A Bad Ass And A Booger Picker

Yesterday I had the pleasure of taking my kids to get their influenza immunizations.

I know.

I know.

You are jealous.

While in the office, the nurse explained that the kids would be getting the flu "sniff". The sniff vaccine is a mist that is sprayed  in the kids' nostrils one at a time, and after it is sprayed, the kids must sniff heartily.  Easy peasy.

When the nurse was finally done with her explanation, Ab asked her, "Is this the one that drips down your throat for a bit afterwards?"

The nurse indicated that it was, and that's when my first surprise of the day occurred.

"Then give me the shot!"  Abbie stated emphatically.

The nurse raised her eyebrow in disbelief. Clearly, not many kids requested a shot instead of the sniff.

I confronted Ab.  "What? You would rather have a shot? Are you sure you are my kid?"  I asked not believing it could be true. 

She explained simply, "I hate that feeling of the stuff running down my throat."

Well OK.

I could understand that, and let's face it.

My kid was a bad ass.

Who knew?

So, Ab bared her arm and was shot up.



picture compliments of newsofworld.com



Ethan, however, opted for the sniff vaccine.  After snorting mightily to his own delight, the nurse chuckled and instructed Ethan, "Now, don't blow your nose for at least 30 minutes.  We want the medicine to take effect."

He nodded, and we were on our way.

Later, as I picked up the kids from school I got surprise number two.

"How was your day E?" I asked as we walked home together.

His smile filled his entire face, and he replied, "Great!  I picked my nose three times!"



picture from kidzworld.com



I stopped mid stride and looked at him.  "What?"

He stopped too and continued grinning.  "I said . . . I picked my nose three times!" He enunciated slowly to show that he wasn't kidding.

As his mother and a registered germ-a-phobe, I was completely grossed out.  "Why Ethan?  Why would you pick your nose?  You are old enough to know how to use a tissue!"  I scolded.

He looked a little perplexed when he answered, "But the nurse said not to blow my nose, " he paused and then finished, proud of his own ingenuity, "so I picked it instead." 

Nice.

I have a bad ass and a booger picker.

What other mom can have claim to that?


And . . . on Aunt Crazy's recommendation . . . I am linking up to Kmama's Proud Mommy Moments . . .
Bad Asses and Booger Pickers apparently qualify.
:)


 


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Come join me on twitter . . .  @annieinsanity

No Wonder I Am Pooped . . .

"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.

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!

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.

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.************

Victoria . . . I'm Pretty Sure She Farts Too

*******disclaimer . . . blogger is being temperamental . . .I apologize if this shows in your reader a few times . . .********

pic from victoriassecret.com

"Hey! Nice butt!"

Amused, I turned around slowly, faced my son in the mall corridor, and blushed.  "Ummmm, thanks Ethan? That makes mom feel good."  I was a bit uncomfortable with the compliment, but I was also flattered. I reflected that at age 37 I had just completed a half marathon, and now my kid recognized that I had a nice butt.

I seriously rocked.

Rocked.

My arm, however,  was quickly broken while I patted myself on the back when Ethan explained, "Oh mom!  Not your butt!  That butt!" And with that, he pointed to the 12 foot poster in the Victoria's Secret store window.  It showed a faceless model leaning over a car showing off her lacy drawers. She did, in fact, have a nice butt.  A I-have-never-had-three-kids-and-ate-my-weight-in-chips-ahoy-cookies butt.

Sigh.

My mood suddenly tanked until Ethan said, "Why would anyone take a picture of a butt?  Butts are gross!  I mean . . .they're butts."  Then he paused and said slowly for emphasis, "Farts.come.out.of.them."

So, I may not have a Victoria's Secret model's butt, but I do have a 7 year old little boy that makes me laugh.

And, Ethan?

He seriously rocks.

Rocks.

OH MICKEY YOU'RE SO FINE . . . Except When You Are a Mouse in My Kitchen . . .

Hubs launched into his diatribe before I could even get my coffee this morning.

"Annie, I swear.  It was like he was mocking me."

Unable to answer him without caffeine, I casually looked at him and raised my right eyebrow in a question mark.

He acknowledged my question with further explanation.  "I was just sitting in the chair last night, and he came out from under the cabinet, stopped, and looked at me.  Really.looked.at.me!  As if he was saying, 'You've got nothing, big man.  You've. got. nothing!'  And then he ran right into the fireplace." Hubs pointed to the fireplace and the gas logs that were now strewn haphazardly around the hearth for emphasis.

I swallowed my coffee, letting the caffeine do its work, and I asked the question hubs did not want to hear.  "So you are saying that this mouse has gotten the best of you?" I paused and then goaded a little, "C'mon Paul . . .really?!"

His answer was swift and immediate.  "Oh no.  Not my best. Mickey can't look at me like that.  No way!  IT IS ON!!!"  He was using his coach pre-game pump up voice.  And before he could utter the words, I knew what hubs would say next.

"This. means. WAR!"

So, tonight the war between Mickey and hubs is on.  Traps will be set, and if I know Mickey, I am pretty sure that those same traps will also be thwarted.

I mean, if Mickey could outsmart Nathan Lane . . .


imdb.com

 Hubs just doesn't stand a chance.

Stay tuned for Mousehunt II . . . The Midwest War!

Edward Scissorhands . . . He Is Not . . .

Dear Lord,

Just a short question for today.

What is it about boys and scissors?

That's all.

Off to Supercuts to fix Ethan's homemade hairdo.

Annie

He Has An Appetite . . .Just Not For Winning

The flag football coach leaned over the huddle of excited 6 year olds and yelled, "Are you ready?"

A chorus of cheers erupted.  "YES! YES! YES!"

"Are you excited?  Do you want to win?"

"YES! YES! YES!"

Grinning, the coach finished his pregame pump up.  "Are you HUNNNNNN- GRY?  Then get out there and play hard!"

The mass of squirmy, dirty boys whooped it up and ran out onto the field.



After the game, Ethan shared, "Mom!  It was so much fun!"

I smiled and responded, "That's great buddy.  It was fun to watch."

"But Mom?"  he hesitated.   "When the coach asked before the game if I was hungry. . .  I really wasn't.  I was just thinking about playing the game."  He paused and added,  "I am hungry now though."




Boys.

They are so literal.

When The Big O Hangs Around . . .

Ethan is very literal.

You may remember the time that his t-ball coach directed him to left field with the instructions, "Go stand behind Mark."  And, my little literal love trotted his butt out to where Mark was positioned and stood about six inches behind him.

There are no grey areas for that boy.

So, the other day, when he brought home his art work, and it was titled "The Big O". . .


I was more than a little worried.


Had a rotten little worldly kid explained the birds and the bees to him on the bus?

Had Ethan secretly viewed some Netflix movie in the basement when I wasn't watching?

Had he  . . . ahem . . . overheard his parents?


Clearly, I was panicking.

So, I worked up my nerve, and just asked him.  "Ethan?  What exactly is The Big O?  I can't tell from the picture."

Naturally, he sighed, rolled his eyes, and explained, "Maa-ahm!" he dragged out.  "Can't you tell what the Big O is?"

I gave him a blank stare and kept silent.

"Oh!  Alright! I will just tell you, " he lamented.  And then, with a big old grin on his face he explained, "It's an oppossum!  You know?  The Big O?"

 I have to admit, I was never so excited to discuss an oppossum in my whole life.

And, the really big O?  That conversation will have to be left until another day . . . and his father.

Getting Screwed . . .



google images


"Honey, I have a screw in my pants," hubs mentioned as we got the kiddies ready for bed.

"What?!"  I asked as I struggled to pull a pj top over Ellerie's squirmy head.

And then he repeated it.  S-l-o-w-l-y.  "I have a screw in my pants.  Right . . . now . . ."

I instantly stopped what I was doing and began to giggle. I shot him a knowing look, a wink, and then I purposefully looked over at our children.

He ignored me and continued with his screw talk.  "You know . . . it's about two inches long, right?"

And then I burst out laughing.

"Two inches?  Two inches?!?  That's it?"  I wasn't trying to insult his manhood, but THAT was supposed to be enticing?  I . think. not.

He chuckled at my reaction, and then asked with his eyes twinkling, "Annie, what did you think that I was talking about?"

I am fairly certain that I blushed, because it is one of those annoying things that I do, as I gave him a very definitive, "Umm.  You know . . . well . . ."  And then an irritated, "Don't make me spell it out!"

He laughed.

I waited.

Finally, he explained, "I wore these warm up pants the last time that I was working in the house.  I put a 2 inch screw in my pocket, but apparently there was a hole in the pocket and the screw is now trapped in the lining of  my pants."

Nice.

Now that's a screw of a different color.

This "Baywatch Babe" Says Goodbye . . .

Ages and ages ago, before my kids, before my stay-at-home momdom,  I taught English . . .  to seventh and eighth graders.

Yes.  I know that I have already earned my spot in heaven.

I taught those pubescent boys and girls about my love for reading and books.  I coerced them to write, write about anything.  We examined the parts of speech and their impact on the students' writing.  We rewrote Shakespearean scripts with modern day twists.  ( Anyone ever read a MTV's Real World show in Shakespearean form? No?  It was hysterical!)  We wrote soap operas and sitcoms.  We read poetry and music lyrics.  We talked about them.  We wrote about them.  And, even though my students were challenging every damn day, I loved every minute of it.

One class I had was particularly challenging.  It was an 8th grade composition class.  This class met immediately after lunch each day, and it was filled to the brim with 8th grade boys. 

Hormones-raging 8th grade boys stuffed in one small room after being hyped up with lunch time sugar. . . and one petite 20 something English teacher?

Not a good combination.

It was enough to make me start drinking.  Heavily.

Instead though, I tackled that class head on, including one particular student, Craig. 

Craig was the ringleader of those boisterous boys.  His red hair and freckled face were reminiscent of Mad Magazine's Alfred E. Newman, and his blue eyes were animated and filled with life and laughter.  Students naturally gravitated toward Craig.  He was good looking, quick witted, and pretty much a natural leader.  And even though at times he was wickedly ornery and made me want to pull my hair out, there was just no way that I could stay mad at him.  (Believe me.  I tried.)  His smile and his eyes disarmed me every time.

He had charm, and he knew it.

One time the students had a fairly straightforward assignment to write about a memorable teacher, good or bad.  I read countless papers about my colleagues that recounted ways that they had spent extra time with certain students or how they had inevitably scarred others.  (Incidentally, do we teachers really realize our influence?)  Then, I got to Craig's paper.

It was about me.

Except, it wasn't about how I had helped him discover all the wondrous joys of the English language,  and it wasn't about how I had scarred him from ever picking up a book again.  Nope.  Craig wrote about how I was a memorable teacher because I reminded him of one of the Baywatch stars on TV.

Yep.  Craig was saying that he thought that I looked like a Baywatch babe in a paper that I had to read and grade.

Brazen little sucker, wasn't he?

I remember reading his essay and thinking,  "This kid has got balls!  What was he thinking?!"  And truthfully, as a young teacher, I wasn't quite sure what my reaction should be.  I took the essay in hand and went for some counsel from the principal.

He read it silently, but before he was done, his shoulders shook with silent laughs and tears escaped the corners of his eyes.

"Well?"  I questioned.

He answered simply, "You have to confront this."  And then he added, "Good luck,"  with a wink.

Great.

So, I did the only thing that I could,  I called Craig up to my desk, pushed his paper across it, and looked him in the eye.

"What were you thinking with this, Craig?"  I asked.  "It is totally inappropriate."

Then I paused, continued to look at him, and waited.

He met my gaze, let a slow smile creep across his face, and answered, "Well,  I thought that it would get me a good grade."  Then his eyes twinkled and he asked, "No?"

It was all I could do not to laugh, and I replied simply, "No."

Yes.  Craig was that student that no matter what he did, he really could do no wrong.  So we continued the year.  He continued to drive me crazy, and I continued to suppress my laughs . . .unsuccessfully.

He was a life force, that Craig, and he was one of my favorites for sure.

That is why the news of his death has knocked the breath right out of me.

Craig, with his sparkle,  Craig, with his vitality,  Craig, with his endearing orneriness is dead.  There are just so many things that are wrong with this.  He was too young.  He was too vital.  He was such a force.

I am overwhelmed with sadness for all the things that Craig and his family will miss.

And one thing that I know is for certain.  He has definitely taken a part of this "Baywatch babe's" heart with him.

Rest peacefully, you imp!

I will miss you.

Sniffing One Out

This morning as I sat snuggled under my Snuggie (Yes.  I have one. Do not judge!),  hubs moved frantically around the house while he packed his duffle bag for his afternoon football practice.

"You got everything?"  I asked.

"Yep.  I think so,"  he answered. 

I watched as he wandered from room to room gathering goodies as he roamed. Nikes?  Picked up in the living room.  Sweatshirt?  Retrieved from the back of a chair in the dining room.  You see, whenever hubs returns from work, he leaves a trail of clothing in his wake.

It used to drive me crazy,  his Hansel and Gretel like afternoon tendencies.

Seriously. 

Caaa - razy!

But, after 10 years of marriage, I am used to it.  Most days, I either leave his trail intact, or I place all of the items I find in one basket that I deposit in his closet.

It's not ideal, but it works for us.

So, when hubs zipped up his bag, paused and then said, "Oh!  Socks!  I need socks!"  I went into locator mode.  I quickly thought through a mental checklist of the done and to-be-completed laundry,and just as I was about to tell him where the clean socks were, I clammed up in awe.

There was hubs, bending over and picking up his discarded socks from yesterday.

"Really, hon?"  I asked.

He answered with a wry smile, "What? These?!?"  And then he took a good. long. sniff. of those yesterday socks.  He smiled again and said emphatically, "Really!"



And although I am completely grossed out by the yesterday socks and the sniffing . . .
at least it is one less pair of socks to wash.



Anyone else out there with a sock sniffing spouse, or is it just me?

Love on a School Bus

When Ethan hopped off the bus the other afternoon, he was grinning a wide toothy grin.  Since the start of kindergarten has been a bit rocky, to say the least, I was pleasantly surprised to see a happy kid emerge from the school  bus.

"Today was great mom!" E explained.

Giving him a big, bear-hug, I replied, "Oh Ethan!  I am sooo glad you had a good day."  I extracted myself from his cling, looked him in the eye, and then said,  "What made it so good?"

But before he could answer,  a little girl's blond head popped up in the school bus window and waved frantically.  The impossibly cute little girl shouted out the window, "BYE ETHAN!!!"

Ethan blushed, and I had a bit of a clue as to why Ethan's day was so great.

"Ethan, who was that?"  I asked, playing dumb.

Trying to be cool, Ethan replied, "Oh Mom, that is just Tate.  She's my girlfriend."

I surpressed my giggle and remarked, "Oh really? How did you get to be boyfriend and girlfriend?"

Ethan explained it simply. "Well, she sat down on the bus next to me, and then she said, 'You are my boyfriend, and I am your girlfriend!'  so I figured, OK."

"You figured, OK?" I repeated.

"Yep!"  he answered.  "I thought that she IS a girl and she IS my friend so .  . .it's OK for her to be my girl-friend."

I laughed at his explanation and assured him that it was, indeed,  OK for her to be his girl-friend. As we walked away, I thought about how Tate had made E's day by just showing she cared about him (even if she was a little direct).  I wanted to  reach out and kiss that little girl named Tate who had made my little boy smile.  That is, I was thinking about kissing her until Ethan broke into my train of thought.

"Mom . . .isn't Tate sooooo stinking  cute?"  he remarked.

And I realized two things.  One,  apparently I was not the only one that was thinking about kissing Tate, and two,  I am in sooooooo much trouble.

He Rubs Me the Wrong Way

The last few days I have been feeling pretty crappy, so hubs decided to cheer me up with a joke.
He opened his laptop and proceeded with the following (of which, I am sure that I am butchering, but, bear with me . . .)


A boy asked his mother, "Why is my big sister named MoonChild?"
The mother said, "Because she was conceived when the first man landed on the moon."

I chuckled, and hubs continued to read.

The son continued, "Why is my other sister named CornFlower?"
The mother said, "Because she was conceived in a corn field."

I smiled again. I could see where this was going. Hubby continued the joke from his laptop.

"Why is big brother named ThunderingStorm?" he asked. She replied, "Because he was made during a storm."

He paused, and I waited expectantly for the punchline. Hubs smiled and delivered the one liner.

The mother continued, "Why are you so curious Tom Rubber?"

Hubby laughed out loud and looked over at me for my reaction.

"Hon? Are you sure it's Tom Rubber? Isn't it supposed to be Torn Rubber?" I questioned.

Instantly, hubs rubbed his eyes, squinted at the screen, and then turned red. "Yep. Torn Rubber."

Then we looked at each other and burst out laughing. When we finally caught our breath, I asked him, "Doesn't Torn Rubber make more sense? Tom Rubber isn't even funny."

Hubby just chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. Which leads me to two thoughts. One, hubby muffed the line on purpose to make me laugh because he knew that I was feeling crappy. Or two, (which is clearly the more likely answer) hubs screwed up the punch line because we are getting old and he couldn't see it, but he still laughed because it had the word rubber in it.

After all, boys will be boys.