Category Archives: small humans

The Tooth Fairy and Santa are Two Different Burglars

My 6-year-old has approximately 15 loose teeth that she refuses to pull out. She’s my third child, so…whatever. I have more important things to worry about, like whether I should use markers or colored pencils when I’m creating masterpieces in the coloring book I stole from her.

Perhaps I should’ve paid more attention to the tiny fucker. (The tooth, not my kid.)

It was a simple trip to get ice cream. Thing 3 took two bites and declared that it was “too hard” and “was making her tooth fall out.” ICE CREAM? Ice cream is too hard? Seriously?

So I had to eat not only my own ice cream, but hers as well. Because I’m not about wasting money.

 

This is how it all started.

This is how it all started.

After that, we went to the store and like every other damn time we’re in public, she started regaling strangers with our life story. As usual, I held my breath and prayed that she wouldn’t burst into song, since she apparently thinks her life is a Disney film and my boobs are a good subject to sing about.

She started talking about her tooth so I said, “You should just pull it out so Santa Claus will come tonight.” I recovered gracefully, as always, and shouted, “NO! SHIT! I MEAN THE TOOTH FAIRY! The tooth fairy will come. Not Santa.”

Jesus. The little hustler took advantage of my confusion and added a chocolate bar to our cart.

I organized my bags just so, unaware that my cart and my sweaty butt crack were blocking an entire parking space.

I was ready to get the fuck home.

The candy bar was a gooey, melted mess by this time. Because I am a genius, I handed it to her, telling her that if she HAD to have chocolate, she’d just have to lick the wrapper. I know. I know, okay?

I’d just pulled out into traffic when I heard, “My toof!” I glanced back and decided that I wasn’t cut out to be a mom.

The tiny maniac, grinning and covered in blood, chocolate, and tears, proudly handed me her tooth. I put it in my purse, handed her napkins to bite down on, and took the liquefied chocolate from her gross little hands. Thanks to my unparalleled grocery placement skills, I knew right where the wipes were, so we were able to clean ourselves up a little.

I breathed a sigh of relief. We survived all that, while I was navigating through heavy traffic, and I handled it like a pro. Don’t tell me I’m not mother of the fucking year. Ha!

The mental high fives came to a screeching halt when we came up to an intersection with a flashing yellow arrow. We were in the middle of a left turn when flashing turned to not flashing and cars started coming at us from every direction.

What. The. Fuck. WHAT’S WITH THE YELLOW ANYWAY? In my day, yellow meant slow down. This was bullshit. Just then, my daughter stood up, leaned towards the rearview mirror, and said, “I’m going to look at myself. I can do that because you never buckled me in.” ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

With complete control over myself and the situation, I yelled, “FUCK!” Then, “Sit down. Oh my god. Sit down.” We made it out of that godforsaken intersection and I pulled over.

Seatbelts on, I was pulling carefully back onto the road when my husband called. I thought I would tell him what we had just been through, and he would laugh and not be appalled that I even had a driver’s license.

I should’ve known better.

Just as I answered the phone, the forgotten bloody chocolate disaster slid off the dash and into my lap. “SONOFA…Here. Talk to your daughter.”

Somehow we made it home in one piece, WITH the tooth, and I’m never leaving this house again.

Can you explain this yellow flashing light bullshit? What’s the grossest mess you’ve had to deal with while driving? Can my kids come stay with you for the summer?

 


School’s Out For Summah!

There are only 4 days of school left.

As I argued with a sleepy 6-year-old this morning about getting ready for school, I yearned for the upcoming lazy summer days. I can smell the sunlight already, even if it is a cloudy, wet, chilly day today. That will change the minute school lets out, I’m sure. 

School's Out For Summer

School’s Out For Summer

The weather is not the only thing that will change during summer break…

    This morning:

    Thing 1: “Just 5 more minutes.”

    Thing 2: “uuunnngggghhhhh”

    Thing 3: “No. I don’t want to get up.”

    Summer mornings:

    Thing 1: *sleeps till 3 p.m.*

    Thing 2: *sleeps till noon*

    Thing 3: *pops out of bed at 7 a.m. yelling, “IT’S MORNING! IT’S MORNING!” *

     

    This morning:                                                  

    Thing 1: “Did you wash my jersey?”

    Thing 2: “I need socks. No. Not those socks.”

    Thing 3: “These pants feeeel funny. Take them oooooffff! This shirt is too____ (boyish/sparkly/pink/any color or texture known to man).”

    Summer mornings:

    Thing 1: “Did you wash my jersey?”

    Thing 2: *wears only gym shorts all day, every day.*

    Thing 3: *alternates between no clothes, a princess dress with heels, or the pants that “felt funny” when she had to wear them to school*

     

    This morning:

    Thing 1: “Have you seen my shoes?”

    Thing 2: “Someone stole my shoes.”

    Thing 3: “I want to wear my boots/high heels/your shoes/no shoes. And these socks feel funny.”

    Summer mornings:

    Things 1, 2, and 3: *Run outside on a moment’s notice, wearing shoes and socks they found themselves and put on with no assistance or ‘funny feelings’.*

 

Ahh, I can’t wait for summer, with the joyous sound of children’s laughter, the playing outside in the warm sunshine, sleeping in and swimming and barbecues…

…and the endless requests for three-course meals, the constant nitpicking and fighting, the crispy red sunburns, the incessant whining, itchy bug bites and tangled fishing line and talking, talking, talking….

*Ahem.* When does school start again?


Shit My Family Says to Me, Part 98

Yesterday was my anniversary. Neither I nor my husband remembered it until my mom told us congratulations. This is just one example of how bad my memory is. I’m telling you this because I’m about to share some comments from my smartass loving family, and I can’t remember which ones I’ve already posted. Basically, it’s two times the funny. Or a rerun and you’ll wish you had changed the channel.

Either way.

 

Shit My Family Says to Me

I think they want to drive me crazy, but it is far too late.


 

Husband: I think I confuse you sometimes. It’s like you just don’t get what I’m trying to tell you.

Me: *Argues for awhile.*

Me: Whatever, you’re confusing me.

Husband: Um. That’s what I said.

 


 

Me: *Hears something fall in the kitchen*

Thing 2: I found a great place to put the sausage.

Me: *Ignores him*

Later

Me: *sees something nasty hanging half out of the ice dispenser.*

Me: What on earth is that?

Thing 2: Oh! That frozen tube of sausage fell out and I found the perfect spot for it!

Thing 2: *Goes on his merry way*

Me: So this is a tube of sausage that has been hanging out of the freezer all day.

Husband:

Me:

Thing 1: Is no one going to address the fact that he is a dumbass?

Me: *almost wet myself laughing, try to get rid of mushy, thawed sausage, almost cut my hand off, can’t figure out what to do with it.*

Husband: Is no one going to address the fact that he gets it from her?

 


 

Thing 1: *Looking at his ACT admission ticket.* What is this on the back?

Me: Oh. Well, I ran out of paper so I had to print it on part of a book I was reviewing.

Husband: You can’t do that.

Me: Why not? It’s fine.

Thing 1: The first line is, “terrorizing the city or some such bullshit.”

Me: They don’t need to look at the back. They just need the front. Who cares?

Thing 1: *I* care! This is my future we’re talking about here!

Husband: *nods knowingly*

Me: *muttering* I was just trying to be resourceful.

Thing 1: Don’t do that!

Husband: Don’t ever do that.

 


 

Daughter: When I grow up I want to have kids but I don’t want a husband.

Me: *seeing opportunity to teach her to be a strong, independent woman* You don’t have to be married to have babies. There are special doctors you can go to who can help you have babies without a husband.

Her: Really?! Will you take me there?

Me: *Fondly* Of course I will.

Her: And then I can live with you and Daddy and you will help me take care of my babies?

Me: Uh. I guess so?

Later

Husband: So, do you want our daughter to be an unwed teenage mother who lives with us so we can raise our grandchildren?

Me:

 


 

Me: I think I’ll pick up the yard tomorrow.

Husband: I don’t think so. You’ll be hurting for days afterward.

Daughter: You can’t work outside because Daddy said so.

Me: *seeing opportunity to teach her to be a strong, independent woman* No, I can if I want to, because I am a free woman and I don’t have to do what any man says. And when you grow up, you will be the boss of yourself!

Her: *excitedly* DADDY! Mommy says she’s a free woman and she doesn’t have to do what you say!

Husband: What? Oh, okay. Pick up the yard then. You want to weedeat too? Or do you want to load the old washing machine into the trailer? Since you’re a free woman?

Me: Um. No thanks.

Later

Her: Will you get me some more milk?

Me: Go ask your dad.

Her: *excitedly* He said you are free to get me some milk yourself.

Me: Shit.

 


 

Reasons That I Should Be Supervised At All Times

1.  I wrote a bunch of stuff with a black ink pen, then went to see my psychiatrist. She suggested increasing my meds. I did not realize until I got home that I had ink tattoos all over my cheek, chin, and neck.

 

2. *Home alone, untangling cords*

Me: *screams* I will fucking kill you!

 

3. *Home alone, cleaning up bits of deodorant out of the carpet*

Me: *cries out to universe* WHY? WHY?

 

4. *Uses visual aids to demonstrate the Monkey Kingdom movie*

Me: It was so disturbing. All these long, floppy nipples and monkey penises everywhere! They all had them!

Husband: Yes. All monkeys have nipples and penises.

Me: Well, I don’t think it was appropriate for kindergarteners. They should’ve shown the one about tigers.

Husband: Did any of the kids say anything?

Me:

Husband: So there were hundreds of 6-year-olds and you were the only one concerned with monkey parts?

Me:  I think maybe that one little monkey pervert jerking it at the zoo must’ve scarred me badly.

 


Boys, Otherwise Known As Destroyers of Bathrooms

This little guy is 12 now. *sigh*

This little guy is 12 now. *sigh*

I have three boys—two children, one husband—and I can say with some authority that there is no other creature who can be at once so adorable and so utterly disgusting.

I’m not saying that girls can’t be super gross. I have one of those too and she peed in my bed last night and once blew her nose into her own hair. So girls have their moments, but for the most part I don’t think they come equipped for maximum bathroom carnage.

I rarely use the boys’ bathroom because I don’t like sitting in other people’s urine. Or my own, for that matter. Also, even if I was in a desert with no food or water, I would never drink my own pee.

I’m getting a little off track.

Anyway. Men supposedly lift the toilet seat up and leave it up and that is a big problem in other households. In THIS household the only problem is a huge lack of aim and probably laziness. Otherwise, why wouldn’t they just lift the fucking seat and point the urinator at the toilet bowl? I just made up a word. But seriously, who just pees everywhere, willy-nilly, and doesn’t even care? Boys, that’s who.

Our house has two bathrooms. Two of my boys currently have some sort of facial hair. At no time is either bathroom free of small, wiry hairs decorating the back of the sink, the cabinets, the walls, the floor, and even the mirror. Neither of my boys can shave or even trim an area the size of half a head without the sink looking like they tried to shove Chewbacca down the drain.

As bad as I hate to, let’s talk about shower etiquette. Now, there are some things boys may or may not do in the shower that I don’t want to know about AT ALL, let alone talk about.

But there are some things going on in there that can be heard from two rooms away with the water running full blast, and I ain’t talking about singing.

I shudder to even speak of this, but here we go. Blowing of the nose IN THE SHOWER FOR FUCK’S SAKE! WHO DOES THAT? BOYS! BOYS DO THAT!

The sound alone is enough to send me gagging, but what really grosses me out is the left-behind-evidence of this shower boogerfest. It is so awesome when I am taking a relaxing bath and someone else’s snotwad floats by.

*Sigh*

But. Even though they are often filthy, sweaty, hairy, and stinky, they are my boys and I couldn’t live without them, no matter what that rotten odor is coming from their bedrooms or their butts.


More Shit My Family Says

Hi there.

As you can see, I survived the Holiday Season, fraught with human interaction though it was. It has taken me this long to reach some semblance of recovery…you know, back to my normal state of pajamas and pony tails and questionable hygiene.

I’m just going to dip my toes into the blog in this first post, and maybe next time I will plug my nose and jump all the way in.

Here are some of the Most Ridiculous Things my family has said to me during my break.

 

From my 6-year-old.

From my 6-year-old.

 

Thing 1: I slept for like 13 hours!

Me: I know. I thought about waking you guys up, but I knew you’d want me to feed you.

Thing 1: Wow…the maternal instinct is so strong…I can’t even.

 

Husband: *speaks only in puns for a damned hour*

Me: Your puns are not making me happy.

 

Thing 3: Boogycalla.

Me:

Thing 3: A long time ago, ancient people used that word for ‘hello.’

 

Me: I hate everything that’s on my desk.

Husband: You also hate everything that’s not on your desk.

Me: Excellent point.

 

Thing 1: So…food?

Me: It’s one o’clock. I’ll make dinner at dinnertime.

Thing 1:

Me: I can’t feed you twice a day! WHAT DO YOU THINK I AM?

Thing 1:

Me: Anyway, dinner is the most important meal of the day.

Thing 1: We’ve been talking for like 10 minutes and you’ve lied to me three times.

 

*You may have noticed a theme here regarding my children and their near-constant demands for nourishment. I don’t know if all kids are like this, but mine like to eat at least 12 times a day. I personally don’t care how much they eat, it’s how much they expect me to cook that appalls me.

I would like to point out that these kids are 16, 12, and 6.

1.5 of them are fully capable of cooking for themselves without supervision.

**Thing 2 is missing from this post because all he says anymore sounds to me like, “Football, football, yardline, pass, interception, football, that guy, football, some guy, Madden, football, football, football.” It is barely English.


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