Babe, the Entrepreneur

The Babe has had his share of diarrhea of the mouth moments coming home from school lately.  If you have children, you completely get what I'm talking about.  It goes something like this:

"AndMom?Guesswhat?Youknowmyfriendwhohastheblondhairandplayswithmeontheplaygroundandlovestacosforlunchandsingsinthebathroom.Youknowhim?"

I have no frickin' idea who this kid could possibly be.  And I readily admit it.  And remind The Babe to BREATHE.  It doesn't help a lick.  He just keeps going, all diarrhea rolling down a very steep mountain, not-breathing, like.

Anyhoo.

So, he had one of those moments in the car explaining the business he and his buddies are putting together.  And, may I be struck by lightning and die on the spot if any of the following is untrue.  'Cause this is the gospel, people:

"You know my friends really like the Army?  We really think the Army is cool.  And we want to show the Army guys how much we like them."

I'm just swooning at the sound of my son being patriotic.  And planning for a little party before he goes and votes in his first Republican primary, my little Alex P. Keaton.....

"So we decided to make a business that is all about the Army and will help the Army and will make money we can share with the Army."

Now, I'm expecting that a group of these intelligent, learning different, ADD-riddled kids got together on the playground and probably thought up an idea they will take to The Shark Tank in a few years, present to "Mr. Wonderful", an idea that will make him cry red white and blue as he offers them copious amounts of money, which they will promptly use to tithe to their local churches and set the Army up on a fat, non-government-supported budget and will also be used to support each of their parents as we sip umbrella-drinks on a small, private island as we laugh at how hard life used to be, before our children became entrepreneurial at the tender age of seven, and offset the college-tuition-prices of their LD school of our choice.

POP.  That was me realizing that diarrhea mouth started with his Mother.  OR, maybe it was the sound of my bubble being burst back into reality because of this:

"We are making hamster toys for the Army."

Told you I couldn't make this up.

He said "hamster toys".  For rodents.  Rodents with 1,000 day life-spans.

Yuppers.

Seems those little whipper-snappers think that hamsters should have tanks and helicopters and gatling guns, among other things, which he immediately devoted 3/4 of his afternoon to, drawing prototypes and showing them to me, with great bravado and detail, after we arrived home. 

I guess that is because hamsters have lives that really stink.  They get fed daily, have water at their disposal, get to exercise on their own equipment (no yucky cross-contamination with other hamsters like I would get at the gym on the treadmill, if I actually went sometime in 2013) and, basically, get spoken to in baby voice several times a day.  TOUGH life, fuzzy, big-brown-eyed rodents that I adore.

So, for the last several days, we've been knee-deep in plans and discussions and play dates to support said Army project.

I feel like this might, how do I say, BOMB?  But, I'm keeping my opinions to myself. For now.  Until they actually decide they need to go beyond jawboning and using too much copy paper and ink. 

Then, maybe, just maybe, I'll try to draw their attention to something more appropriate.

Hamster trampolines, anyone?