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.