Collateral Damages

Four-year-olds have the greatest way with words. One night last week, The Babe was showing me and my Dad a scrape on the right side of his abdomen. It looked like someone had made a serious attempt to emblazen his side with an equal sign, about one inch in length. Frankly, it looked pretty weird. Harry Potter scar weird.

In describing that he had hit the handles of the bicycle he is attempting to learn to ride, he got our attention by saying "Here's where I damaged myself."

In all my days, I've never heard anyone use the word damage to describe a self-inflicted, accidental wound. FedEx damages packages, cookies are damaged and broken into tiny bits, and cars are routinely damaged in parking lots.

People, on the other hand? We're wounded, hurt, and injured. But we're simply not damaged. Damage implies something that would take a lot of money and/or time to fix.

An injury will heal, as will a wound or a boo-boo. Damage? Not so much.

But, hey. When you are four and you know multi-syllabic ways of describing strange results of bike wrecks, you can be sure your much older Mom is not going to correct you. Even though my vocabulary/English/anal-retentive alarms were all going off.

Instead, I just smiled and say "WOW! That is some bad damage."

If I know anything, I know it is never, ever, ever good to damage a male ego.

Especially the ego of a man-in-training.

V-Day

Proclaims The Babe "When they shoot you through the heart with an arrow you are in love."

I ask "So has anybody shot YOU through the heart."

"No." He responds. With the emotion of a half-dead slug.

"Well." I ask hypothetically* "If you WERE shot by an arrow, who would you be in love with?"

"Nobody. Those flying guys can't make me."

"Cupids?"

"Yeah, them. They can't make me be in love with anybody."

So Happy Valentine's Day from the boy who refuses to take an arrow through the heart to find the love of his life. And his Mom, who prays, someday, he falls hopelessly in love with a wonderful Christian woman who wants to give birth to about a dozen grandchildren.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

*Hypothetical situations are all but lost on boys. They can fantasize about a multitude of things, but put them in an emotional situation and ask them to think and they freeze up like an igloo.

Pastor/Minister/Bishop in the Wings?

Our eldest son is a very sensitive soul. Don't get me wrong when you read that. He can hold his own in a brawl with his brothers and rarely, if ever, cries for reasons that aren't physically-related.

But approach him with a sweet thought or kind word and you might just reduce him to a pile of tears and redness. He's also a stickler for how you use the Queen's English and isn't afraid to use his large vocabulary or spelling knowledge to reduce you back to second grade. I love that about him!

So, our sensitive son was riding in the car with his Dad the other day. As Mike is prone to do, he was reading SS the riot act over something he had done. The issue at hand has been a reoccurring problem, so the conversation went like this:

"How many times are we going to discuss this problem? It's become habitual."

"DAD!!"

"Don't interrupt me! This must stop. Do you understand? When a problem becomes habitual.."

"DAD. Stop." Tears start welling up in son's eyes.

"Why do you keep interrupting me?"

"It's your language."

"MY language?" Mike was lost. Beyond the people on the island, Lost.

"That word you keep using. It's cussing." Son just can't believe his Father would speak like this in front of him.

Mike is still in another time zone. "I'm sorry. I just don't know WHAT you are talking about."

"That word. Ha BITCH ual. That's cussing." Tears welling up again.

(HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA*)

After a brief discussion about the root of the word "habitual"**, a swipe of the eyes with balled-up fists, and a couple more seconds of "AH HAs", life was back to normal.

But now we are wondering what other cuss words are waiting to spring forth from the tongue-lashings our little man of God is, no doubt, going to receive in the upcoming years.

I ASSume there will be something issuing from our mouths that will come back to haunt us in the very near future.



*That's God laughing at Mike (and, in essence, me) for thinking we could be parents.

**Which Mike, the Mathematician extraordinaire and self-proclaimed vocabulary-ne'er-do-well, actually managed to handle like a pro.

The Tale of the Principal

Once Upon a Time, there was a little boy who didn't understand....

"She can't be the principal", declared The Babe, as we sat in the Preschool carpool line this morning. He was looking at the woman who has been running the Preschool he attends, whom I've known since the eldest Nowell boy was three.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because she's a girl!" There was more than a hint of "DUH, Mom" in his voice.

"I don't understand. What does that have to do with being the head of the Preschool?" I was lost like a white-coated puppy in a blizzard.

"Girls aren't princes" He stated flatly.

"OH." I finally caught on. "So, should we call her the princess-ipal?"

"Yeah. The princisisicipal." It didn't exactly roll off his tongue, but it didn't seem to matter. "That's right." The smile on his face told me the Earth was spinning in the right direction again, after a brief turn the wrong way while women were described in masculine terms.

When it was his turn to exit the car, we bestowed the new name upon the Princess-ipal, who was charmingly satisfied at the new moniker.

And all was right again in the world of the four-year-old.

The End.

For the Love of Boys

I just love being around little boys.

They are full of comments that make your heart sing like "Will you explode if you have to fart and you don't?"

They are afforded a large, wide-open space and a piece of flesh that is easily aimed, yet their urine manages to hit the conveniently-placed target on the back of the toilet, otherwise known to women as the "lid" and, sometimes if we are lucky, the "seat".

My new favorite "Aren't boys just KEEN?" thought came today in the car.

It was just me and The Babe. Running carpool.* It was 2pm+ and I hadn't eaten. And, further, I'm a sucker for a pout and a request for a carfait**, so we ran through the Mickey D's drive-thru.*** I order a cheeseburger for myself and another for The Babe. And the coveted parfait.

Between the span of BeltLine/75 and Preston/635, probably a mere eight minutes in bad traffic, the boy had wolfed everything down. Then he started force-belching.

You know the kind, if you had a brother. It sounds chunky. Like something that was supposed to be in your stomach crawled back up and made this weird sound.

Not a petite little burp like you might hear issue from a sweet, four-foot-three Grandmother. No, this series of belches rattled the car interior. I think it took out one of the car speakers in the process.

I, as politely, as I could muster, told him to excuse himself and to stop trying to burp.

And he said "MOM. I can't help it. This is the way God made me."

Wow. Talk about putting the brakes on parental-correcting-of-bad-behavior. The God card trumps an Ace any old day of the week. And my four-year-old just threw it on the table. The nerve!

I was rendered speechless.**** He's right. The human body IS made to burp. In some cultures, this is even considered a polite response to a wonderfully-prepared and presented meal.

But, dadgum, son. We live in America. Home of people who have all sorts of bad manners. But burping? It's still considered right up there with farting. And we won't even go into THAT discussion today.

But, at the end of the day, after considering the beauty of belching and pre-moistened towelettes that make bathroom duty a breeze, I realized that I still think boys are the bee's knees.

And I wouldn't trade any one of mine for any one of yours. Even on the days that I catch a whiff of road kill and see one of the boys laughing hysterically.

While sitting atop his brother's head and force-farting.



*Yes. It got old week three. Thanks for asking.

**The Babe has a way with words. The fruit and yogurt PARFAIT, in case you aren't tracking here. I guess, since we always eat these in the car, I should give him at least one point for creativity.

***Those of us with English on the brain wonder why the Queen's English wasn't employed in properly naming this the "drive THROUGH"? Guess they'd feel obligated to serve high-tea if they did that?

****Probably by God, who reads my mind and says "DUMB. You will be dumb for the next 5.2 seconds until you have something worth saying."

Showers of Gold

You know you live in a male household when you hear the following statement come from your husband, who is observing/assisting/watching the boys in the shower, and simultaneously yell-begging them:

"PLEASE DON'T PEE ON YOUR BROTHER!!!!!*"

Something in my Mommy DNA tells me we need separate bath times.




*If you would believe an ancient episode of Friends, urine is the "cleanest" bodily fluid. Somehow, that isn't even remotely calming when this kind of things happens.

Toothbrushing = Torture

In our house, "toothbrush" is considered a curse word by the under sixty-inch set. Literally, the words "Please go brush your teeth" are tantamount to asking some smallish village to set fire to a large perimeter and then go into their houses and wait to be consumed. It causes THAT MUCH anguish.

I knew this was going to be a problem early. My oldest, at the end of an extraordinary day at Kindergarten, was talking at cheetah speed, trying to tell me about the play date he wanted to go on, the snack he needed, asking where his younger brother was, blah, blah. His mouth was moving at warp speed but, somehow*, I was able to isolate his mouth in my vision, laser in on his upper teeth, and look at the petri dish of grossness that his lack of brushing had left where his teeth and gums met.

I about barfed.

When he finally stopped speaking, I said "We are going home to brush your teeth." Small villagers response emanated. Play date was moved to another day. And torture with a Thomas the Tank Engine toothbrush ensued.

I don't know how long his teeth were like that, but, good golly. I think I owe anyone who had to talk to him a very heartfelt apology.

Today, after he was safely in carpool buddy's car, probably rubbing his hands together going "MWAH HA HA HA", I figured out he hadn't brushed his teeth. The brush was completely dry, as was the wash basin in his bathroom.

The evil "I'll teach you a lesson you won't soon forget" part of me wants to get in the car, drive 80 to his school, interrupt his teacher, and brush his teeth in front of the entire class.

The sane, less evil part of me, says "Somebody will point out that his breath smells like a garbage disposal." I just hope that somebody is a girl and that it embarrasses him SO MUCH that he gets the award for "Best Flosser" and "Best Brusher" next time we see the dentist.

But, I'm not counting on it. I'm counting my blessings that we have dental insurance.

And, this afternoon, when I pick him up from school? I'm wearing my sunglasses and not staring him straight in the face.

It's the only way I think I'll be able to keep myself from hurling in the carpool line.





*Magical Mommy Powers. MMP for sure.

Lego Hades

I've had a love affair with Legos for years. When I was little, they kept my baby brother busy, which meant he wasn't in MY stuff.

As I grew, they were a fixture in most of the houses I babysat in. I'd help build things or use them to distract a young child while I changed a sibling's diaper or answered the phone or washed the dishes.

When I had kids of my own, I was THRILLED they took to Legos. Then the Legos starting overtaking the house.

Now, I am beginning to loathe the day I ever saw their colored plastic bumps.

If I am not picking them up from corners of the house or sweeping them from underneath couches or beds, I'm stepping on them in the middle of the night. Or worse, rolling over on top of them, where they hid under the sheets after being played with on my bed. I swear these things lie in wait and they attack, trying their pointed best to puncture my back or butt.

Their latest incarnation as the bane of my existence is as dog chew toy. The little atrocities* seem to be in some dog's mouth about fifteen times of the day. They are fierce little warriors and don't like being chewed down. So, it takes either dog about ten minutes to really wear one out.

The noise they make when they chew a Lego is unmistakable. I can hear them from across the house and be yelling about it in .0005 seconds from the first nibble. Everyone else? "I don't hear that. What are you talking about."

I don't particularly care if they ruin the one piece that completes a $50 set of Indiana Jones on a motorcycle with his Dad because I see it as a lesson to the kids that you need to PICK UP YOUR FRIGGIN' TOYS OR THEY WILL GET CHEWED BY DEVIL1 OR LUCIFER2 OR BOTH.

My bigger worry is that, someday, one of these stupid things is going to make it down the gullet of our wonder dogs and puncture something. Then the dog is going to need costly surgery and costly recovery time in the doggie hospital, not to mention plenty of sympathy from PETA, who will surely swoop in like CPS and that will cause the children angst beyond words. And I'll have to pay for and deal with all of this.

So, I'm seriously considering how much longer I can put up with Legos.

Maybe, in keeping with the Mafioso-like attitude Mike has developed lately, they'll just start mysteriously disappearing at odd hours of the day or night. Without a trace, if you will. And, if the kids notice, I'll stuff cotton in my cheeks and say "You Got a Problem Wid Dat?"

Just try me again, Legos. See how much of a Mafia wife I can become.

And don't forget that I like horses. Especially their heads.....


*I mean the Legos here, but, frankly this could also refer to the dogs on any given day of the week.

Anatomy is in the Eyes of the Beholder

Today I was informed that all children are born in India. Then they get on a plane and come to Texas.

When I inquired where India is, The Babe pointed to his abdomen. Then he asked, "How do babies get out of India?"

After we corrected India to "uterus" and discussed anatomically-correct usage of the word, we launched into a discussion of the vagina.

Just for grins, and to test his Mother's ability to keep a straight face in the most hysterical of situations*, I got the following summary:

"So babies are born in the India, come out the 'gina**, and start crying?"

Yup. That pretty much sums it up.

At least if you qualify as a four-year-old boy. With selective hearing and memory. And the inability to use multi-syllabic, anatomically-correct verbiage.


*For which I should get a guest shot on Saturday Night Live, thank you very much.

**I hope he's over this abbreviated, cutsie terminology by the time he marries. Or becomes a proper obstetrician, if that's in his cards.

Regarding Hookers

As I'm helping The Babe clean-up his room before he left for Preschool this morning, he proclaims "Mom? I need a new hooker."

In all my years of being female I've never heard this phrase. And I never knew you could wear out a hooker. Especially at the ripe old age of four.

It didn't take me long to figure out what he was actually asking for: a new plastic hanger, on which to put the hoodie which had previously taken up residence on the floor of his closet.

Now. Get your mind out of the gutter and go enjoy the rest of your day. And try to avoid those broken hookers. OK?

Snacks Anyone?

Let's just get this out of the way before you begin reading today: I am not a heartless hag. There.

Now that I've totally disclaimed what I'm about to write, just remember it.

Today, the "snack bucket" came home from a certain four-year-old's Preschool. Unlike some people I know who LOATHE their week of taking care of snacks for the under-45-inch set, I actually love being the snack Mom. It gives me a chance to go to Costco and spend my weight in cash on snack products, something I don't normally do.

If you add the fact that next week I am ALSO snack Mom for the teacher's lounge at another son's school, I am in snack-buying Heaven.*

An unusual addition to the bucket was a handwritten note. Since I knew, from young-son's story on Thursday, that one of his friends was moving back to India, I figured the snack requirements had dropped by a factor of one and the teacher was letting me know.

But, no.

Instead, I find a note that says this "We have a new student starting Monday with a peanut allergy. Please send peanut-free snacks. Thanks! Sweet Teacher"

You.have.got.to.be.kidding.me.

My snack buying duties have now become a complete, utter, painful event. I'm used to cruising the labels for all the junk that would make my family puke, become hive-ridden, develop migraines or hyper to the point of no return. Now I have to add everything PEANUT to the mix?

When my older son was attending school and had aversions to everything that even sounded like a dairy product, I faithfully sent a separate snack for him every day. When it came my turn to send the snacks, the kids would get non-dairy treats.

Last year, a friend in Preschool had SEVERE allergies: eggs, peanuts, dairy. His Mom? Separate snacks, all year long. Bucket time? Supplied what she could for her son and the rest of the snacks catered to the kids who weren't riddled with these gosh-awful sensitivities.

I just wonder how, as a society, this generation of peanut-allergy-ridden kids are ever going to survive once they leave the comfort of their parent's homes?! Frankly, I'm shocked the collective minds in Washington haven't banned peanuts from airplanes yet.

I'm terribly sorry people deal with this issue, but we all have to learn to play the cards we've been dealt at some point in our lives. Inconveniencing everyone around us is NOT the answer.

At least that is what I've taught all three of my children, who have added grandly to the number of allergy-suffering children in this world. Between them we have dairy, beef, chicken, wheat, apple, and sugar** aversions.***

When they venture out in the world, they are responsible for telling the adults around them about their allergies**** and avoiding things which make them react. If they don't? The blame rests squarely on THEIR shoulders, not their playmate's Moms.

Maybe I would feel differently about this if my little princes needed epinephrine every time they inhaled an offending food.

Then again. Probably not.

Editor's Note: After I pulled on my hair, gnashed my teeth, and got over this issue, I called the teacher to see how severe an allergy this is. Turns out, we're trying to desensitize this child. This is just a precaution....


*And may actually spend Mike's weight in cash for this trip. Which, sigh, wouldn't be that much more than mine right now. Happy, happy, joy, joy.

**Yes, sugar. Didn't know you could be allergic to sugar, did you? Well. You can.

***No. I don't have fun cooking anymore, thank you. Hence the reason I find, er FOUND, snack duty so much fun.

****I STILL need to apologize to my entire block of neighbors for the first Halloween when non-dairy boy decided to reject treats if he was allergic and, panicked, empathetic neighbors threw wads of cash into his bag. We put the kibosh on that as soon as we figured it out.

Grocery Lines and Bouncing Baby Boys

Today, I was standing in line at Sprouts with my two youngest boys. We were behind a man who looked to be in his late twenties.

The boys were bouncing off the conveyer belt, magazine stands, and gum holders like two pinballs who didn't know and/or care there was a hole at the bottom of the machine.

My fellow line-dweller had this pseudo-grin on his face as he watched them. He never, in the three minutes we were behind him, made eye contact with me. I reason he was thinking:

a. "Looks like me when I was a kid. My poor Mom. I should really send her flowers or an apology card. Or something."

b. "PAYBACKS!!! HA, ha, ha, ha."

c. "Geez. Why doesn't she grab them by the balls and put them on the floor in pain? That would be better than this insane bouncing."

d. "Speaking of balls. Mental note: VASECTOMY. I'll probably forget. Where's my iPhone? I need to jot this down. Pronto. WHERE'S THAT STUPID THING???"

I'm sure, this is only my over-sensitive, completely-sleep-deprived mind making the situation SO MUCH worse than it actually was.

Right? RIGHT? RRRRRIIIIIIGGGGGHHHHHHTTTT????????????????

Carworthy Conversations?

For your reading pleasure, the following conversation.

Time: 6:15CST
Place: Car (where else would I be?)
Players: Some cute little four-year-old and his much more mature, post-birthday, eight-year-old brother:

Eight: Dude? How are your taste buds?
Four: MMMMOOOOMMMMM! He just asked how my taste BUTTS are.
Me: That's taste buds.
Four: Did you just say "BUTTS"?
Eight: NO! It's buDs. Not buTTs.
Four: Buds?
Me: Yes.
Four: Oh. What are taste butts?

Then the conversation took a turn down the high road:

Eight: Mom? How do women pee?

If someone had told me I'd need fifteen PhDs, ranging from anatomy to phonics to astro-physics, just to pseudo-qualify as a borderline-OK Mom, I would have cracked up laughing in my twenties.

Now? In my earlyish-forties?

It's not so funny.

The First and Last Christmas Song of January

Editor's Note: It seems I'm having to make apologies to a LOT of songwriters these days. Anyway, channel the tune for "Silent Night" and sing along. Quietly, if you have kids in bed.

Oh, and Franz Gruber, you sweet German songwriter, thanks for my favorite hymn of all times....

Silent Night, Holy Cripe!
All is calm and it's only nine.

Mike is safely away at a MAVS game.
I'm all comfy in my pj's.

Christ's watching over us alllllll.
Christ's watching over us alllllll.

Silent Night, Holy Cripe!
When my kids are asleep I haven't a gripe.

Early in the morning time I will be up.
They will wonder aloud "When will we sup?"

I feel the headache nowwww.
I feel the headache nowwww.

Silent Night, Holy Cripe!
"School starts today" isn't hype.

The songwriter who said "Mom and Dad can hardly wait..."
Obviously had kids younger than eight.

Joy! Peace! Bliss! And sanityyyyy.
School is open again!


And to my darling, angels of children: One day, when you get married and become Daddies, you'll get this little ditty and laugh at how witty your Mother is.

Sadly, you'll have to come to the sanatorium to tell me.....

Hysterical Lyrical Mess

You know your child has most definitely grown up in Texas when the following words issue from his mouth:

Pair a Jocka
Pair a Jocka
I Kung Fu
I Kung Fu

There is some poor, dead Frenchman shaking his head in disgust, saying "Merde! Ignorant enfant."

I believe in singing loud and proud, even if you don't really have the voice to pull it off. BUT, if you don't know the words, you really should keep your pie hole shut.

I blame Mike for this. He makes up lyrics with astounding inaccuracy and frequency. There have been many times in our married life I have looked at him with complete disgust as he was screwing up words to my beloved 80's songs.

Let's just hope this is a learned behavior and not a genetic defect.

Birthday Awesomeness

I will rarely plug any business or product on this blog because I just don't think you need that junk in your life, but I do have to give a GREAT BIG shout out to my flying friends at Southwest for this little bit of awesome greatness we experienced on our trip out to CA:

On our flight out, it was one little guy's eighth birthday day. We were basically spending the entire day in airports, rental car lines, and driving to hotels, so there wasn't much time for actual celebrating.

As a neurotic Mom who thrives on celebration of events, none of this was sitting right with me. We should have been throwing a party or blowing out candles or stuffing ourselves full of cakey deliciousness, not salivating over bags of peanuts that wouldn't fill up a small gnat.

So I took action. Starting with the lovely woman who gave us our boarding passes, I started telling everyone who was wearing Southwest garb or who LOOKED like they could have possibly worked for the airline at anytime in their life that it was my son's eighth birthday.

I struck gold while waiting for the ticket agent to come up that thingy that attaches the building to the plane* because the pilot decided to check the passenger load.** He was very kind when I asked if he would announce son's birthday over the speakers mid-flight. He said he be delighted to do this but that I should let the flight attendant know so his pilot brain wouldn't forget.***

The gold rush continued when we boarded the plane and the flight attendant already knew about the birthday boy and immediately whisked all three Nowell kids into the cockpit! The two younger guys were lifted into pilot's seats and the oldest took over as king of "Don't touch that". The pictures I managed to get show the crazy amount of excitement in the boy's eyes. And touchy-feely-OOPSY-hands.

About 3/4 of the way through the flight, we heard birthday wishes over the speaker system and the flight attendant presented our boy with a gift. No, not plastic pilot wings or a deck of cards. PEANUTS!!! And not just a few packages, but the big plastic bag they hoist on board to feed about half the passengers. A BIG HUGE bunch of peanuts.****

In a couple of days we are going to have a proper eighth birthday party here at the house. On New Year's Eve. With eleven boys.***** No matter how much energy I put into that celebration, I don't think I'll be able to top the "party" Southwest threw last weekend.

Southwest? You had me at "Hello".



*Technical definition eludes me here. You get my point, I hope.

**Completely full plane plus one dog. Yes, a dog. Southwest has found a way to bilk $75/one-way out of over-attached dog and cat owners who feel bad about leaving kitty/fido in the kennel WHERE THEY BELONG WHEN HUMANS GO ON VACATION.

***Apparently, multi-tasking isn't in this dude's DNA. But, if you saw the cockpit, you, like me, would get really worried about this. There are like ten-thousand buttons and levers and cup holders in there. What if he accidentally hit the "eject" button trying to announce birthday wishes and ended up parachuting into Des Moines?

****Mike was channeling the entire family when he announced "If I never see another honey-roasted peanut in my life I'll be happy."

*****Please call 911 if there isn't a post on January second.

Lessons from a First Grader

I am invariably amazed when my kids learn something that I think they are too young to know. Now matter how much we try to shelter them from direct exposure, in the form of movies, TV, radio, etc, there will always be someone in their class at school who can educate them on the "finer" points of life.

This classroom education always comes from an expert. You know the type: a cute first grader with a brother who is sixteen. A teenager with a mean streak who thinks it is hysterical to teach the little guy how to fart with just his hand and armpit. Or who teaches cuss words in anticipation of a Sunday morning trip to join Great-Grammy Cooper at the Southern Baptist Church of Podunk.

Yeah, that type of kid ALWAYS seems drawn to my kid. And my kid thinks buddies of this ilk are geniuses in seven-year-old skin. In kid-speak, a genius is someone who knows way cooler stuff than their parents.

Tonight, ironically on the way home from the Christmas pageant, the latest educational revelation becomes the topic of discussion after the following off-the-cuff comment: "I hope I never have an 'oops' baby."

Mike: "What do you mean?"*
Bro: "YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT AN OOPS BABY IS?"**
Mike: "Why don't you tell me?"
Bro: "Mom, do you know what an oops baby is?"
Me: "I think so. But why don't you tell us?"
Bro: "Well. It's kinda hard to explain.*** But, it's like when you have three kids and you don't want four but around Thanksgiving**** you end up with another baby. That's the 'oops' baby."

Mike and I just looked at each other, both mentally clearing sweat from our brows. Both knowing, if we'd answered that question, we'd have ended up dumber than the sixteen year old who taught his first grade brother about oops babies in the first place.

If I've learned one thing about parenting it's that you should rarely, if ever, answer a question straight out once your kid hits about four. Starting at that age, they are just looking to trap you. And they're crafty little trappers.

But score one for the parentage on this issue: we didn't make an OOPS.

Har, har.


*Shooting a sidewards glance at me which indicates "What are you teaching that child?"

**His brain is thinking "GEEZ you are old? How did you get so old and not know this?"

***Yes. We, the parents, are the imbeciles in this situation. Our son is thinking "I'll try to distill the explanation down to your level but it is going to be AWFULLY hard."

****Why Thanksgiving? Why not Halloween or Saint Patrick's Day or Kwanzaa???

A Recent Exchange

So here's the ride home with The Babe from Preschool...

Me: "How was your day?"
TB: "Good."
Me: "What did you do?"*
TB: "Nothing."
Me: "Really? Didn't you do SOMETHING?"
TB: "We didn't do ANYTHING."
Me: "NOTHING at all?"
TB: "Nope."
Me: "So you mean to tell me you got there and sat around the classroom and just stared at all the other kids all morning long?"
TB: "MOOMMMM. No. We talked."
Me: "About...."
TB: "Nothing."
Me: "So you sat around, said nothing and didn't talk about anything?"***
TB: "We talked about stuff."
Me: "Did you talk about letters or numbers or the calendar?"
TB: "No. The weather."****
Me: "What did you decide about the weather?"
TB: "The snowman had to wear his coat because it was cold outside."
Me: "Well that was smart."*****
TB: "Yeah. Oh. And we didn't go to the playground."
Me: "What did you do instead?"
TB: "Nothing."

Me (thinking): "Didn't this freakin' conversation START with the word 'nothing'? And, if that's the case, maybe I should just let this go."

But, apparently the second NOTHING in a conversation with a four-year-old is the magical key that unlocks their little tongues because for the next FIFTEEN MINUTES I hear: "BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH."

All the sudden he's a fountain of information! It's like the last rock holding Hoover Dam together suddently burst from its position and the whole dang thing started spewing. That was my child. Spewing. On and on. About Legos and Star Wars and a friend from Preschool.

Which got me wondering "If the key to turn on is two 'nothings', where's the magic off switch?"

I still haven't figured that one out. I figure further that it's tied up in someting about nothing.

Or something like that.


*Yes, I should know better than to ask this lame question, especially after three kids. And, doubly especially, because they are all boys.

**Does this comment stink like bait or what? It's waht I would expect to smell if I boarded a boat looking to caputre a great white shark and they stuck my head in the chum bucket.

***Ten points if you can guess "who's on first?"

****HOW LAME IS THAT? Really. At four you can't come up with anything better to talk about than the stinkin' weather? GEEZ. At your age, kid, we had long conversations about Barbie and Ken getting married and how cute puppies and kitties are and how Santa was bringing the Barbie house. The weather.....?

*****All logic aside, we'd hate to have the SNOWMAN from Dallas get too cold because he didn't wear his coat.

Annoyances Anyone?

Wanna know how to break the silence in a house, pre-7 a.m., and annoy the Mother so much that she about has a nervous breakdown before she can get a coffee fix?

Channel the early 80's, start singing "I'm All Out of Love" by Air Supply, and repeat ONLY the refrain because you are ten and you don't know any more of the words.

I really had hoped Air Supply would die when we celebrated New Year's 1986. I would have gladly ponied up good coin to throw them a decent funeral.

Truth is, they actually published their GREATEST HITS as late as 2004. And is your brain making the connection here? That means PEOPLE STILL LIKE THEM.

Oh.My.Goodness.Gracious.Golly.Gosh.

I'd HONESTLY take Milli Vanilli over Air Supply. Even though they were total frauds and all, at least they weren't all mushy and in need of testosterone.

It didn't take me long to figure out that there is only one way the lyrics could be any more disconcerting. And that would be if the second most annoying force in the universe teamed up with Air Supply to use this song in their latest movie.

Yes, Alvin and the Chipmunks are back, Christmas 2009. You, too, can overpay to hear their helium-filled, potty-joking, insanity-producing little tails.

If you haven't had the pleasure of hearing the trailers for the movie, let me just encapsulate: Add helium to Air Supply, shake liberally, insert potty-words and actions into chipmunk's mouth, and serve.

Prozac, anyone?

One thing is for sure. The Nowell house has become an "Air Supply/Alvin and the Chipmunks Free Zone". I told my son I NEVER, under any circumstances, wanted to hear that song again.

And if he ever sucks helium out of a balloon AND sings Air Supply? I have a list of military-style boarding schools at the ready.

Considering the frequency at which I delivered the message*, I don't think this will be an issue.

I just hope his ears stopped bleeding by the time he got to school.



*Which was somewhere North of Ella Fitzgerald's High C.

Super Heroes in My Midst

I never believed in reincarnation. Until tonight.

I looked up the term "banshee" for another post and discovered that Marvel Comics had created this character, whose alter-ego is Sean Cassidy*, back in the late 60's.

BANSHEE'S abilities were noted as

1. Superhuman hearing
2. Sonic screams
3. Flight
4. Concussive blasts
5. Sonic energy lances
6. Ability to cause nausea, disorientation, or unconsciousness

Holy cats! They've encapsulated my children and given them a superhero name!

I could fart in Columbus and they'd hear it. But, if I whisper two inches from their ears, they act deaf.

Sonic screams? Have you heard The Babe? I really think the child could shatter crystal with his screaming. Let's just say that hearing aids need to get much more discreet or better looking in the next few years because, at this rate, I'll need on by the time I'm 50.

Flight is part of the Nowell DNA. Someone is off the ground in this family at every moment, of any day. Up a tree, jumping off a couch, climbing on the counter in the kitchen, hurtling their body toward a sibling. The list is exhaustive. I fully expect a Nowell child to complete his dissertation with a discussion of "A Case for Gravity: The Falsehood of Flying without Actual Wings."

Concussive blasts? Did I mention The Babe's uncanny ability to cause stock in hearing aid companies to shoot sky-high? That's not to mention the several times a day I wonder, sometimes aloud, "What was THAT?" as I stand in one room and hear what sounds like a hurricane and tornado learning how to break dance in another room.

If "sonic energy lances" cause "sonic screams" and "concussive blasts", we qualify. Hourly. NFL referees could learn a thing or two about "off side" calls just by watching the boys execute their "lancing" on one another. They just can't seem to keep their cotton-pickin' hands to themselves.

I'm a Mom. Part of my job description, since I originally got pregnant 11 years ago, is to live in a state of nausea, disorientation, or unconciousness. What I pray for is that the three never meet in a state of confluence.

If that ever actually happens, just call State Farm, 911, and whichever set of Granparents or Aunts/Uncles is still standing. You'll find me and Mike somewhere in the rubble.

The kids? They'll be marveling at their newly created excavation site, with nary a worry in the world.

BANSHEE!


*Which brought to mind Shaun Cassidy, 70's heart throb, which made me Goggle SEAN Cassidy and brought up a picture of some hunk of cheese that can only be described as "the perfect body".
Sadly, for me, when I corrected the spelling of the first name, I ended up with the REAL Shaun, who hasn't exactly aged gracefully. I think my childhood dream has officially been stomped into the ground and rendered DOA.

Thank goodness Donny Osmond still looks FINE. Even though he's a freakin' Grandfather.