Apropos of nothing but the pride that swelled at my son’s performance today, I’m dropping these, ahem, observations here and calling it a day. My big kid began a second run of occupational therapy today, and there’s nothing that pains a mom’s heart like that in-your-face bitch slap of “Here’s what your kid can’t do.” Compared to other therapy appointments, it was a bronze medal day for me. Woulda/coulda been a silver, but it being a new start of sorts, it called up those memories from the early after days. Look ma, no tears. Superstah!!
Today I’m going to let my children do the talking. I swear, hand on heart, heart pure as the driven snow, that these unfamous, no, not infamous, merely unfamous quotes are verbatim recordings of sentences constructed by my offspring.
Yeah, I took the dog for a walk. He peed and pooped, and I picked up most of it. (Most of it? MOST of it?? That’s a special kind of lazy, kid)
Sometimes I call my bladder Bob. When it’s annoying me, I talk to it by name. (Well, what do you call your bladder?)
I tried to keep my disgusting burp in, but my mouth popped open. (In a restaurant)
Mom, I’m watching Zootopia. It’s a kids’ movie and it’s pretty funny, so maybe if you watch it, you’ll feel calmer. (It’s possible I overreacted to something; I do that sometimes ya know.)
Dude, don’t hump me. (Give me strength)
Him: You know what I’m gonna dress up for Halloween as next year? Me: Beyoncé?? Him: (Honks his nose) A clown. (Followed by a sassy, smug grin. Punk)
Two bucks?? Come on, this is crap. This from my young one re: the Tooth Fairy. (Just wait til your friends tell you the truth, you ungrateful fifth grader.)
That looks like a dildo. I know what that is, Mom. (Watching the Food Network’s Worst Cooks in America sausage making episode).
I don’t trust any Swiss cheese that doesn’t have holes in it. It is just not right. (Can’t really argue with that one, kid)
I vurped in school yesterday. In math class. It wasn’t that loud. Only like 20 people noticed.
You wanna smell my farts? (I get to choose?)
Don’t come up here. I just laid an atomic dook. More like a mondo atomic dook. (Super pleased he’s learning about adjectives and adverbs though.)
You know what it smells like? (We were driving across a bridge that spans the waste water treatment facility) It smells like McDonald’s. Well not like the fries once you get them, but like the floor at McDonald’s. You know, where it’s slippery and kind of nasty? Like that smell. But not the one near our house, the McDonald’s in Johnson Creek by the outlet mall. (That is a very specific gross-out, kid.)
Yeah, I noticed that you’re older than most of my friends’ moms. (Thanks for noticing and reporting back, Punk.)
You know what I could maybe want for my birthday someday, Mom? An air horn. (You know what you’re never getting for your birthday someday, Son? An air horn.)
It’s a week before Christmas. I’m the lone female in a house of nut job boys (she whispered tenderly), and for some reason, holiday preparations heighten my attention to flying solo. I’ve purchased maybe 22.6% of the gifts I’d like to have purchased, and have yet to consider even remotely the family Christmas card. We are hosting Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Christmas dinner, and to date I have managed to purchase nothing more than the cream needed for my vodka pasta. A lot can happen in a week though, friends. It’ll be a Christmas miracle.