The Fat Man May Be Singing

Ethan has had a few rough days.

What with school ending for Christmas break and two weeks of days with no predictable routine stretching ahead of him, the poor boy has had some questionable behavior moments to say the least.

This evening friends of ours stopped by dressed as Santa and his elves.  The younger two kids, including Ethan, were mesmerized by the jolly fat man.  They proceeded to talk his ear off, and thankfully Santa was a good sport.  "I've been watching you all, and you kids have been very good!" he emphasized as he walked out my front door.

Ethan smiled politely, waved goodbye and said nothing.

Later though, he put in his two cents, "Santa must not be watching very well.  I mean,  how could he say I was good these past few days?!?"

True enough.

The gig may be up.

The fat man may be singing.

The Sharting, Part II

It all started last week in Kohl's.

"Mom?"  Ellerie asked in a whispered shriek.

"What?"

"I farted, "  and then she paused, glanced around to see if anyone but me was listening, and continued, "but instead of a fart, I think a little poop came out!"

Nine dollars, a new pair of leggings, and a sponge bath for Ellerie in the department store restroom later, all was well.

Sharts happen, right?

Over the next few days, my family, including Ellerie, laughed at the thought of me, the germ-a-phobe, in a public restroom dealing with a naked and poopy 4 year old.  I, of course, laughed along with them.  Ellerie and I even did a reenactment of the crazy situation or "The Sharting" as it came to be known in family lore.

This weekend though I wasn't laughing when I had to deal with the stomach flu and Ethan. (Incidentally, it is times like these when I wonder if Mary ever had to clean up a pukey, poopy Jesus, and if she did, did she gag at the yucky smells like I do?)  Thankfully, this morning Ethan was finally ready to go back to school, and after getting ready, I encouraged Ethan to try to go to the bathroom one last time before going to school.

 He agreed and headed for the bathroom with the words, "I certainly don't want to be in 'The Sharting,  Part II' !"

Is it any wonder why I love that boy so?

Tim McGraw in the City?

"Maaaaa-ooooomm!"  Ethan bellowed from the back seat.

Turning the music on the car radio down, I answered impatiently, "What?"

"Is this country music?" he asked.

Wondering where he was headed I answered, "Yes.  So?"

"Well," he paused,  "can you turn on the city music?"

"City music?" I repeated.

"Yes.  City music.  You know, the good stuff."


Apparently my hopes for having a future Tim McGraw are all for naught.

Pooping Out Babies . . .

It all started with one particularly memorable conversation.

"Mom, do ladies just poop out babies?"  Ethan asked after watching a commercial for TLC's A Baby Story. 

"Poop them out?! What? NO!"  I stammered quickly.  When I recovered, my curiosity got the best of me and I asked, "Why would you think that ladies pooped out babies anyway?"

He rolled his little seven year old eyes at me and slowly, and a bit impatiently explained, "Well, on TV the ladies get all scrunched up and pull on their legs and then grunt like they are pooping a really BIG poop."

Aha! (If only he knew how closely labor resembled a really BIG poop, but I digress. . .)

I went on to explain that ladies were specially made to have babies, and then for further clarification, I added, "Ladies have one hole that is ONLY for pooping, one hole that is ONLY for peeing, and one hole that is called a vagina that is made ONLY to have babies."

And since at seven I didn't think that he needed to know how babies actually came to be using THAT same baby hole, I ended the conversation there.  He seemed content with his new knowledge.

This morning, however, it became clear that I needed to go over Ethan's new vocabulary, yet again.  The conversation revolved around a friend of ours that had just delivered a baby.  Not wanting to be left out, Ethan smiled his jack-o-latern grin, nodded knowingly, and piped in his two cents, ". . .And . . . the baby came right out of her baby shooting hole!"

Yes.

I am so proud.

. . . Only if He Shares His Manolos!



These manolo blahnik leopard peep toes were found at gignoelleeventplanner.com.  Aren't they gorge????



As I leaned over to tie my tennis shoes, I noticed that I had forgotten to shave my legs, yet again.

"Will one of you guys PLEASE remind me to shave my legs?"  I said to none of the kiddies in particular.

Ethan, of course, piped up. 

"No problem mom, " and then he added, "oh, by the way, I shaved my legs."

I stopped my tying and looked at him.

"You did what?"

 "I shaved. . . with the razor in the shower."

"Ethan!" I screeched, "For the love of god . . .Why?!?!"

He looked at me innocently and answered,  "What?  Am I not supposed to do that?"  I stared at him with my mouth open while he finished, "And . . . my legs WERE hairy."

Sigh.

I fear that someday in my future I may have a son that comes to me and says that he likes to wear heels.

Which, of course, I will be OK with . . . as long as he lets me share his manolos.

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

I visited my son's first grade classroom today to be guest reader . . .

I visited my son's first grade classroom today to be guest reader.

Yes.

I did.

Stop laughing.

It went a little something like this.

"You WERE a teacher?  What do you do now?"   hmmm.  I don't know.  Sit around and eat bon bons all day?

"I got my yellow belt last night.  My mom said it cost 1000 dollars."  Note to self . . .  that family is in the karate clique.  Hope that Ethan never picks a fight with yellow belt boy.

"Why is it so cold?"  Because Mother Nature appears to be in menopause this year.

"My mom said no flip flops today."  Really?  I didn't know that, but I did hear that Starbucks has their Pumpkin Spice Latte up and running, so there's that.

"What's that?"  Oh no?  What??

"That!"  Oh!  That!  It's a not a tumor !(Thank you Arnold Schwarzenagger.)  Wear your sunscreen though.  Definitely wear your sunscreen.

Skeletons can't drink.  Really?  Well neither can your teacher while she is here, although I am pretty sure that if it was me, I would be driven to drink each and every day of the school year.

So, dear Mrs. K of first grade, I salute you my dear lady.

I was toast after 15 minutes, and you do it every day, all day.

You are a saint.

Thanks.

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!

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.

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.

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

The Next Dancing With the Stars Star???

Whenever I need a smile during my day, I turn on the tunes and let the kids go at it.




Seriously?

How can you not smile at that?

Now, off to change my panties.

My old, grey bladder . . . she ain't what she used to be.

******************************Linking to Mama Kat's with this vlog.  The prompt was to show something your kids do that is funny or makes you laugh.********************************

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.

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.

A Picture is Worth . . .?

The outside of the school photo envelope read, "A smile worth sharing . . ."

Really?

St. Patrick: He's Not Just a Saint Anymore . . .

Happy St. Patrick's Day !

Today we are searching for the leprechaun that turned our toilet water green and decorated and adorned our mirrors with green crayon shamrocks.  We are also baking Irish Soda Bread, and the house smells absolutely yummy.

It is a good day.

In honor of this fun day, here is an Ethan story from a few years ago.  It is a family classic. 

Enjoy.

*********************************************************************************

After preschool today, Ethan was quite animated.


"Mom! There was this new boy in class."

"Really? Tell me about him."

"Well . . . " he paused thinking. "He brought chocolate."

Smiling, I responded, "That was nice. You know how mommy loves chocolate. Do you have any extra? " It was 3 o'clock. I could go for an afternoon chocolate fix.

"Maaaa- aaaaamm!" he sighed. "No! I don't! Anyway, he likes gold."

"What kind of gold? Like the color?"

"No. Gold. REAL gold. Like jewelry gold." This was interesting. I was picturing a little 4 year old adorned with bling, golden front tooth, flashing gang signs. And then E threw in the last nugget of info.

"Aaaannnddd," he drew out the word, "His name is . . ." and he stopped.

"His name is what?"

"Um. I forget, " E stated. Typical. I waited and finally he had it. "Patrick! His name was Patrick!"

That's when it dawned on me.

" E? Did you actually meet Patrick? " I quizzed.

"Well, no. But Mrs. Pritzer sure talked about him a lot. I bet I'll meet him tomorrow," he said with finality.

I am sure he will too. Tomorrow is March 17th, St. Patrick's Day. So E's new classmate is a leprechaun.

At least his school is multi-cultural.

The Whiffle Ball of Death . . .

It was a pleasant 60 degrees as I worked in the yard on Saturday.  Dirty trickles of sweat snaked down my face, as I yanked out miles and miles of ivy.  I was grimy, smelly, and certainly reminiscent of Charlie Brown's Pig Pen as I labored in my garden. The sounds of the kids playing in the yard,  the scratchy scraping noise of my too old metal rake, and the bursts of wind that suddenly stirred the naked branches in the trees made for an awesome spring soundtrack.  Despite the fact that my personal cloud of dust followed after me everwhere I raked, I was happy.  I stopped my work, leaned on my old rake, and surveyed the scene. Breathing deeply, I drank in the lovely moment.

Unfortunately, it wasn't long before I was choked.

I heard the familiar crack of plastic as Ethan made contact with the whiffle ball.  He had slammed the pitch into a near perfect line drive.

Too bad that line drive was interrupted after just 3 feet of flight . . .  by my nose.

Yes.

pic compliments of brady bunch shrine

It was my own personal Marcia Brady-like moment.

After copious amounts of snot and blood and swelling, Ethan tiptoed over to me and whispered in a gush,  "I am sooooo glad I didn't kill you."

Even though I knew that it would restart the blood and snot cycle, I couldn't help but laugh.

Death by a whiffle ball?

I love that kid.

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.

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.

Relatively Speaking

As I was straightening up the bathroom, I overheard Ethan and hubs wrestling with each other in the bedroom.  Hubs grunted and groaned as Ethan's pointy elbows made contact with his nether regions, and Ethan, of course, laughed with delight.

But suddenly, I heard Ethan yell out, "Grandpa! Grandpa!  Grandpa!"

Hubs, I'm sure, was as puzzled as I was, because I heard him ask Ethan, "Why are you calling me Grandpa?  Am I really that old?"

The wrestling stopped when Ethan answered matter of factly, "Dad, you said to yell 'Grandpa' when I have had enough wrestling, or I'm in pain."

Through his laughter (and mine), hubs replied, " No Ethan.  I said to yell, 'Uncle!' "

"Uncle?  But why would you yell uncle?"  Ethan questioned.


And, after thinking about it a bit, I think that I am with Ethan.  Why not Grandpa?  Or Aunt?  Or Second cousin once removed?

After all, it's all relative. (Ha!  I couldn't resist!)