I took Kid C to the dentist yesterday, and yes, I seem to be blogging about him a lot lately. Poor Kid C.
Now, taking a child to the dentist is never fun. Ever. But, taking a special needs child to the dentist is bad. Really bad. (For those of you who are new to the blog, Both Kid B and C have fragile X syndrome and are mentally handicapped. See here , here, or here for glimpses of past adventures.)
Anywho, the dentist was awesome, and Kid C did pretty good. He only threw up twice. What horrible thing was the dentist doing? Drilling? Extracting teeth? Sucking in the laughing gas? Nope. He was brushing Kid C's teeth. Yup. That's how we roll around here.
This got me thinking about some other adventures we've had. Okay, they're more like scary stories, but here's a short one for you to enjoy. We'll pick on Kid B this time.
Kid B loves food. Not likes, or sort-of-loves, but the kind of love that becomes scary. He especially adores pasta salad. Around here we call it Kid B salad and make it every time we have a family get together.
Which leads us to grandma's house and a giant bowl of Kid B salad--and grandma's unlocked cupboard filled with several boxes of fruit snacks. Can you guess where this is heading? Yup. Brace yourselves.
Kid B devoured three enormous plates full of pasta salad then snuck into the fruit snacks. All of them. A few minutes later the groaning commenced. Then came the vomit and the multi-colored mess on grandma's new carpet. Hmmm come to think of it, this might be why everyone refers to it as Kid B salad.
Strange how both these stories deal with puke.
I hate puke.
Shudder.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
My Name Is Inigo Montoya
I know I promised to shoot off a post last Friday, but I didn't. I was in mourning. Kid C, who can not be held responsible for his actions, killed a large portion of my manuscript Thursday afternoon. It's gone. Disintegrated into nothingness with a few clicks of my mouse.
But I have back ups, right?
Wrong.
Why?
I'm stupid.
I've been feverishly working on a major rewrite, and in my addled state, I didn't back it up for several days. Several long, productive days. That sound you hear is me hitting myself in the forehead repeatedly. Oh, and crying. Gobs of crying.
There was also a fair amount of yelling. That is how I became Inigo Montoya. Except, I have way less chest and facial hair.
And, I'm a girl.
While my son's life wasn't in danger, he apparently thought it was. Maybe. After I calmed down, I asked him if he was ever going to touch mommy's computer again. He shook his head and pretended to slit his throat with his finger. Then, he pretended to slit his stuffed elephant's throat, too. Why? To show me what he thought would happen if he did touch my computer again.
Yup, send me the mother-of-the-year award right now. Just label it: Inigo Montoya--Super Mom.
I feel like I should slip into some leather pants and a frizzy wig and yell, "Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my manuscript. Prepare to die."
But seriously, Kid C and I made up. I gave baby elephant CPR, mouth-to-mouth, and a band aid. I gave kid C a big hug and some ice cream. He's steering clear of my computer, and I'm busy trying to reconstruct my pages. Sigh.
Now, all I have to do is find the six fingered man. Wink.
But I have back ups, right?
Wrong.
Why?
I'm stupid.
I've been feverishly working on a major rewrite, and in my addled state, I didn't back it up for several days. Several long, productive days. That sound you hear is me hitting myself in the forehead repeatedly. Oh, and crying. Gobs of crying.
There was also a fair amount of yelling. That is how I became Inigo Montoya. Except, I have way less chest and facial hair.
And, I'm a girl.
While my son's life wasn't in danger, he apparently thought it was. Maybe. After I calmed down, I asked him if he was ever going to touch mommy's computer again. He shook his head and pretended to slit his throat with his finger. Then, he pretended to slit his stuffed elephant's throat, too. Why? To show me what he thought would happen if he did touch my computer again.
Yup, send me the mother-of-the-year award right now. Just label it: Inigo Montoya--Super Mom.
I feel like I should slip into some leather pants and a frizzy wig and yell, "Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my manuscript. Prepare to die."
But seriously, Kid C and I made up. I gave baby elephant CPR, mouth-to-mouth, and a band aid. I gave kid C a big hug and some ice cream. He's steering clear of my computer, and I'm busy trying to reconstruct my pages. Sigh.
Now, all I have to do is find the six fingered man. Wink.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
I'm Swamped Today
Today is crazy busy. The kind of crazy busy where you have seven kids screaming and running around you in circles. The kind of crazy where you still have a toilet sitting on your deck, and you're worried about what the seven screaming children will do with the toilet. The kind of crazy where you think things like, Maybe it will be okay if they use it.
But the point of all this is, I'm not going to get around to a real blog post today. I mean, I could continue to rattle on and not say anything of real importance. (Please don't mention that I rarely, if ever, say anything of real importance. It might shatter my self image. And that would be mean.)
So anyway, I vow to post something slightly above sad and pathetic tomorrow. Maybe. For right now, be content with this pic of me giving seven children the evil eye every time they get too close to the toilet. And, Mom, sorry I used the word toilet four times in three paragraphs.
But the point of all this is, I'm not going to get around to a real blog post today. I mean, I could continue to rattle on and not say anything of real importance. (Please don't mention that I rarely, if ever, say anything of real importance. It might shatter my self image. And that would be mean.)
So anyway, I vow to post something slightly above sad and pathetic tomorrow. Maybe. For right now, be content with this pic of me giving seven children the evil eye every time they get too close to the toilet. And, Mom, sorry I used the word toilet four times in three paragraphs.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
The End Is In Sight
We started remodeling/finishing our basement a million years ago. Okay, a million years might be exaggerating a bit, but only a bit. A very little bit. See, here is a before construction and an after construction pic of me--just to prove how long it took.
Before:
After:
See, it took a long time.
Okay, we really started working on it in early March. It is now July. July! That means,I've been living in chaos for almost six months. Okay it's five, but it feels like at least six. Or a million years.
How come it's taken us so long? I don't know. Workers demolished the McDonald's down the street (seriously all that was left was a hole in the ground), then they rebuilt it, opened it, and served 10,000 burgers and fries in less time than it took me to do three lousy rooms. BUT, the end is in sight.
The carpet is in. We spent the whole day yesterday laying tile, It's almost done. All we have left is one more day of tiling, two days of painting, and little odds and ends like baseboards, shower heads, and doors. I might cry. Really. I think there are tears on my keyboard right now.
Here is a list of things I won't miss about living with construction:
1: Drywall dust.
2: Plastic cover sheets spread over furniture and flooring.
3: The toilet sitting in the backyard waiting to be reinstalled. Really, you get some strange looks from the neighbors. I've lived in constant fear that one of the kids would use it while it's sitting on the deck. This is the stuff of nightmares. Shudder.
4: Having to crawl over saws and piles of tools to get to the laundry.
5: Going to Lowe's and Home Depot more than the grocery store, or any other store.
6: Parking in the driveway because the garage is full of construction equipment.
7: Bruises, scrapes, cuts, and various boo boos from hammers and saws. Um yeah. Ow.
8: Drywall dust. I know I mentioned this before, but there's a lot of it. And it won't die. Ever. Here's a pic of my hubby trying to find the laundry in the drywall dust. This is an actual photo. Really.
9: Waiting for the drywaller. For two months.
10: Not having doors on things like bathrooms. I really love doors.
I could go on, but you get the idea. There are a few things I will miss like spending time with my dad. And .... well, that's it really. Hanging with my dad. See silver lining.
Before:
After:
See, it took a long time.
Okay, we really started working on it in early March. It is now July. July! That means,I've been living in chaos for almost six months. Okay it's five, but it feels like at least six. Or a million years.
How come it's taken us so long? I don't know. Workers demolished the McDonald's down the street (seriously all that was left was a hole in the ground), then they rebuilt it, opened it, and served 10,000 burgers and fries in less time than it took me to do three lousy rooms. BUT, the end is in sight.
The carpet is in. We spent the whole day yesterday laying tile, It's almost done. All we have left is one more day of tiling, two days of painting, and little odds and ends like baseboards, shower heads, and doors. I might cry. Really. I think there are tears on my keyboard right now.
Here is a list of things I won't miss about living with construction:
1: Drywall dust.
2: Plastic cover sheets spread over furniture and flooring.
3: The toilet sitting in the backyard waiting to be reinstalled. Really, you get some strange looks from the neighbors. I've lived in constant fear that one of the kids would use it while it's sitting on the deck. This is the stuff of nightmares. Shudder.
4: Having to crawl over saws and piles of tools to get to the laundry.
5: Going to Lowe's and Home Depot more than the grocery store, or any other store.
6: Parking in the driveway because the garage is full of construction equipment.
7: Bruises, scrapes, cuts, and various boo boos from hammers and saws. Um yeah. Ow.
8: Drywall dust. I know I mentioned this before, but there's a lot of it. And it won't die. Ever. Here's a pic of my hubby trying to find the laundry in the drywall dust. This is an actual photo. Really.
9: Waiting for the drywaller. For two months.
10: Not having doors on things like bathrooms. I really love doors.
I could go on, but you get the idea. There are a few things I will miss like spending time with my dad. And .... well, that's it really. Hanging with my dad. See silver lining.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Homework and Horse Poop
Awhile ago, I mentioned the time I took horse poop to school for an English assignment. Several people requested the full scoop, so here it is.
When I was younger, I procrastinated everything. (I am now much more mature and only procrastinate most things.) So, when, in my senior year in high school, we received an assignment to convert a popular commercial of our choice into a satire, I, of course, rushed home and forgot about it--until the night before it was due.
I stayed up late pacing my bedroom floor. I knew this class, everyone in it was brilliant, and there would be some amazing presentations. If I wanted an A, and oh I did, I would have to come up with something stunning.
Several hours, and a garbage can full of crumbled papers, later, I spit my much chewed gum out in my hand and glared at it. My ideas had died on me, my muse had fled, and even my gum had petered out. Then I had it. Gum. It's taste didn't last an extra, extra, extra long time, in fact it tasted like crap. I grinned. I laughed. I think I even cackled. I probably did, it seems like something a sleep deranged eighteen-year-old me would do.
I threw on a coat, some boots, grabbed a shovel, and headed out to the fields. I needed some poop--a giant mound of horse poop. And, I had some, globs of it, sprinkled over three acres like putrid gumdrops. All I had to do was get me one. It would be perfect. The only problem was the weather. January in the mountains of Utah can be bitter with the temperature dropping way below zero, and on this night, they did.
The frigid air welded every single horse bomb to the ground. I hacked at them, kicked them, yelled into the darkness, "Why? Why? All I need is one piece of lousy dung!"
Then, as if in answer to my rant, my horse whinnied. My sleep and cold fogged brain clicked into place. I had a fresh, unfrozen manure factory standing right there!
I assumed my poop catching position behind the horse. It's a good thing it was dark, or there may have been a few calls into the psych ward that night, because I stood there for a good hour holding my shovel and coaching my horse. "Come on, girl, you can do it. Just go for me. One poop, that's all I need."
My fingers went numb, my toes disappeared, my teeth almost shattered from chattering, then the blessed event occurred. My horse gave me my A.
I took it back to the house, wrapped it lovingly in a plastic bag, and chewed two huge wads of gum. Then I went to bed.
In class the next day, I splatted first one, then the other, wad of gum onto the teacher's table while repeating the words of the commercial. "The flavor lasts an extra, (splat) extra, (splat)..." I reached into the bag with my bare hands and pulled my lovely, warm, mushy pile of horse business and slammed it down with the final, "extra long time." Then I sat down.
My whole presentation lasted ten seconds. The silence lasted longer. Much longer. My sweet teacher swallowed several times and asked me to please throw it away outside her class room. I did. And I got my A. All thanks to an obedient horse and a shovel.
So, what kind of crazy things did you guys do for an assignment?
When I was younger, I procrastinated everything. (I am now much more mature and only procrastinate most things.) So, when, in my senior year in high school, we received an assignment to convert a popular commercial of our choice into a satire, I, of course, rushed home and forgot about it--until the night before it was due.
I stayed up late pacing my bedroom floor. I knew this class, everyone in it was brilliant, and there would be some amazing presentations. If I wanted an A, and oh I did, I would have to come up with something stunning.
Several hours, and a garbage can full of crumbled papers, later, I spit my much chewed gum out in my hand and glared at it. My ideas had died on me, my muse had fled, and even my gum had petered out. Then I had it. Gum. It's taste didn't last an extra, extra, extra long time, in fact it tasted like crap. I grinned. I laughed. I think I even cackled. I probably did, it seems like something a sleep deranged eighteen-year-old me would do.
I threw on a coat, some boots, grabbed a shovel, and headed out to the fields. I needed some poop--a giant mound of horse poop. And, I had some, globs of it, sprinkled over three acres like putrid gumdrops. All I had to do was get me one. It would be perfect. The only problem was the weather. January in the mountains of Utah can be bitter with the temperature dropping way below zero, and on this night, they did.
The frigid air welded every single horse bomb to the ground. I hacked at them, kicked them, yelled into the darkness, "Why? Why? All I need is one piece of lousy dung!"
Then, as if in answer to my rant, my horse whinnied. My sleep and cold fogged brain clicked into place. I had a fresh, unfrozen manure factory standing right there!
I assumed my poop catching position behind the horse. It's a good thing it was dark, or there may have been a few calls into the psych ward that night, because I stood there for a good hour holding my shovel and coaching my horse. "Come on, girl, you can do it. Just go for me. One poop, that's all I need."
My fingers went numb, my toes disappeared, my teeth almost shattered from chattering, then the blessed event occurred. My horse gave me my A.
I took it back to the house, wrapped it lovingly in a plastic bag, and chewed two huge wads of gum. Then I went to bed.
In class the next day, I splatted first one, then the other, wad of gum onto the teacher's table while repeating the words of the commercial. "The flavor lasts an extra, (splat) extra, (splat)..." I reached into the bag with my bare hands and pulled my lovely, warm, mushy pile of horse business and slammed it down with the final, "extra long time." Then I sat down.
My whole presentation lasted ten seconds. The silence lasted longer. Much longer. My sweet teacher swallowed several times and asked me to please throw it away outside her class room. I did. And I got my A. All thanks to an obedient horse and a shovel.
So, what kind of crazy things did you guys do for an assignment?
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
My Creativity Hurts
Okay, last week I blogged about how I'm allergic to exercise, because it gives me sore muscles and stuff, well, right now, my creativity hurts. I've been using it a lot, and it's a little sore. Really. Like this:
But, I'm a girl and have been all my life.
Why does my creativity hurt like this? What have I done to the poor thing? I imposed a deadline on myself. Crazy, I know, but I want to be done with my new draft in two weeks. Where am I now? Chapter five--but, they're five all-new chaps with two brand new characters and major plot changes. Sigh.
I only have to write (or revise if they still fit with the new and improved, sparkly plot) 75,000 more words in the next fifteen days. That's only like 5,000 words a day, right? Only. (For you non-writers out there, that was funny. Please laugh. I'll even provide a pic of how I feel about writing or revising 80,000 words in roughly two weeks to help you understand.)
But I'm a girl and a smidge cuter.
So anyway, wish me luck. Wish my family luck. And, pray I don't look like this in two weeks, because I somehow grew into my computer.
But, I'm a girl and have been all my life.
Why does my creativity hurt like this? What have I done to the poor thing? I imposed a deadline on myself. Crazy, I know, but I want to be done with my new draft in two weeks. Where am I now? Chapter five--but, they're five all-new chaps with two brand new characters and major plot changes. Sigh.
I only have to write (or revise if they still fit with the new and improved, sparkly plot) 75,000 more words in the next fifteen days. That's only like 5,000 words a day, right? Only. (For you non-writers out there, that was funny. Please laugh. I'll even provide a pic of how I feel about writing or revising 80,000 words in roughly two weeks to help you understand.)
But I'm a girl and a smidge cuter.
So anyway, wish me luck. Wish my family luck. And, pray I don't look like this in two weeks, because I somehow grew into my computer.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
The Time Has Come, or Ten Real Things About Me
Awhile ago, I blogged on ten things I imagine about myself and promised the real ten things would soon follow. So, today, after many sighs and groans, here they are.
The top, or maybe not top--maybe not really in any order, ten real things about me:
7: I have large feet. It's true. My dad called me Sasquatch growing up, but he meant it all in love. I don't have a complex about it at all.
3: I'm a girl and have been all my life.
4: I have four kids. That's why this is number four. (I'm also good with numbers and counting and things. That's why I'm a writer. And, I used too many ands in that sentence on purpose, because I'm good with words and things, too. And, I like to start sentences with and, because it fun and against all kinds of high school English rules.)
1: I spend most of my time in another world having conversations with my imaginary friends. And, yes, I have imaginary friends, otherwise known as the characters in my books. One day, I hope to get paid for having lots of conversations with imaginary people. That would be freaking awesome.
8: I don't like housework, because I'm sane. Sane people don't like housework. It's a proven fact.
10: I like cats, because I'm crazy. Crazy people like cats. It's a proven fact. That's why they have a spokesperson, yup, the crazy cat lady. If the writing thing doesn't pay off, I'm gunning for her job.
6: I can't eat sugar. This is where you can cry for me. Imagine a whole life where you can't eat donuts and chocolate to help you feel better. Sniff.
2: I'm allergic to exercise. I break out in a sweat and get sore muscles and stuff. Clearly, it's an allergic reaction, and I should limit my exposure. I don't want to die from anaphylactic shock or anything. (Okay, I usually work out several times a week, I just like to complain about it. A lot.)
9: I'm an elf, which is way better than a vampire. Sheesh. Okay, maybe this should read: I aspire to be an elf. The rules are so strict on this real things about me stuff.
5: I have a firm grasp on reality.
11: I married up. Yup.
There you have it, some not too boring details about me, and they're all real, even number five and seven. It's hard to believe, I know, but I'm that interesting. Yup. You are now free to get on with your lives.
The top, or maybe not top--maybe not really in any order, ten real things about me:
7: I have large feet. It's true. My dad called me Sasquatch growing up, but he meant it all in love. I don't have a complex about it at all.
3: I'm a girl and have been all my life.
4: I have four kids. That's why this is number four. (I'm also good with numbers and counting and things. That's why I'm a writer. And, I used too many ands in that sentence on purpose, because I'm good with words and things, too. And, I like to start sentences with and, because it fun and against all kinds of high school English rules.)
1: I spend most of my time in another world having conversations with my imaginary friends. And, yes, I have imaginary friends, otherwise known as the characters in my books. One day, I hope to get paid for having lots of conversations with imaginary people. That would be freaking awesome.
8: I don't like housework, because I'm sane. Sane people don't like housework. It's a proven fact.
10: I like cats, because I'm crazy. Crazy people like cats. It's a proven fact. That's why they have a spokesperson, yup, the crazy cat lady. If the writing thing doesn't pay off, I'm gunning for her job.
6: I can't eat sugar. This is where you can cry for me. Imagine a whole life where you can't eat donuts and chocolate to help you feel better. Sniff.
2: I'm allergic to exercise. I break out in a sweat and get sore muscles and stuff. Clearly, it's an allergic reaction, and I should limit my exposure. I don't want to die from anaphylactic shock or anything. (Okay, I usually work out several times a week, I just like to complain about it. A lot.)
9: I'm an elf, which is way better than a vampire. Sheesh. Okay, maybe this should read: I aspire to be an elf. The rules are so strict on this real things about me stuff.
5: I have a firm grasp on reality.
11: I married up. Yup.
There you have it, some not too boring details about me, and they're all real, even number five and seven. It's hard to believe, I know, but I'm that interesting. Yup. You are now free to get on with your lives.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
What Driver's Education and Dr. Who Have In Common
Have any of you been watching the new Dr. Who on BBC? If you haven't, you should. It rocks.
Saturday, as we watched an episode, my youngest, Kid D, said, "If everything was real on Dr. Who, I'd be freaking my brain out."
Such words of wisdom from a six-year-old. We all laughed and agreed, but it got me thinking (hard to believe, I know). But, what things in our regular, non Whoish lives are like the show? Then I knew. Driver's Ed. (For an additional post on Kid A and driving click here.)
What does Dr. Who have in common with driver's Ed? Oh, so many things. The first one is fear--namely mine. When you watch the good Doctor, you know something bad will happen in each episode. It might be robot men invading from an alternate reality, or angel statues that come after you when you blink, but you know it will be bad, and people may die. See, fear. And, yes, I'm afraid people may die today as Kid A heads off to driver's Ed.
The second thing Dr. Who and driver's Ed have in common is the element of time travel. Seriously. As I watched Kid A getting ready to brave the unknown of driver's ed, I traveled back in time to when I did the same thing. (It took a while and was quite disconcerting, but I made it.) Strangely, I was happy to come back. Sixteen looks good, but who in their right mind would want to re-live that?
And the last thing Dr. Who and driver's Ed have in common is drama. Since this is day one of driver's ed, I don't have any examples for you, but I know they're coming. And that brings us right back to fear. Wish me luck.
Saturday, as we watched an episode, my youngest, Kid D, said, "If everything was real on Dr. Who, I'd be freaking my brain out."
Such words of wisdom from a six-year-old. We all laughed and agreed, but it got me thinking (hard to believe, I know). But, what things in our regular, non Whoish lives are like the show? Then I knew. Driver's Ed. (For an additional post on Kid A and driving click here.)
What does Dr. Who have in common with driver's Ed? Oh, so many things. The first one is fear--namely mine. When you watch the good Doctor, you know something bad will happen in each episode. It might be robot men invading from an alternate reality, or angel statues that come after you when you blink, but you know it will be bad, and people may die. See, fear. And, yes, I'm afraid people may die today as Kid A heads off to driver's Ed.
The second thing Dr. Who and driver's Ed have in common is the element of time travel. Seriously. As I watched Kid A getting ready to brave the unknown of driver's ed, I traveled back in time to when I did the same thing. (It took a while and was quite disconcerting, but I made it.) Strangely, I was happy to come back. Sixteen looks good, but who in their right mind would want to re-live that?
And the last thing Dr. Who and driver's Ed have in common is drama. Since this is day one of driver's ed, I don't have any examples for you, but I know they're coming. And that brings us right back to fear. Wish me luck.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Things I Never Thought I'd Have To Say
Sometimes, I hear things come out of my mouth that make me do a quick, "say what?" Most of them have to do with my children. Now, I love my kids. They're great. They also do some of the weirdest stuff I've ever heard of.
Hubby has often wondered aloud things like, "Now, who could they have gotten that from?" followed by a quick glance in my direction.
I admit, I'm a bit ... eccentric at times, and some of the things the kids do may have a distant connection to me, but not all of them. Just the ones that are completely normal. For example, I have never filled my drinking glass from the toilet. Ever. Nor do I plan on it. Shudder. But, I have eaten a dandelion. See, normal.
But as far as parenting goes, my hubby and I do okay, not perfect, or even great, but okay. All of our kids get fed. We read books to them, we teach them things, we love them, and they are all still breathing. Normally, I'd pat myself on the back for this, but I don't want to sound too all that. So instead, I'm providing you with a list of actual things we've had to say to our children over the past fifteen years, and yes, all of these things did happen. Promise.
1: We don't lick car tires.
2: We don't eat the brown things out of the toilet. EVER!
3: We don't eat food we find in the gutter at Walmart.
4: We don't eat food we find in the gutter anywhere.
5: We don't drink from the gutter, either.
6: We don't eat raw chicken.
A lot of these are about eating, scary huh? Now, you're starting to see why I'm so proud that my kids are all still breathing.
7: Don't lick the TV.
8: The vacuum isn't alive.
9: The vacuum isn't your friend. Promise.
10: We don't dive under moving cars.
11: We don't try to pet skunks. They are not cats.
12: You can't go to church in your Sponge Bob pajamas.
13: You can't go to church in your underwear.
14: Blood doesn't taste like cherries.
15: We don't eat our blood.
As I look back over this list, I'm not surprised that I look like this.
But with a head.
And okay, the skunk thing didn't happen, but as I was typing, I got this image of Kid C walking up to a skunk saying, "Here, kitty, kitty." It was pretty vivid, as was the resulting smell, in my imagination, that is. So, I put it on the list, but have now fessed up to it's non authenticness. And, authenticness should be a real word.
What crazy things have you had to say to your kids? Or what things did your parents tell you that just didn't compute?
Hubby has often wondered aloud things like, "Now, who could they have gotten that from?" followed by a quick glance in my direction.
I admit, I'm a bit ... eccentric at times, and some of the things the kids do may have a distant connection to me, but not all of them. Just the ones that are completely normal. For example, I have never filled my drinking glass from the toilet. Ever. Nor do I plan on it. Shudder. But, I have eaten a dandelion. See, normal.
But as far as parenting goes, my hubby and I do okay, not perfect, or even great, but okay. All of our kids get fed. We read books to them, we teach them things, we love them, and they are all still breathing. Normally, I'd pat myself on the back for this, but I don't want to sound too all that. So instead, I'm providing you with a list of actual things we've had to say to our children over the past fifteen years, and yes, all of these things did happen. Promise.
1: We don't lick car tires.
2: We don't eat the brown things out of the toilet. EVER!
3: We don't eat food we find in the gutter at Walmart.
4: We don't eat food we find in the gutter anywhere.
5: We don't drink from the gutter, either.
6: We don't eat raw chicken.
A lot of these are about eating, scary huh? Now, you're starting to see why I'm so proud that my kids are all still breathing.
7: Don't lick the TV.
8: The vacuum isn't alive.
9: The vacuum isn't your friend. Promise.
10: We don't dive under moving cars.
11: We don't try to pet skunks. They are not cats.
12: You can't go to church in your Sponge Bob pajamas.
13: You can't go to church in your underwear.
14: Blood doesn't taste like cherries.
15: We don't eat our blood.
As I look back over this list, I'm not surprised that I look like this.
But with a head.
And okay, the skunk thing didn't happen, but as I was typing, I got this image of Kid C walking up to a skunk saying, "Here, kitty, kitty." It was pretty vivid, as was the resulting smell, in my imagination, that is. So, I put it on the list, but have now fessed up to it's non authenticness. And, authenticness should be a real word.
What crazy things have you had to say to your kids? Or what things did your parents tell you that just didn't compute?
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