I wasn't feeling well last night, so my husband offered to get some take-out for dinner. He then asked our five year old son what he wanted to eat. Our son replied, "Pasketti." Then he corrected himself and said, "No, no, not pasketti. Sasketti." And again, "No! Not sasketti. I want Spapetti." We were just sitting there, waiting for him to come up with the right word, when he walked over to my husband and said, "Dad, I want chicken."
My daughter is grounded, and it's way worse on me then on her, I do believe. Anyway, grounded from TV, the phone and video games, she is pretty bored and is spending all her time baking. And making marshmallow fondant, which I find inexplicably irresistible. I may have to unground her just to save my waistline.
First, mommy should under no circumstances fill a brightly colored cup with whipped cream, sugar, carmel, mocha, and coffee, drink about two-thirds of it, and then leave it within climbing distance. Second, you never, ever, ever want to be anywhere near a toddler that has drunk a third of a cup of coffee. Ever. Third, coffee is a fairly effective diarrhetic.
I ask, "What are your favorite foods?" He says, "I like cauliflower and broccoli. Yum!" I ask, "Then what are your least favorite foods?" With a scrunched up, icky look on his face, he replies, "Vegetables."
Things that I've learned about boxing gloves since taking them home to three boys ages 3, 5, and 7...A boxing glove is heavy enough to knock over and break expensive glass decor. The noise of glass breaking can be heard by a mother four rooms away with a blender on and NPR cranked loud enough to hear over the blender, or so it would seem.
My three and a half year old has been wearing underwear for a year. But relieving herself in the toilet was only one step of potty-training. There are about 40 other steps that are conveniently skipped over in parenting books. The "transition from little potty chair to big potty" step. The "yes, you must flush every time you go potty" step. The "weening from potty-rewards step" (otherwise known as, "no, grown-ups don't get M&Ms for pooping" step.) The "privacy without locking yourself in the bathroom" step. The "not everyone wants to see your new Hello Kitty underwear" step. The "not discussing what mommy is doing in the toilet in public bathrooms" step.
TRANSLATION: "Seriously, woman, privacy and relaxation are sooooo overrated. Let me shower with you so that you have the added activity of trying to keep me upright while I slip on wet marble and my skin has the texture of a greased pig."
"Mommy," he said "I made you something at school today." "Oh really?" I asked "What is it?" "I can't tell you." he replied. "It is a surprise. For Christmas. For Christmas I made you a picture frame. I made a picture frame with a picture of me in it. Teacher Lisa took pictures of all the kids at my school and we made picture frames for our parents for Christmas, but it is a secret."
One of the best things about working as an aide in a second grade classroom is being with kids who are, for the most part, too young to be corrupt. When they say something inappropriate, it comes from a pure and innocent place. So, when the teacher asked for an example of a word with the "short i" sound, and a student raised his hand and said, "Tit"...shouldn't he get partial credit?
My six year old son climbed up on my lap and asked, "Mom, why did God make me, and why did He make you, and why did He put me here?" I said, "Well, God made you to be my son, and He made me to be your mother. And, He must love me very much because I sure am lucky to have you. I wouldn't want any other little boy in the whole world to be mine." He replied, "Oh...but, can I get another Mom?"
I drifted awake to the realization that the kids were in the bathroom, chatting to each other. Nothing wrong with that. But then I overheard a phrase which included the words "matches" and "burn down the shower."
The first rule of writing is to write small. Small, but not diminutive. If you want to write about love ... write about, spreading a blanket across the driveway at 7:30 a.m. to eat your breakfast of toasted pitas and raspberry jam, as your son winds his body inside the shape of your lap, and delights in the construction that is taking place across the street. Hammers and nails will be poetry for you then.
Middle Twerp has some type of oral fixation. The child was born with a quarter, three army men, and a Bic pen top in his mouth. Seriously. I just held out my hand as I laid in the stirrups and told him in a firm voice, Spit those out. The doctors were a little perplexed, but I knew it was just the beginning of what was to come.
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