"Mom?"
I knew the sound of that mom. It was the I-am-thinking-deep-thoughts-and-I-want-to-share-them-with-you, mom. I took a deep breath to prepare myself, and then I answered.
"Yes Ethan?"
"My friend said that the word 'crap' is just another word for poop. " He finished, checked my reaction, and then blushed.
I laughed. Another poop talk, and at the breakfast table no less. This could be expected in say, the bathroom, but the kitchen? I like my kitchen to be poop free.
"Well," I paused, "your friend is right. Crap means poop," and then I looked him right in the eye and finished. "You know what also means poop? Shit. Shit means poop. So if I say, 'Oh shit!', then I am really saying 'Oh poop!'"
He giggled, and as he thought about it more, those giggles shook his shoulders and caught his breath until he was laughing so hard that he could not talk. All the poop talk coming out of his mother's mouth was apparently just too much for him. But finally, finally, he composed himself and pitched me a doozy.
"So . . . if there are other poop words . . . " he smiled, but his twinkling eyes gave him away, "when I go out to pick up Indy the puppy's poop, can I say, 'Mom, I am going to do my shit job?'"
Now it was my turn to lose it. After I was done laughing and choking on my toast, I replied, "No, my love. You can not. Even though it would probably make me laugh every time you said it, you. can. not."
And then I sent him out to do his shit job.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
I'm Either a Gold, Silver, or Bronze Medalist . . .
"Mom?"
"Yes Ethan?"
"Do you know who my favorite 4 girls are in the whole world?"
"Nope. Who?" I answered playfully, knowing at least a few of his favorites.
"Well, there's Abbie and Ellerie and of course, you," he replied, dragging out the "oooooh" sound. "Those are my favorite girls."
"Hmmmm," I smiled then asked, "Well who is the fourth?"
"The fourth what?"
"The fourth favorite girl, Ethan. You said you had four favorite girls." I explained.
"Oh," he answered. "It must be just three."
He may not be able to count, but he sure is a charmer, that boy. And as my sister in law always states, at least he is good looking!
"Yes Ethan?"
"Do you know who my favorite 4 girls are in the whole world?"
"Nope. Who?" I answered playfully, knowing at least a few of his favorites.
"Well, there's Abbie and Ellerie and of course, you," he replied, dragging out the "oooooh" sound. "Those are my favorite girls."
"Hmmmm," I smiled then asked, "Well who is the fourth?"
"The fourth what?"
"The fourth favorite girl, Ethan. You said you had four favorite girls." I explained.
"Oh," he answered. "It must be just three."
He may not be able to count, but he sure is a charmer, that boy. And as my sister in law always states, at least he is good looking!
Thursday, June 23, 2011
The One Where I am a Shit
I confess.
I have been somewhat a pain in the ass to live with this week.
What with worrying about my dad and his health and raging PMS hormones to boot, I have been a walking, talking pimple faced she devil.
Not pretty folks.
Not pretty.
I even (unknowingly) picked a fight with hubs not once, not twice, but probably every freakin' day this week. Not huge fights, mind you, but fights like, "You loaded the dishwasher wrong!"
Never mind the fact that hubs was actually doing the dishes.
That fact, the big one, I could not see.
Instead, I picked at him about his time spent at camp with the basketball boys and his time spent at his 2nd job and his time away at golf.
And now that my hormones have calmed down and I am not so preoccupied with worries, I am riddled with guilt because I realize that I have been a shit.
I have been a shit. . .
and . . . the man still loves me
and brings me my coffeein the morning just the way I like it,
and takes me for chocolate peanut butter ice cream just because,
and plays with the kids in the pool so that I can read a book,
and he loves me.
I am such a lucky girl.
Such.a.lucky.girl.
Seriously.
*****Linking to PYO with Shell.****************
I have been somewhat a pain in the ass to live with this week.
What with worrying about my dad and his health and raging PMS hormones to boot, I have been a walking, talking pimple faced she devil.
Not pretty folks.
Not pretty.
I even (unknowingly) picked a fight with hubs not once, not twice, but probably every freakin' day this week. Not huge fights, mind you, but fights like, "You loaded the dishwasher wrong!"
Never mind the fact that hubs was actually doing the dishes.
That fact, the big one, I could not see.
Instead, I picked at him about his time spent at camp with the basketball boys and his time spent at his 2nd job and his time away at golf.
And now that my hormones have calmed down and I am not so preoccupied with worries, I am riddled with guilt because I realize that I have been a shit.
I have been a shit. . .
and . . . the man still loves me
and brings me my coffeein the morning just the way I like it,
and takes me for chocolate peanut butter ice cream just because,
and plays with the kids in the pool so that I can read a book,
and he loves me.
I am such a lucky girl.
Such.a.lucky.girl.
Seriously.
*****Linking to PYO with Shell.****************
Sunday, June 19, 2011
When You Live With Data From The Goonies . . . Life is Never Boring
"Mom?"
"What Ellerie?"
"Ethan won't wake up."
"He won't?" I smiled. That boy loved to sleep, just like me. "What have you tried?"
"Well, I went in his room and yelled, 'Chicken noodle doo!' RIGHT IN HIS FACE . . . but he wouldn't wake up."
Chicken noodle doo?
What?????
I thought about this for a second, and then translated, "Ellerie. . . do you mean 'Cock a Doodle Doo'?"
And without missing a beat Ellerie responded, "THAT'S WHAT I SAID!" It dripped with her 3 year old exasperation. Then for emphasis she repeated, "Chicken. . .noodle. . . doo!"
Incidentally, does anyone else out there feel like they are living with Data from The Goonies. . .
Or is it just me???
"What Ellerie?"
"Ethan won't wake up."
"He won't?" I smiled. That boy loved to sleep, just like me. "What have you tried?"
"Well, I went in his room and yelled, 'Chicken noodle doo!' RIGHT IN HIS FACE . . . but he wouldn't wake up."
Chicken noodle doo?
What?????
I thought about this for a second, and then translated, "Ellerie. . . do you mean 'Cock a Doodle Doo'?"
And without missing a beat Ellerie responded, "THAT'S WHAT I SAID!" It dripped with her 3 year old exasperation. Then for emphasis she repeated, "Chicken. . .noodle. . . doo!"
Incidentally, does anyone else out there feel like they are living with Data from The Goonies. . .
Or is it just me???
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
I Want To Get Off This Roller Coaster
I am struggling with this one.
In fact, I have started this post 7 different times only to reread my words, take a deep breath and hit delete. If I were writing this old school with actual pen and paper, I would probably have a mountain of wadded up notebook paper at my feet and ink stains on my fingertips.
But I don't.
Instead, I have a blinking cursor daring me to write the hard things. The important things. The things that I can not say. . .
I have been on a roller coaster this past week. Summer arrived, as it always does, with a feeling of freedom and promise and sweet expectations. The kids and I had made our summer wish list, and we had visited the pool for a last day of school picnic. I was relaxing into my summer mode when my mom's phone call arrived.
"Dad is going in for another heart catherization."
My mood plummeted.
Her voice was low, but even, which I found odd. I know that she was staying calm for my dad and probably for me too, but every word she spoke was like a click of a roller coaster inching its way to its peak.
"Again?" I questioned quietly. "What happened?"
She replied, "He is having chest pains, " and then she paused for what seemed like a week, " . . . just like last time."
And then silence.
What else was there to say, after all? We had ridden this ride before 3 years ago. And after that terrifying experience, there were promises made to eat better, to make smarter choices, and to exercise.
Promises that have not been kept.
And here is the rub . . . dad's heart procedure went fantastically. He is at home recovering, and I am thrilled that he is feeling better, that he is OK, and that we all get to have him around. So, why do I still feel like I am on the roller coaster? Why do I keep anticipating that next bottom-falling-out feeling? That next drop?
It is an interesting problem. Loving someone so much that you can not imagine your life without him, but also recognizing that life without him is a very real possibility if things do not change. Loving someone so much that you would do anything for him, but being unable to make him do any one thing that will keep him alive.
It is frustrating as hell.
And truthfully, it makes me so angry that I want to scream and throw things and bury my head under a pillow just like my 3 year old does when things get a bit too scary.
But I don't.
Instead, I call and talk to Dad and listen to him joke about his "6 pack" of stents. I know he is joking because that is just his way, but I don't find it the least bit funny. And when I try to broach the subject and get serious, Dad changes the topic to our family's summer plans. I want to parent him and lecture him and give him a laundry list of what to do and what not to do.
But I don't.
Instead, I love him . . . and hope that that will be enough.
**********Linking to this week's Things I Can't Say ****************************
In fact, I have started this post 7 different times only to reread my words, take a deep breath and hit delete. If I were writing this old school with actual pen and paper, I would probably have a mountain of wadded up notebook paper at my feet and ink stains on my fingertips.
But I don't.
Instead, I have a blinking cursor daring me to write the hard things. The important things. The things that I can not say. . .
I have been on a roller coaster this past week. Summer arrived, as it always does, with a feeling of freedom and promise and sweet expectations. The kids and I had made our summer wish list, and we had visited the pool for a last day of school picnic. I was relaxing into my summer mode when my mom's phone call arrived.
"Dad is going in for another heart catherization."
My mood plummeted.
Her voice was low, but even, which I found odd. I know that she was staying calm for my dad and probably for me too, but every word she spoke was like a click of a roller coaster inching its way to its peak.
"Again?" I questioned quietly. "What happened?"
She replied, "He is having chest pains, " and then she paused for what seemed like a week, " . . . just like last time."
And then silence.
What else was there to say, after all? We had ridden this ride before 3 years ago. And after that terrifying experience, there were promises made to eat better, to make smarter choices, and to exercise.
Promises that have not been kept.
And here is the rub . . . dad's heart procedure went fantastically. He is at home recovering, and I am thrilled that he is feeling better, that he is OK, and that we all get to have him around. So, why do I still feel like I am on the roller coaster? Why do I keep anticipating that next bottom-falling-out feeling? That next drop?
It is an interesting problem. Loving someone so much that you can not imagine your life without him, but also recognizing that life without him is a very real possibility if things do not change. Loving someone so much that you would do anything for him, but being unable to make him do any one thing that will keep him alive.
It is frustrating as hell.
And truthfully, it makes me so angry that I want to scream and throw things and bury my head under a pillow just like my 3 year old does when things get a bit too scary.
But I don't.
Instead, I call and talk to Dad and listen to him joke about his "6 pack" of stents. I know he is joking because that is just his way, but I don't find it the least bit funny. And when I try to broach the subject and get serious, Dad changes the topic to our family's summer plans. I want to parent him and lecture him and give him a laundry list of what to do and what not to do.
But I don't.
Instead, I love him . . . and hope that that will be enough.
**********Linking to this week's Things I Can't Say ****************************
Monday, June 13, 2011
No, Mom. I am NOT Pregnant Again.
I was not a good pregnant person.
Instead of the good complexion and sunny dispostion that many women have during pregnancy, I was a perpetual shade of green. I puked so much that I knew where the nearest available toilet or garbage can was in every locale I frequented.
It is safe to say that I was not, in fact, rocking the baby bump.
That is why this picture is oh so special to me.
A local photographer and friend snapped family photos for us when I was 7 months pregnant with Ellerie. It happened to be a good day for me. I was not feeling sick, and Ethan and Abbie were having a ball getting their pictures taken. I just relaxed and enjoyed the moment.
That day, and probably only that day, I rocked my baby bump.
Later I found out that that picture was chosen to be on the cover of a local mom's magazine. It has proven to be a super special momento of probably my last pregnancy.
***********I am linking up with Shell and her Rockin' the Baby Bump linky party.*******************
Instead of the good complexion and sunny dispostion that many women have during pregnancy, I was a perpetual shade of green. I puked so much that I knew where the nearest available toilet or garbage can was in every locale I frequented.
It is safe to say that I was not, in fact, rocking the baby bump.
That is why this picture is oh so special to me.
A local photographer and friend snapped family photos for us when I was 7 months pregnant with Ellerie. It happened to be a good day for me. I was not feeling sick, and Ethan and Abbie were having a ball getting their pictures taken. I just relaxed and enjoyed the moment.
That day, and probably only that day, I rocked my baby bump.
Later I found out that that picture was chosen to be on the cover of a local mom's magazine. It has proven to be a super special momento of probably my last pregnancy.
***********I am linking up with Shell and her Rockin' the Baby Bump linky party.*******************
Thursday, June 9, 2011
The Kind Of Friend
I am the kind of friend that will tell you that you have a piece of parsley stuck in your two front teeth rather than have you discover it after you have been talking to a party full of people.
I am the kind of friend that will gently offer you a mint rather than have the power of your coffee breath knock someone over at the park.
I am the kind of friend that will tell you honestly, "Yes. Your butt looks big in those pants. . . but have you seen J' Lo's rear? Big butts are in, seriously . Why don't you rock that butt, girl?"
I am the kind of friend that will eat those brownies right out of the pan with a fork with you so that you do not have to be alone.
I am the kind of friend that will go shopping with you and when you spend over your budget, I will buy something too . . . so that you don't feel too badly.
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| google images |
I am the kind of friend that will gently offer you a mint rather than have the power of your coffee breath knock someone over at the park.
 |
| pic from tradebit.com |
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| pic from epk.com |
I am the kind of friend that will tweeze the face hairs that your aging eyes couldn't see rather than let you become a feminine version of Big Foot.
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| pic from thebeautybrains.com |
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| pic from chocolatecakesite.com |
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| pic from amominredhighheels.com |
I am the kind of friend that would do your laundry for you, including your husband's underwear (even though underwear gross me out), if you were out of commission for any reason.
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| pic from simplywash.com |
I am the kind of friend that would wipe your kids' boogers despite the fact that my own kids' boogers make me gag.
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| pic from health.howstuffworks.com |
I am that kind of friend.
********What about you? What kind of friend are you?*********************************
This post was inspired by my new blog friend . . . Julie who blogs at by any other name . . .
Go check her out!
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
I Want . . .
I want to wear dark sunglasses, hop on a plane, and arrive at some exotic destination.
I want to sip fruity cocktails while I lounge sea side in a cabana and read a trashy novel just for fun.
I want to drift off to sleep in the sun, napping the afternoon away, waking up only in time to get ready for a yummy dinner.
Instead, I don layers of sunscreen and arrive at the community pool with dozens of other women and children. I navigate through a sea of swim diapered bottoms and melted popsicles to find a pool chair that has one slat missing and that allows my ass to sink through it. I pass the afternoon away doling out snacks, reapplying sunscreen, and fending off the yawns with caffeinated Diet Coke.
I want to wake up at 10 am and have my morning coffee at a leisurely pace while perched on my shady back deck.
I want to eat chocolate croissants, get my fingers dirty, and lick them off one by one.
I want to spend the morning in my pajamas while I write and write and write. . . with no interruptions.
Instead, I wake at the crack of dawn to watch the puppy poop. I start at least 4 cups of coffee and then leave them all over the house to get cold as I get kids ready for the last days of school. I manuever around the Direct TV men that have their plumber's butts assalting my eyes in full force. I wolf down a cherry pop tart- cold- and then load up the car to start the day's errands.
I want to get dressed up in a pretty frock, put on make-up and fancy, girly shoes.
I want to walk down the stairs in my gorgeous get up and have hubs be speechless.
I want to go out to dinner and dancing and drinks.
And I want to laugh and laugh and laugh.
Instead, I slap down a pizza on the counter for the family. We hurriedly chomp it down, and then we load up the car. Once there, we pop the trunk, get out the snacks and sleeping bags, and hubs and I snuggle with three loves to watch the drive-in movie.
And, we laugh and laugh and laugh.
All is good.
All is good.
*********************Today I am Pouring My Heart out at Shell's.************************
I want to sip fruity cocktails while I lounge sea side in a cabana and read a trashy novel just for fun.
I want to drift off to sleep in the sun, napping the afternoon away, waking up only in time to get ready for a yummy dinner.
Instead, I don layers of sunscreen and arrive at the community pool with dozens of other women and children. I navigate through a sea of swim diapered bottoms and melted popsicles to find a pool chair that has one slat missing and that allows my ass to sink through it. I pass the afternoon away doling out snacks, reapplying sunscreen, and fending off the yawns with caffeinated Diet Coke.
I want to wake up at 10 am and have my morning coffee at a leisurely pace while perched on my shady back deck.
I want to eat chocolate croissants, get my fingers dirty, and lick them off one by one.
I want to spend the morning in my pajamas while I write and write and write. . . with no interruptions.
Instead, I wake at the crack of dawn to watch the puppy poop. I start at least 4 cups of coffee and then leave them all over the house to get cold as I get kids ready for the last days of school. I manuever around the Direct TV men that have their plumber's butts assalting my eyes in full force. I wolf down a cherry pop tart- cold- and then load up the car to start the day's errands.
I want to get dressed up in a pretty frock, put on make-up and fancy, girly shoes.
I want to walk down the stairs in my gorgeous get up and have hubs be speechless.
I want to go out to dinner and dancing and drinks.
And I want to laugh and laugh and laugh.
Instead, I slap down a pizza on the counter for the family. We hurriedly chomp it down, and then we load up the car. Once there, we pop the trunk, get out the snacks and sleeping bags, and hubs and I snuggle with three loves to watch the drive-in movie.
And, we laugh and laugh and laugh.
All is good.
All is good.
*********************Today I am Pouring My Heart out at Shell's.************************
Monday, June 6, 2011
Losing my Voice (Along with my Sanity)
I am losing my voice.
Stop laughing.
There are several reasons that I am losing my voice.
1) All of the trees and bushes and live things in my town have plotted against me and decided they needed to procreate all at the same time.
2) I have tutored 7,000 hours of math and algebra in the last few days due to the school's final exams. (You know it is bad when Ethan asked me quite seriously, "Mom, did you figure out what X is yet? You keep asking kid after kid what X is. Do any of them know?" No. They do not know what X is. That is why they see me!)
3) The new puppy has created whole new reasons to yell. For example, "For the love of all that is good and holy . . . you can not put the dog in your baby stroller!" Or what about this? "No! You can not feed the dog your spaghetti! Dogs don't like spaghetti!" (Even though, apparently, this dog does like spaghetti. This does not surprise me, however. What surprises me is that Indy, the puppy, is still alive despite being smothered frequently by Ellerie. The dog is a damn saint!)
So clearly, I am ripe for losing my voice . . .except that I can't lose my voice.
I can't lose my voice, you see, because I am a yeller.
And, I love being a yeller.
*********I Yell. Suck It Up. Originally posted 6/5/10****************
I'm a yeller.
My high pitched voice can often be heard calling things like, "Whose underwear are these right in the middle of the hallway?" Or maybe, "Do not squirt your sister!" as I call from the protection of the dining room.
So, give it up. Are you a lover or a fighter? Or a yeller?
Stop laughing.
There are several reasons that I am losing my voice.
1) All of the trees and bushes and live things in my town have plotted against me and decided they needed to procreate all at the same time.
2) I have tutored 7,000 hours of math and algebra in the last few days due to the school's final exams. (You know it is bad when Ethan asked me quite seriously, "Mom, did you figure out what X is yet? You keep asking kid after kid what X is. Do any of them know?" No. They do not know what X is. That is why they see me!)
3) The new puppy has created whole new reasons to yell. For example, "For the love of all that is good and holy . . . you can not put the dog in your baby stroller!" Or what about this? "No! You can not feed the dog your spaghetti! Dogs don't like spaghetti!" (Even though, apparently, this dog does like spaghetti. This does not surprise me, however. What surprises me is that Indy, the puppy, is still alive despite being smothered frequently by Ellerie. The dog is a damn saint!)
So clearly, I am ripe for losing my voice . . .except that I can't lose my voice.
I can't lose my voice, you see, because I am a yeller.
And, I love being a yeller.
*********I Yell. Suck It Up. Originally posted 6/5/10****************
I'm a yeller.
My high pitched voice can often be heard calling things like, "Whose underwear are these right in the middle of the hallway?" Or maybe, "Do not squirt your sister!" as I call from the protection of the dining room.
I yell. I am OK with it. It's my style.
But recently, after picking Ethan up from a play date, he posed this question on the ride home.
"Mom, did you know that there are moms that do not yell? Isn't that amazing?"
After wiping the tears of laughter from my eyes, my response?
"Honey, I know that there are moms that do not yell. God just didn't happen to give you one of them."
Case closed.
I yell.
Suck it up.
So, give it up. Are you a lover or a fighter? Or a yeller?
*********************************************************
See?
Yelling?
It's sooooooo me.
Whispering?
Not so much.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Pool-ing My Sanity
Dear Pool Patron,
I am sorry that you had the misfortune of sitting next to us at the pool yesterday. I am sorry that my kids dripped all over your stack of GQ's, and I am sorry that Ethan did a cannonball (which was perfectly executed . . . was it not?) 2 feet from your spot ruining your sunscreen application with a spray of chlorine. And the spilled popcorn that created a Hitchcock-like scene of birds? Sorry for that too. I am sure that you wanted a nice, relaxing visit to the pool, but sitting next to my crew insured that your visit was neither relaxing nor quiet.
PS I am also sorry that Ellerie accidentally grabbed your towel and blew great gobs of boogers into it when you were busy at the snack bar. I would have told you about it . . . but I didn't want to interrupt you again. (That and I was laughing too hard to speak.)
********What about it y'all? Any pool pet peeves out there????*************
I am sorry that you had the misfortune of sitting next to us at the pool yesterday. I am sorry that my kids dripped all over your stack of GQ's, and I am sorry that Ethan did a cannonball (which was perfectly executed . . . was it not?) 2 feet from your spot ruining your sunscreen application with a spray of chlorine. And the spilled popcorn that created a Hitchcock-like scene of birds? Sorry for that too. I am sure that you wanted a nice, relaxing visit to the pool, but sitting next to my crew insured that your visit was neither relaxing nor quiet.
Go figure!
Next time, may I suggest sitting in the more adult section near the deep end of the pool? It may do more for you than shooting this weary mother your dirty looks.
Dirty looks will do you no good.
I laugh in the face of your dirty looks.
Sincerely,
Annie
********What about it y'all? Any pool pet peeves out there????*************
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Puppy Love
Today's Mama Kat's challenge was to write a six word memoir.
6 words?
Only 6?
This severely limits my gift for gab, but here goes . . .
Seriously y'all. Having a new puppy is like having a baby all over again. Early a.m. wake ups, pee, poop, whining, stinkin' gates everywhere. . . what were we thinking?????
We had it good.
We had it good!
But if you pushed me, I would have to admit that there is just something about sweet puppy kisses and that wagging tale that suckers me in.
6 words?
Only 6?
This severely limits my gift for gab, but here goes . . .
The summer of puppy love insanity.
Or what about . . .
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| Art by Mark Schuler, image from kansaswatercolor.com |
Waking with puppy . . . GREAT birth control.
Seriously y'all. Having a new puppy is like having a baby all over again. Early a.m. wake ups, pee, poop, whining, stinkin' gates everywhere. . . what were we thinking?????
We had it good.
We had it good!
But if you pushed me, I would have to admit that there is just something about sweet puppy kisses and that wagging tale that suckers me in.
Every. damn. time.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Summer Funner Bummer in the Target Parking Lot
Summer Funner!
That's what the grammatically incorrect sign in Target proclaimed in 3 foot high letters.
"Mom? Isn't that wrong?"
Smiling at my 9 year old's grammar prowess, I answered, "Yep. But sometimes advertisers break grammar rules on purpose to try to make a point."
Ab thought about it for a moment and then said, "Oh. And the giant corn on the cob hanging from the ceiling ?"
"That," I answered, "is just goofy."
Later, as we were leaving, Ethan spied another ridiculously large summer icon. It was a giant beach ball in the parking lot. This was no doubt also part of the Summer Funner promotion except it was not an actual beach ball. Instead, it was one of Target's giant red, concrete balls that line their parking lot . . . painted to look like a beach ball.
"Hey Mom! Watch this! " Ethan called with excitement.
And before I could yell, "Nooooooo!" Ethan wound up his left leg and gave that imitation beach ball a swift soccer kick.
I'll admit . . .it was hard not to laugh when the boy went down yelping and grabbing his toe.
Very hard.
Summer funner.
Yep.
Always is around here.
**********For other Target adventures and embarrassments, visit my Dear Target post.************
That's what the grammatically incorrect sign in Target proclaimed in 3 foot high letters.
"Mom? Isn't that wrong?"
Smiling at my 9 year old's grammar prowess, I answered, "Yep. But sometimes advertisers break grammar rules on purpose to try to make a point."
Ab thought about it for a moment and then said, "Oh. And the giant corn on the cob hanging from the ceiling ?"
"That," I answered, "is just goofy."
Later, as we were leaving, Ethan spied another ridiculously large summer icon. It was a giant beach ball in the parking lot. This was no doubt also part of the Summer Funner promotion except it was not an actual beach ball. Instead, it was one of Target's giant red, concrete balls that line their parking lot . . . painted to look like a beach ball.
 |
| Pic from journalgroup.com . . . (Imagine a beach ball instead of this red ball.) |
"Hey Mom! Watch this! " Ethan called with excitement.
And before I could yell, "Nooooooo!" Ethan wound up his left leg and gave that imitation beach ball a swift soccer kick.
I'll admit . . .it was hard not to laugh when the boy went down yelping and grabbing his toe.
Very hard.
Summer funner.
Yep.
Always is around here.
**********For other Target adventures and embarrassments, visit my Dear Target post.************
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