wits and asked my tiny girl why she wanted a plasma grenade, because I don’t want to be one of those clueless parents who has no idea her kid is a wacko. Also, and here is the biggie, I had her tested and they said she was fine! Fine people do not want to have plasma grenades anywhere, let alone in their pink sparkly clubhouse! Or maybe they do. I don’t know anymore. Thankfully, she didn’t mean plasma grenade. She meant plasma TV. I cannot even begin to express the magnitude of my relief.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Youngest asked if she could help me cook dinner last night, and because I was peeling potatoes and wanted to eat before bedtime, I told her that I needed to do it myself. Ordinarily, I let her help cook when she asks, but I in a weakened state from the hunger. She squawked a little, then left the kitchen, only to return to play underneath my feet. I miss that girl during the day, so I let her stay. I was extremely pleased when I actually looked at what she was doing, because there were no electronics involved and she was using her imagination. She had fashioned a bowling game out of things she had found around the house. Her “pins” included two bottles of glue, a plastic toothbrush holder, an empty vitamin bottle, spice container, and water bottle. None of the balls in her vast supply provided enough of a challenge, though, and she eventually wound up using the severed head of a baby doll. That’s not sick at all. Right?
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
A friend and I were talking a few days ago about our moms and how they would occasionally get angry in public. One of the few times I saw my mom get mad and do more than get quiet and walk away happened when I was about seven years old. We lived about ten minutes from the grocery, and mom had taken me with her to buy chicken to fry for my sister. I think it was her senior picnic or something like that. Anyway, we went to the store, bought the chicken, and got it home to find it was rotten. Mom took a deep breath, loaded me back in the car and drove to the store. We exchanged the chicken and took it home, only find it was rotten too. At that point, she didn’t so much breathe, and dragged me back to the car. At this point she was scary quiet, so I sat in the backseat of the station wagon and pretended I wasn’t there. Then the magic happened. When the store manager told her to go get another pack of chicken, my mother stomped her foot. I knew this kind of mad, and I felt so bad for the store manager, because he didn’t know what was coming. As I stood there openmouthed, she stomped and loudly said, “I don’t want any more of your damned, rotty chicken!” I had never seen an adult move as quickly as that manager came down out off of his perch to try to quiet my mother before she created more of a scene. I don’t remember how it turned out, but am pretty sure he managed to calm her down, because we continued to shop at that store. I was just impressed that he made my mom stomp her foot and lived to tell about it. As for me, I was just really glad I wasn’t the one to make her stompin’ mad.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Youngest came home from school and shared this story. I have changed the names to protect the innocent little freaks. Youngest’s class (second grade) was using the restroom facilities at the same time as their book buddies (kindergarten). She witnessed one of the little buddies walk up to her teacher and say, “Ms.Teacher, Megan is licking the mirror.” That information prompted Ms. Teacher to hightail it into the bathroom. I cannot put into words how thankful I am that the mirror licker was not my daughter. In fact, not only did she not lick the mirror, Youngest wondered aloud why anyone would lick a mirror. Perhaps Megan thought she looked delicious.
Friday, March 22, 2013
Let me just put this out here. I hate Accelerated Reader. I know it has many uses and I applaud it as a way to check a child’s reading comprehension, but I still don’t like it. I haven’t been a fan of AR for many reasons, not the least of which is Middlest, who refused to read any book that didn’t have an available AR test so she could get the points. She missed out on some good stories because of it. Eldest had a friend who would miss enough points on the AR test to stay at the reading level she chose to be at instead of what she was capable of, because the teachers wouldn’t let her read what she liked because the AR level was too low. Since I will read just about anything with words, it broke my heart to see a child denied a book she wanted to read. Fast forward 15 years and Youngest is coming home upset about missing her AR goal and not being allowed to attend the popcorn party. If AR was a person, I would slap that bitch into next week. But because AR inanimate, I was forced to higher ground. I my girl her not to worry about it and promised to pack popcorn in her lunch the day of the popcorn party. She is seven, and that promise was enough move her thoughts to more pleasant things, like who got in trouble at school and no, it wasn’t her today. Youngest wasn’t sure when the popcorn party would be, so I packed popcorn in her lunch two days in a row. I am awesome like that. Anyway, yesterday was the popcorn party, which she did not attend. All would have been well in my kingdom, complete with singing and dancing with unicorns, but the popcorn machine was broken. The teacher substituted root beer floats for popcorn. I don’t have any idea how she pulled root beer and ice cream out of her hind end or how to pack vanilla ice cream in a lunchbox. So upset was Youngest by the root beer floats and attendant gloating by her peers, we have scheduled a trip after school tonight to the grocery for ice cream and red pop. I was able to convince her that red pop makes a way better float than root beer, because I like it better, and she agreed. I probably should have encouraged her to try harder to make her goal next time, but I wouldn’t want her to think I had been abducted and had an alien robot put in my place.