Whoa Oh, Radio

For the last few weeks, writing on the internet has, for some freaky, unexplicable reason, made the song "Mexican Radio" by Wall of Voodoo stick in my head. "I'm on a Mexican, whao oh, radio." UGH. It will not go away. So I am FORCED to take a one week vacation from blogging in order to attempt to purge the evil song from the brain cells seemingly up to no constructive endeavors. Out, out damned song!

Until then, here is some candy.

Beautifully written post on the past by la vie en rose.

Little Monkies seeks your support in changing the world - at least for postpardum moms.

Joy Unexpected talks about summer vacation with the kids at home.

Sugared Harpy warns you about using the wrong words.

Dutch of Sweet Juniper talking about loving his daughter.

Melanie in Orygun talks about Dad, training wheels and growing up.

Special thanks to Subtle Glow for finding these public bathroom decor tips.

Prolly All the Time goes to the Doctor.

The truth about motherhood revealed.

This movie had one of the funniest kid scenes in it that I have EVER seen. Besides, who can not fall on the floor when the male hero, and father of two boys, says to those boys --something along the lines of, "So you're still giving me the silent treatment? Well, that's okay. It's like a Zen Retreat for me."

For those of you that have already seen it, I say, "))<>(( forever!"

Question everything.

Fun for the blog friends. and this. and this... and she has so much more - and seemingly more coming. Thanks Banana!

No Turning Back Kid

I would like to start by saying that no one will be climbing INTO my lady parts.

Two people came OUT of there and I am here to declare that NEITHER of them are going back in.

Lately, eleven month old Rooster Girl doesn't want to be held. She doesn't want to be put down either.

What she WANTS is for me to sit cross-legged on the floor so that she can toss a small ball (or any small toy) into the space between my legs and then dive in head first.

Once she has the crown of her head firmly planted between my legs, she stands on her feet, raises her butt in the air and then flip flops around and around and around torso akimbo -- effectively rotating and PUSHING her head against it's ancestral home.

Uh-uh. No.

Listen to these words, Roo:

"That is a ONE WAY STREET as far as whole entire human bodies are concerned."

So Big

The Mayor is obsessed with being a big kid. So a few mornings ago on the way to daycare there was this exchange...

The Mayor: Mom. I'm NOT a baby.

Me: That's right.

The Mayor: I'm a BIG KID.

Me: Uh-huh.

The Mayor: I keep getting bigger and bigger.

Me: That's right.

The Mayor: So... can I drive the car?

Me: Like I'm gonna let you getcher greazzzy paws all over my styly purple fur? Um, no.

Timeline of Folly

In my life there have been things that I have taken entirely too seriously. For example:

1967
Giraffes

1968
Cake


1975
Little House on the Prarie

1984
Madonna



1990
Myself




2006
This Pole

From Tupperware to Dried Up Raisins

I have to start by saying that with both of my children I was committed to nursing.

I mean COMMITTED.

C-O-M-M-I-T-T-E-D.

I planned to nurse each of them for at least a year.

When my first child was born, he nursed constantly and I'm not speaking metaphorically here. I'm talking about great four hour stretches of time that were consecutive, like six of them in a row, every day.

Despite his great latch and powerful suck, my milk did not come in for twelve days.

Twelve!

That is a very high number.

Particularly when I explain that for all 288 of those hours (TWO HUNDRED AND EIGHTY EIGHT!!!), my husband and I had to work together to strap a complex little catheter thingy onto my (left and then right and then left and then right...) breast so that The Mayor would receive a slow drip of formula while he nursed, yet still nurse long enough to stimulate milk production.

I drank Fenugreek tea, I took Fenugreek supplements, consumed every form of "Mommy's Milk Enhancer," put cabbage leaves in my nursing bra, took hot showers that turned my uncooperative vessels into glowing red orbs and finally resorted to taking a prescription drug - one that has nothing to do with lactation, but had a side effect of stimulating breast milk.

Keep in mind that I did all of this for the twelve days immediately following -- giving birth -- for the first time -- to a TEN POUND child -- who passed THROUGH MY HOO HOO -- after THIRTY some odd hours of labor.

So I want things to be CLEAR between us...

I was, as I have mentioned, committed to nursing.

Once my milk finally did come in, I exclusively nursed The Mayor. I didn't give him formula.

Though he gained weight well, I never had great milk flow and always felt like I wasn't producing enough. When I went back to work and had to start pumping I pumped far more frequently than he would have nursed just to keep up with his needs. (Did I mention he started life at ten pounds? Ten pounds! Can you say "VORACIOUS APPETITE?")

When The Mayor was six months old, the vessels formerly known as "My Boobs," performing daily under the name "My Tupperware" at the time, announced that they were through, finished, kaput, DONE. My breast milk dried up completely. Just like that.

My Tupperware announced that they would hence forth be known as "The Raisinettes."

Wrinkled.

Dry.

As it turned out, I was already pregnant with Rooster Girl at the time so I decided to let it go. I knew that some women nursed while pregnant, but figured my body was trying to tell me something and that I would listen. The Mayor drank formula from the age of six months to one year.

With Rooster, the milk came in relatively normally, but I never had a very strong supply. Again I had to fight to produce enough for her. I DID fight and I fed her breast milk exclusively for the first six months of her life.

And then...

MY MILK DRIED UP.

Period.

Same as before.

The End.

It was gone, just as it had been with The Mayor.

So Rooster Girl began drinking formula at six months of age just like her brother.

I know breast milk is better for the child, that it is easier (no packing or cleaning of bottles, etc.) and it's free. I know all of this.

Which is why I get awfully tired of being told so when women see me giving Rooster a bottle or hear that I use formula.

If I could still be nursing, I WOULD still be nursing.

What is important, and really meaningful, is that I am feeding my daughter. I am sustaining her life.

My boobs did not want to continue to participate no matter how much I smacked them around. Or threatened them. Or counted to three.

They were resolute. "Sorry. We are the artists FORMERLY known as Tupperware."

I wish women would all be kinder to one another on this subject recognizing that not all actions are choices and that no one needs any help feeling disappointed, guilty or more like a failure.

Drinkin' The Corporate Kool-Aid

The corporate geniuses in Minneapolis are taking over the young, impressionable mind of my son.

Yesterday at daycare there was a pink tube of butt creme lying on the changing table with an innocent PINK and white bulls eye on it. The Mayor pointed and said,

"That's from Target."

I looked at him and blinked in amazement. Why, yes. Yes it is.

Later, he saw a generic bottle of hand soap in the bathroom with a small, unassuming NAVY and white bullseye on it. Again, he identified it's origin.

I began to worry. (Or at least to think about adding worrying to my "to do" list.)

Still later The Mayor asked me where I had put his sippy cup and when I told him that I put it in the shopping bag on the floor of the car, he said, "In the Target bag?"

The Mayor is two.

I don't even mean two and a half or anything. He JUST TURNED two.

He has achieved corporate logo recognition.

How scary is that?

I can hear the Champagne glasses clinking all the way from Minnesota.

I knew that we were praying at the altar of the bulls eye too much when MONTHS ago the security guard looked at Rooster and said, "Aw, she's growing up so fast." What? Do we know you? Huh?

No. We do not know her.

We just come to the bulls eye palace EVERY weekend.

In fact I dropped $100 there yesterday AND the day before that. Most of the first $100 was the insanely priced BABY FORMULA!!!

Can I just say that I am SO HAPPY to only have six more weeks to buy baby formula? The price of formula is a serious downside to having your boobs turn into the Sahara desert on your child's six month birthday. But alas, Rooster is no camel and so the great formula wallet wounding began. I could more cheaply keep her stocked up on street drugs.

"Hey man, can I score some of that E*?"
*Street name for Enfamil Lipil.

All street drug jokes aside, (heh) Enfamil must really be gaining a street value -- my local grocery store has to keep it locked up and you have to REQUEST a can because too many people steal it. The implications here are just too deep and serious for a blog focused on butts and poo joys to contemplate.

I must confess that as shocked and mortified as I am about how much of our family income goes there and that my son has digested and wholly embraced that the bulls eye logo in any color variation MEANS Target, I doubt it will shake my status as a devotee.

First, the bulls eye is the U.S. capital of The Good T-Shirts. No one can argue.

Second, I am convinced that the great people from Minnesota mark all of their clothes with a sizing number that is actually a size SMALLER than the true size of the article so that The Honorable, Lady Flabina can THINK she is thinner than she is and LOVE the whole state of Minnesota for it.

Just yesterday (see additional $100 NOT spent on baby formula) I bought four skirts SIMPLY because the size on the tag was so ridiculously LOW and so out of touch with the reality of my true size.

Talk about motivation!

CHA-CHING! Here is my money. Let me give it all to you bulls eye people because I BELIEVE!!!

Bless you Oh Glorious Bulls Eye Leaders!

(Ignore the person in the photo below!)

How To Find Joy

I am so proud to report that...

WAIT!

I am going to have to swear to tell you this piece of information.

Swearing can not be avoided in this case.

You have my aplogies in advance.

If you need to leave the room, you should do it now.

(Are they gone?)

O.K.

I am SO PROUD to report that the number one way to find Oh, The Joys using Google (or whatever) is by searching on the words...

(drum roll.....)

"Dumb Ass"

The number 2 way to find me is to search on...

"Hairy Mother"

I am the dumb ass hairy mother.

No one can take that away from me.

I've peaked as a blogger.

I am fullfilled.

Oh yes, the joys indeed.

Count to Three

I am struggling with The Mayor who is two.

I am counting to three.

Me.

Counting to three.

"If you don't climb down from your carseat like a big kid by the time I count to three, I'm going to have to pick you up and get you out like a baby. One...Two..."

MARSCAPONE!


Luckily, he's found real inspiration lately in doing things the BIG KID way, but there are so MANY simple actions that need negotiation. There's counting for walking in or out of a door, getting in the car, coming to the table, getting in the tub... Oh. The. Endless. Counting. To. Three.

I can't believe I'm counting to three.

The hardest part of the day is dropping him off at daycare. For weeks he held on to me saying, "I want to hold you. I need you." and cried when I left.

Just recently I discovered that if I stage a big "WAVING BYE BYE" event, he doesn't cry. If the kids are inside when I leave, I take him to the window, head out and wave like crazy while he waves back. I walk backwards, blow kisses and wave until I am out of sight. There haven't been any tears all week.

The other morning, my tearless boy was standing in the play yard, nose pressed against the fence, maniacly yelling, "BYE MOM!" when he suddenly and for the first time ever added,

"I LOVE YOU, MOM!

BYE MOMMY!

I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU!"

Suddenly, there were baby bunnies wrinkling their little pink noses, kittens lapped milk from exotic porcelain saucers, puppies pressed their paws against my nose and I inhaled their puppy paw smell so like hot summer pavement after a thunder shower, baby lambs frolicked about, lion cubs drank from baby bottles, teeny tiny cakes floated gently to the Earth, a meteor shower sent shafts of rainbow light across the sky, a family of smurfs made a nest like home in my bosom and sales of Wisconsin cheese hit record highs.

Look! Here is one of the lambs now...

I really wanted to stop in my tracks, to breathe it in, because I've been second fiddle for a long, long time and this kind of two year old love talk is usually reserved for Daddy when he gets out of the car to catch the commuter train.

I didn't stop though.

I kept heading for the car because, as all working moms know, if you've got a tearless daycare drop-off process working smoothly you can't muck about with it or there will be a great wailing.

But I did sit in my car, and slowly count to three, smiling.

Bath Time

Tonight The Mayor pushed Rooster's face down into the bath water and held it there. K and I were sitting right next to the tub and were able to rescue her right away. It only lasted a second but it shook me up.

The instinct to protect my children is so incredibly fierce and my love for them overpowering -- so what a schizophrenic feeling to face one of my children as the most serious threat to the other one's safety. Poor little Roo. All she wants in the world is to keep up with her brother and what does she get?

It was all fun and games that led to her face being held under water. While I was sneaking time on the computer cleaning the house, K was bathing the tots. He was happily teaching The Mayor to say,

" I want to be part of a hegemonic super power that disregards human rights all over the world."

They were having so much fun.

Then Rooster and The Mayor were playing together so sweetly that K called me in to watch.

Happy, happy, joy, joy...DUNK.

Roo came up sputtering and crying. She was fine. Startled, but fine.

Richard Dawson, The Queen and Other Nobility

Today we find our heroine rather grumpily eating celery with salsa.

It is important to note that she is not eating CHIPS and salsa.

(EXPLETIVE!!!)

She tries to convince herself that there is something vaguely Bloody Mary-ish about celery and salsa.

When that fails, she tries telling herself that it's delicious, like Gazpacho.

Our poor, poor heroine.

What has brought her to such a low, low place?

It all started at breakfast yesterday when she realized she was out of the cardboard-esque crackers she's been eating and was forced to eat an actual piece of bread toasted with butter - sometimes referred to as toast.

As she suspected they would, in swooped the weight watchers points monitors shouting "TOO MANY POINTS. YOU WILL BE PENALIZED!" and Richard Dawson said:

Then there was the whole lunch time Chinese food debacle.

Again with the swooping in of the Monitors of Heft screaming, "TOO MANY POINTS WE TELL YOU!!! THERE WILL BE A PRICE TO PAY!" Richard Dawson gave our heroine the second:

X

Then there was an innocent salmon and spinach salad for dinner that some mean chef threw a handful of pecans and a piece of crumbled bacon into, rendering the whole salad a gross error in judgement.

The weight spies were beside themselves, yelling about the points. Richard Dawson provided the third and final strike.

X

The Seinfeld Soup Nazi said:

Her Royal Highness, The Queen of England said:



And the crowd went WILD:




Lady Flabina, overcome by the royals, developed a new embarrasing celebrity crush:




Meanwhile, back at the house of joy, an unsuspecting Googler from Brooklyn, New York stumbled upon this web site when searching on the words "home remedies for stab wounds."

(Probably because of this post.)

Lady Flabina would like to save the day for the guest from Brooklyn by suggesting this:

or perhaps this:

If you find these recommendations unduly harsh, please feel free to save the world from the further wrath of Lady Flabina by going directly to your kitchen, baking a berry cobbler and bringing it over because The Lady Flabina is HUNGRY.

When I Hit Save, My Brain Says "Disk Full"

Sometimes I am compelled to record things that The Mayor has said so that at his wedding I will have plenty of fodder to tease him. The Good Lard knows that I can't remember much past yesterday.

Niblet A: In the car

"Mom, I drink my milk and it goes in my mouth and down my throat and into my tummy."

(I drive along thinking how impressive it is that at two he knows this much about his GI system as I am obsessed with all things GI related.)

"And then it goes down and into my shoes."

(Ah well, so much for medical school.)

Niblet B: In the car

Me: What did you do at school today, Mayor?

The Mayor: Um. I ate some food.

Me: What did you eat?

The Mayor: I ate a sandwich and some Cheetahs.

(Duck and cover the World Wildlife Federation is coming to arrest us all!!!)

Niblet C: To Buttquacking Daycare Provider (BDP)

The Mayor to BDP: "My Mommy went to work."

BDP: That's right. She has to work to make money to buy things like food.

The Mayor: No. She makes money to buy toys for ME. (Bragging) I have a LOT of toys. I LOVE my toys.

(Odd because ALL of his toys are hand-me-downs from cousins or presents from Grandparents and because tupperware and pots and pans are still pretty high on the list...)

Niblet D: On the way to feed the ducks at the pond.

K is busy packing bread for the ducks.

The Mayor: I want some.

K: You want to eat some bread?

The Mayor: Yeah.

(K gives him bread.)

Me: Are you a duck, Mayor?

The Mayor: (both incredulous and exasperated) NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, I'm a BOY. I don't go QUACK, QUACK, QUACK! NO. (flashes a look at me that seems to say, who knew Mom was so stooooopid?)

Loss

I'm feeling heart broken because I learned that my oldest friend had a miscarriage. She was three months along. The autopsy revealed that the baby was a boy with Trisomy 16.

It's hard to know how to support her, partly because she hasn't spoken to me in two years. She came to a baby shower thrown for the birth of my first child. After that I got an e-mail from her revealing that she recently learned that she may not ever be able to have children and that being around me at this stage of my life was something that she just couldn't handle.

I completely understood. In the months when I was trying to get pregnant for the first time I felt completely shut down around people who were pregnant or had children because I was terrified that I wouldn't be able to conceive and that I was too old to have healthy children.

We have been unbelievably fortunate with two healthy pregnancies and two beautiful children. I have never miscarried. While I am feeling terribly sad about what is happening for her, I hardly know how to best provide comfort other than to tell her how much I love her and how sorry I am about what happened.

I know there are a lot of writers out there that have written about their experiences with miscarriage. I would be grateful for any recommendations you may have about the best pieces you've read. Since she e-mailed me, I think that door is open and that maybe I can share them with her.

Maximum Protection from Light Days Maxi Pads

Oh. My. Word. It's Special Band-Aid Warrior Man!

I think this little guy will be safe wearing a white skirt with all this back-up!

NOTE: This is not my child, in fact, I don't even know whose child this is, but a friend just e-mailed me this photo and I could NOT resist posting it here.

Knee Slappin' Daycare Humor

Yesterday when I arrived to pick The Mayor and Rooster Girl up from daycare Rooster had on a different outfit than when I dropped her off. The extra outfits sometimes stay in the daycare bag so long that I feel as though I have never seen them before the moment when my children are wearing them at the end of the daycare day.

I think, "Who are you and WHAT are you wearing?"

Anyway, yesterday when I picked her up Rooster was wearing a onesie wth a duck face and the word "Quack!" on the rear. Hmmm. Not so familiar, but if daycare people say it is hers then O.K.

As her daycare person handed her to me she asked, "Is it okay if I say something REALLY inappropriate to you?"

Inappropriate?

Talk about piquing my interest!

"Sure, okay, fire away."

The daycare person turned Rooster around so I could see the back of her outfit and said, "Look! It's her BUTT QUACK!"


Cute... but COME ON PEOPLE, I expect so much MORE from "inappropriate."

Because this Blog should be Renamed: "Oh, The Butts!"

K: "Captain, the storm is out of control! Waves are crashing over the deck."

Squeals of laughter...

Great water splashing noises emerging from the tub...

I go to investigate.

K has a beach bucket and is re-creating a storm at sea, filling up the bucket and tossing the water at The Mayor's chest. The Mayor is the Captain, riding out the storm on deck, waves crashing against him as he steers the ship. The Mayor is loving it.

However, I'm not sure The Mayor totally understood the game because suddenly he said, "Uh oh! I'm sitting on the Captain!"

"Where is the Captain," I asked.

Bad question...

"Um, IN MY BUTT!!"

Of COURSE the Captain is in his butt.

My whole life REVOLVES around the two year old butt in the house - what's in it, what's coming out of it and what it looks like. Say it with me now... Oh. The. Joys.

Next night:

Water splashing. Great peals of laughter.

K: "O.K., hold your butt up in the air."

Powerful SPLOOSHING noise.

The Mayor: "AGAIN!"

I go to investigate.

The Mayor is on all fours with his behind as high in the air as he can get it. He is laughing and laughing as his father pours water from the bucket onto his backside.

I think, "well, that's one way to get the Captain out."

Confessions of The Celebrity Crush Lame-O

Today is the day I am going to CONFESS to my celebrity crush lameness. It all began in 1973 with a crush on Robin from Batman and Robin. I mean, what six year old girl could resist WONDERBOY? Not me. Look:

The mask, the tights... I was undone.

While Tomi Lynn, my best friend and across the street neighbor, fell asleep at night dreaming of Donny Osmond and how she was going to grow up to knit him pair after pair of purple socks, I was dreaming that I was made special assistant to Batman and Robin.

As special assistant to Batman and Robin (mostly Robin!) I got to wear a bunny suit (not a playboy bunny suit you PERV, a fuzzy, Easter Bunny sort of bunny suit) because that is what ALL six year old special assistants to super heroes wear when they drive around in the Bat Mobile helping to solve crimes.

I entertained this little fantasy night after night.. unless I was mad at Tomi Lynn. If I was mad at her I would alternatively dream that Donny Osmond had a plane crash landing in my backyard. While I was nursing him back to health in the shed I would NOT let Tomi Lynn see him. HA! Take THAT Tomi!

But Robin was not to be mine. Apparently, he was already taken.


A few years later my friends Kimmy and Theresa introduced Tiger Beat and I got a huge poster of this hot 1970's teen action:


It was really hard to decide whether to put up the Leif Garrett's poster or the fuzzy poster of the kitten that glowed in black light.

(I faced very difficult childhood decisions.)

Leif taught me that I should "Keep Away from Run Around Sue," but I should've been keeping away from Leif. Look what happened to him:


Next came a DEEP crush on Ralph Macchio. I can't even apologize for it because if you close your eyes, go back in time and imagine yourself a thirteen year old girl and then open your eyes and see this:


You will be weak and powerless to his evident early 1980's hotness.

Though it was his orphaned, loner character on the show "Eight is Enough" that originally sunk me, I was still thinking that he could show me how to "wax on, wax off" at any time, anywhere in the Karate Kid days.

Next came Superman. I mean, LOOK at him in 1984. Gaaaaaah.


Unfortunately, in the eighties there was a brief and embarrasing thing about Miami, t-shirts under linen sports coats and dark sunglasses that I am mortified to admit to you, but...

Horror of horros! I look at Mr. Johnson (heh heh) today and feel true celebrity crush REMORSE and SHAME.

Next is a shadowy period in my life where I don't really remember distinct celebrity crushes. This is probably because I was doing bad things... like staying with my delicate flower of a southern Granny for the summer, going out drinking with my cousins and complying with my Granny's wish that I not have more than one beer by selecting a 40-ounce of Old Milwaukee.

BUT. I do have one more confession to make. Confessions of the Celebrity Crush Lame-O brings you a final double whammy from the Fox Network...

Ah, YES! Seth and Ryan. Both half my age. Both at the same time. I am so lame.

There. I've done it. I've CONFESSED to my celebrity crush lameness history. Now it is your turn. I know you are not free of celebrity crush lameness so CONFESS and FREE YOURSELF!!!

I'm Young, Wild and Free

This weekend, K and I admitted to each other that when we leave the house alone - leaving the other three family members behind - we both search for the ROCKIN'-est, LOUDEST song on the car radio and turn it up full blast. Then, in our minds, we SCREAM:

"I'm young, wild and free!!

I'M YOUNG,

WILD,

AND

FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!"

But only for the next 10 minutes.

The Generations

With the birth of my mother, there were five generations of women alive in my family. My mom is shown here in the arms of her Great, Great Grandmother.




When I was born there were again five generations of women standing together. I am in my mother's lap and behind us are (from left to right) my Granny, my Granga and my Great, Great Granny.

My own daughter has come into this world to make up four generations of women in the family.

I'm thinking of this today because 11 years ago my Great Grandmother passed away. We called her "Granga" because my mother couldn't pronouce Grandma when she was little and so the name Granga stuck and was used by her siblings and all their children, my cousins, my brother and I. If she were still alive, Rooster Girl would have also had a five generation start.

It's too bad that Rooster will never know her Great, Great Grandmother. My relationship with my own was so important that my daughter is named for her. Great, Great Granny lived to be 100 years old, from 1886 to 1986, from horse and buggy to the moon and beyond. I spent my high school summers talking with her about her childhood, what it felt like to fall in love, how to know when you met the man you will marry and how she felt about pregnancy and childbirth. (BTW - you'll know when you've met the man you're going to marry when "it feels like the same kind of electricity is running through you both!")

My Granga - and Rooster's Great, Great Grandmother - was an amazing woman that I remember as a patient, good listener. She was the wife of a dairy farmer in rural Virginia and had seven children from 1929 - 1941. Her eldest daughter is my Granny and my stubborn streak comes directly from her. Three of Granga's seven children died while she was alive. One, an infant son, died at birth. An infant daughter, named after her mother, died at five months and another son drowned when he was in his early 30's.

I can't help but wonder how she survived the death of three children. Isn't it the worst fear of all parents? Doesn't it drive couples apart? I wonder how she coped, though I imagine it was with perseverance and hard work. As a farm wife she worked from sun up until sun down and later. She cooked three meals each day and the extended family would gather for each one around the huge farm house table and feast on country ham, biscuits, snap beans, butter beans, sweet corn, cakes, cobblers, pies and sweet tea. Granga waited on her husband and sons, she tended the chickens, fed the pigs... Still, I imagine the children she lost never really left her thoughts.

Granga died before I had children, before I would even call myself an adult really. I wish she had lived longer because now that I have my own children I wish I could talk with her about motherhood and parenting. Also, I wish my daughter could have known her.

I guess it is left to Granny, Mom and I to share stories about Granga and all the women of our family with little Rooster so that she'll know who she is by way of knowing who came before her.

We miss you Granga...

July 5th Vocabulary Lessons for Grandma

From my Mom:

Called you - not home.

Called Jamie (my brother) - got Jack(my nephew).

Asked if he was going to see fireworks and got this exchange:

"Well Grandma, you know we are having SEVERE thunderstorms. Do you know what severe means, Grandma?"
"Yes, Jack, I think it means really bad".
"That is correct, Grandma. So no fireworks".

Now I'm getting vocabulary lessons from a 4 1/2 year old.

More Flying Undies

The other night, K was practicing The Shot.

As usual, he balled up his underwear and tossed it up into the fan blades.

The underwear spun around the room, flew off the fan blades, knocked the antena off the television and disappeared completely.

POOF.

We were completely puzzled.

K looked behind the television, on the floor, between the wall and the dresser...

No underwear.

Finally he noticed that they had made a perfect landing on one of the hooks on the back of the bedroom door - the place where K likes to hang his weekly outfit at night. (Do all guys do the weekly outfit? You know, come home from work and change into the same pair of clothes each evening for a week...or more?) Anyway, the underwear hung there as if they wanted to say, "I'm not that dirty. You can wear me again tomorrow."

His Perspective

The other day I was sitting on the floor playing with The Mayor in his bedroom.

All of a sudden, I needed to go to the bathroom.

It happens.

So I told The Mayor where I was going, got up and made my way.

His father came into his room and asked The Mayor where I had gone.

The Mayor told him, "She had a poop in her pants."

Overheard Conversations with Dad

The Mayor: Hey Dad, did you hear that?

K: Hear What?

The Mayor: Did you hear my butt, Dad?

K: No. I didn’t hear it. Did it make a noise?

The Mayor: Yes, it DID make a noise.

K: What kind of noise did it make?

The Mayor: Um….

K: Did it bark like a dog?

The Mayor: YES! It did!!

K: That’s great. Maybe the next time we hear a dog barking you can talk to it with your butt.