At around 5pm on Thursdsay, the Babe decided it was time to lug half the Legos in the universe next door to his friend's house. Since his hands were full, I opened the door for him. Then I walked from the entryway, across the dining room, into Mike's office.
I was there to chat for a moment with Mike but mostly to watch out the front window as the Babe made his way next door, across our front yard.
But he never showed up.
Now, we are talking about 15 feet at the most here. Not a long walk and certainly not long enough for some freak to pick him up. In other words, I wasn't at all in a panic.
I got up, moved back into the dining room and saw the reason for the pokiness of my youngest.
He had taken his shorts down to about the top of his hip bones, pulled his wanker out, and was peeing off the side of the porch, into the bushes.
Facing Hillcrest. Major North/South route between downtown and everything North of here. Exposing himself to every commuter in North Texas.
When I knocked on the window to let him know "I see you!", he smiled sheepishly and waved*. As I continued giving him the evil eye, he didn't break eye contact and continued waving, as he gently put the family jewels back in their protective, Thomas the Tank Engine, holder.
I only have one bit of advice for new fathers everywhere: BEFORE you decide to teach your little boys that the world is their toilet, please consider the ramifications of your actions.
You just never know when your behavior will come back to haunt you.
AHEM. Mike.
*With the OTHER hand.
Showing posts with label underwear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label underwear. Show all posts
Monday, October 12, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
The updated Wedding Song
Overheard in the car today, all three Nowell boys present to participate (though some knew the lyrics better than others)
"Here comes the bride, all big and wide*."
Now, back in the dark ages, when I was sub-10-years-old, that was pretty much the end of the lyrics. The rest was just hummed to the wedding march. Now that we have left THAT century, the newer generation of kids has started waxing poetic on this oldie-but-goodie.
It continued: "Where is the groom? He's in the bathroom."
At this point, I figured this had started bad and was racing downhill like a bobsledder in the Olympic trials. What WAS that bad boy doing in the bathroom? I didn't have the chance to ask.
"Why is he there? He's in his underwear."
Now, I did feel the need to cover my ears, eyes and mouth, all monkey-like**. This couldn't be recovered, could it?
So I asked "Why is the groom in the bathroom without any pants?"
I just recently learned that logic is being taught at one of my son's schools, starting this year, THANK YOU LORD, because this was the response:
"Because a hobo*** stole his pants." Said with ATTITUDE like "DUH. Mom."
So, DUH-MOM, had to ask "But why would a hobo steal somebody's pants?"
MORE 'tude "Because the hobo didn't HAVE ANY."
OHHH YEAH. PERFECTLY logical. Glad I'm paying private school prices for my kid's educations.
So, if I'm following the logic:
At a private wedding between a fat woman and a man who seems pretty weak to me, a hobo breaks into the festivities, steals the groom's pants, and leaves him in his underwear in the loo??
I just had to ask "So what happens next? Do they get married?" The suspense was eating me alive.
One brother "Well, yes, but he's standing in his underwear in front of everyone and after they talk he runs away and is never seen again. He's too embarrassed."
Another brother "YEAH. He's naked." Laughing. "NAKED, naked, NAKED." Laughing hysterically, obviously forgetting our groom HAS underwear on. "Naked." Chanting now. HICK. Too much laughing for him = wicked hiccups. He finally stops the "naked" conversation because it's now coming out like "Na-HICK-ked." And it sounds REALLY stupid.
Last brother "Yeah, they get married, by the pastor, in front of everybody." Completely nonplussed by the poor dude without pants.
That song will never be the same for me.
I just hope, when the boys get married, we remember to hire security to guard against crazy, pants-deficient, wedding-crashing hobos.
*Come on, sing along. You know you WANT to!
**Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil....
***Note to self: teach them politically-correct term "HOMELESS PERSON".
"Here comes the bride, all big and wide*."
Now, back in the dark ages, when I was sub-10-years-old, that was pretty much the end of the lyrics. The rest was just hummed to the wedding march. Now that we have left THAT century, the newer generation of kids has started waxing poetic on this oldie-but-goodie.
It continued: "Where is the groom? He's in the bathroom."
At this point, I figured this had started bad and was racing downhill like a bobsledder in the Olympic trials. What WAS that bad boy doing in the bathroom? I didn't have the chance to ask.
"Why is he there? He's in his underwear."
Now, I did feel the need to cover my ears, eyes and mouth, all monkey-like**. This couldn't be recovered, could it?
So I asked "Why is the groom in the bathroom without any pants?"
I just recently learned that logic is being taught at one of my son's schools, starting this year, THANK YOU LORD, because this was the response:
"Because a hobo*** stole his pants." Said with ATTITUDE like "DUH. Mom."
So, DUH-MOM, had to ask "But why would a hobo steal somebody's pants?"
MORE 'tude "Because the hobo didn't HAVE ANY."
OHHH YEAH. PERFECTLY logical. Glad I'm paying private school prices for my kid's educations.
So, if I'm following the logic:
At a private wedding between a fat woman and a man who seems pretty weak to me, a hobo breaks into the festivities, steals the groom's pants, and leaves him in his underwear in the loo??
I just had to ask "So what happens next? Do they get married?" The suspense was eating me alive.
One brother "Well, yes, but he's standing in his underwear in front of everyone and after they talk he runs away and is never seen again. He's too embarrassed."
Another brother "YEAH. He's naked." Laughing. "NAKED, naked, NAKED." Laughing hysterically, obviously forgetting our groom HAS underwear on. "Naked." Chanting now. HICK. Too much laughing for him = wicked hiccups. He finally stops the "naked" conversation because it's now coming out like "Na-HICK-ked." And it sounds REALLY stupid.
Last brother "Yeah, they get married, by the pastor, in front of everybody." Completely nonplussed by the poor dude without pants.
That song will never be the same for me.
I just hope, when the boys get married, we remember to hire security to guard against crazy, pants-deficient, wedding-crashing hobos.
*Come on, sing along. You know you WANT to!
**Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil....
***Note to self: teach them politically-correct term "HOMELESS PERSON".
Friday, August 14, 2009
Cousin's Camp
Yesterday morning, we welcomed the arrival of two of the kid's cousins to the Nowell abode. Previously, over Spring Break, my sister-in-law very graciously took our kids for several days after recognizing we couldn't even unpack a pair of underwear with a week of nothing but 24/7 Nowell boys*.
So, with my saintly sister-in-law in mind, I planned this week as a "thank you" repayment for her.
In a trade worthy of the major leagues, we gained the cousins and, simultaneously, Mike's parents took one of our kids for the week. The only thing that could have made this better would have been a generous, sign-on bonus.
Net result: up one non-Nowell kid, down one of our own. That took a lot of whiny out of the conversation.
With all the particulars in place, cousin's camp began.
For the first 20 hours, everyone was on their best behavior. There was plenty of "please", "thank you" and general excitement to be had. In a word: copacetic.
Then, this morning hit.
You must keep in mind that the kids have been messing around with a newly created "fort", made from the washer and dryer boxes of previous posts**.
At first, it was kid nirvana. Then it became "us" against "them". Then it became "You are ___", where each child was assigned a role by the other kids.
After this occurred, the only girl in the entire pack started crying. These weren't little, sweet, roll down your face slowly tears. These were big, falling off your cheeks, crocodile tears.
I did what any Mom who is raising boys and hasn't a clue about raising girls would do: I instantly figured the boys were at fault and asked them how they had hurt her feelings. Seemed logical to me.
They all shrugged their shoulders. From what I was gathering, they really didn't know.
I wanted to pat them all on the back and give them the "BASICS OF YOUR FUTURE WIFE AND ANY DAUGHTERS LECTURE" that goes something like this: "Buck up, guys. This is what life with the female set is going be like later in your life. The quicker you get used to the fact that there is GOING to be crying, the better." But, I still had crying going on in real time and I had to get to the bottom of the situation.
I tried my sweetest voice. I tried pleaded with the brothers and the boy cousin. Nothing was working. My Mommy bag was entirely empty.
I couldn't get anything out of her. And now she was crying so hard and had her head buried so far into the air bed that I couldn't understand a word she was saying.
Eventually*** she tried to calm herself down enough to communicate. The first two passes sounded something like "They, they, they...." (crying jag) and "I, I, I don't want..." (best ostrich imitation, head hitting Aerobed**** at speeds previously reserved for cheetahs.)
After about five minutes of this little game of Mommy torture*****, I finally learned the source of this consternation. She confessed, as the only sub-tween girl in the house, that she had been dealt the role of "Mommy" in the fort game.
And, she said, so pitifully, "I don't WANT to be the Mommy."
Oh, girlfriend. It took everything in my power not to laugh out loud at your sad, sad statement. It rang SO true because there are just some days your Aunt doesn't want to be the Mommy either, honey!
Now I was in completely unchartered territory. Crying, with Nowell sons, is cured by ice packs and brief hugs. Then it's over. On this one I REALLY had to use brain power.
And, apparently I found the right formula! Tears subsiding, after a little bit of well executed negotiation, she earned the coveted title of "sister", avoiding continuation of the dreaded "Mommy" moniker after a brief turn in its torturous grips. WOW! Maybe I could have raised a girl after all?!
I couldn't help but think of queens of centuries past who produced female non-heirs, thus learning their fate on the labor bed*****. It was as if cousin XX chromosome somehow knew she had produced the first male heir and HAD to be Mommy now. Except she wasn't going to have servants and handmaidens and nannies. You just can't run fast enough in this situation, can you, niece-friend?
At the tender age of seven, she is my sage for the times. I've never quite been able to verbalize my frustration as succinctly as she did.
Someday, at one of her baby showers, I'm sure we'll tell this story and it will produce big, hearty laughter.
And, I'll tell her: Sweetness, Mommyhood is frustrating work. There will be days you want to go all Marie Osmond on your clan and get in your car and drive far away. But, you'll come back because, somehow, after a few minutes of solitude it will be TOO quiet and you'll miss the screaming, fighting, and general excitement that comes with having kids.
Mommyhood is, after all, the only job you'll never regret the privilege of having.
*Little did she know that all I really managed to do was sit in the corner of our shell of a house and rock back and forth, drinking cheap wine while singing "KUMBAYA".
**Another downfall of not ever really cleaning: stuff rarely gets thrown out. This is great when you are five. Not so good when you are 43.
***The longest two minutes of my freakin' life.
****When I was pregnant and an insomniac, I watched an entire infomercial on the Aerobed. I ALMOST grabbed my credit card and made the call. Thankfully, I went to bed instead, because others in the family got sucked into the madness. Now we just borrow theirs....
*****I HATE not being able to assign time-outs with certainty and timeliness.
******I just love the irony implicit in the fact that Mr. King was throwing the XX sperm and Mrs. Queen ended up in the guillotine as a thank you gift. Um, HELLO, Mr. King? That leaves YOU and your minions to raise a girl ALL BY YOURSELF. Truly, a time of illogical men.
So, with my saintly sister-in-law in mind, I planned this week as a "thank you" repayment for her.
In a trade worthy of the major leagues, we gained the cousins and, simultaneously, Mike's parents took one of our kids for the week. The only thing that could have made this better would have been a generous, sign-on bonus.
Net result: up one non-Nowell kid, down one of our own. That took a lot of whiny out of the conversation.
With all the particulars in place, cousin's camp began.
For the first 20 hours, everyone was on their best behavior. There was plenty of "please", "thank you" and general excitement to be had. In a word: copacetic.
Then, this morning hit.
You must keep in mind that the kids have been messing around with a newly created "fort", made from the washer and dryer boxes of previous posts**.
At first, it was kid nirvana. Then it became "us" against "them". Then it became "You are ___", where each child was assigned a role by the other kids.
After this occurred, the only girl in the entire pack started crying. These weren't little, sweet, roll down your face slowly tears. These were big, falling off your cheeks, crocodile tears.
I did what any Mom who is raising boys and hasn't a clue about raising girls would do: I instantly figured the boys were at fault and asked them how they had hurt her feelings. Seemed logical to me.
They all shrugged their shoulders. From what I was gathering, they really didn't know.
I wanted to pat them all on the back and give them the "BASICS OF YOUR FUTURE WIFE AND ANY DAUGHTERS LECTURE" that goes something like this: "Buck up, guys. This is what life with the female set is going be like later in your life. The quicker you get used to the fact that there is GOING to be crying, the better." But, I still had crying going on in real time and I had to get to the bottom of the situation.
I tried my sweetest voice. I tried pleaded with the brothers and the boy cousin. Nothing was working. My Mommy bag was entirely empty.
I couldn't get anything out of her. And now she was crying so hard and had her head buried so far into the air bed that I couldn't understand a word she was saying.
Eventually*** she tried to calm herself down enough to communicate. The first two passes sounded something like "They, they, they...." (crying jag) and "I, I, I don't want..." (best ostrich imitation, head hitting Aerobed**** at speeds previously reserved for cheetahs.)
After about five minutes of this little game of Mommy torture*****, I finally learned the source of this consternation. She confessed, as the only sub-tween girl in the house, that she had been dealt the role of "Mommy" in the fort game.
And, she said, so pitifully, "I don't WANT to be the Mommy."
Oh, girlfriend. It took everything in my power not to laugh out loud at your sad, sad statement. It rang SO true because there are just some days your Aunt doesn't want to be the Mommy either, honey!
Now I was in completely unchartered territory. Crying, with Nowell sons, is cured by ice packs and brief hugs. Then it's over. On this one I REALLY had to use brain power.
And, apparently I found the right formula! Tears subsiding, after a little bit of well executed negotiation, she earned the coveted title of "sister", avoiding continuation of the dreaded "Mommy" moniker after a brief turn in its torturous grips. WOW! Maybe I could have raised a girl after all?!
I couldn't help but think of queens of centuries past who produced female non-heirs, thus learning their fate on the labor bed*****. It was as if cousin XX chromosome somehow knew she had produced the first male heir and HAD to be Mommy now. Except she wasn't going to have servants and handmaidens and nannies. You just can't run fast enough in this situation, can you, niece-friend?
At the tender age of seven, she is my sage for the times. I've never quite been able to verbalize my frustration as succinctly as she did.
Someday, at one of her baby showers, I'm sure we'll tell this story and it will produce big, hearty laughter.
And, I'll tell her: Sweetness, Mommyhood is frustrating work. There will be days you want to go all Marie Osmond on your clan and get in your car and drive far away. But, you'll come back because, somehow, after a few minutes of solitude it will be TOO quiet and you'll miss the screaming, fighting, and general excitement that comes with having kids.
Mommyhood is, after all, the only job you'll never regret the privilege of having.
*Little did she know that all I really managed to do was sit in the corner of our shell of a house and rock back and forth, drinking cheap wine while singing "KUMBAYA".
**Another downfall of not ever really cleaning: stuff rarely gets thrown out. This is great when you are five. Not so good when you are 43.
***The longest two minutes of my freakin' life.
****When I was pregnant and an insomniac, I watched an entire infomercial on the Aerobed. I ALMOST grabbed my credit card and made the call. Thankfully, I went to bed instead, because others in the family got sucked into the madness. Now we just borrow theirs....
*****I HATE not being able to assign time-outs with certainty and timeliness.
******I just love the irony implicit in the fact that Mr. King was throwing the XX sperm and Mrs. Queen ended up in the guillotine as a thank you gift. Um, HELLO, Mr. King? That leaves YOU and your minions to raise a girl ALL BY YOURSELF. Truly, a time of illogical men.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Baby dolls pits
Hand-me-downs are a right of passage in the Nowell house. You KNOW you are loved when you receive them, because each item you try on is eyed suspiciously by its previous owner and met with "UH, that's MY shirt/ shorts/pants/underwear"* To which I politely explain, "this USED to be yours, but it no longer fits, so it is now ______'s" (insert name of lucky recipient).
The usual response from our lucky hand-me-down contestant is something between a Superbowl end zone dance and some funky Latin dance move I don't even think has been invented yet, combined with the strains of "oh yeah, oh yeah", generally meant to convey to the older sibling "I got some ice cream, you don't got no ice cream"** Then I get the "MMMOOOOMMMM" and we start this little dance all over again.
This time, though, the hand-me-down fairy didn't fare so well. Baby doll didn't like the coordinating Nike orange/gray/white sleeveless tank and shorts even though he looked flat adorable in them***. He fussed, he adjusted, he cried, he practically spit green pea soup trying to get me to take this outfit off. I just couldn't understand.
Then he dropped the bomb: he didn't like the kids at Preschool seeing his "nipples". This hit me wrong on so many levels I didn't know where to start...
1. How did he learn the word "nipple"?
2. Into what whacked position were these kids getting if they could see nipple? I could see nada.
3. How did the style gene skip his generation and mine? Because he was missing out on an opportunity to look stellar....
So, I changed him and forgot about the nipple incident. Round one to the kid.
Until a few weeks later when said outfit was the only thing in sight that was clean (a continuous problem in our house until the coveted W/D of 2009). I'm not sure if it was the gnashing of teeth, my desire to not be late for the billionth time, or concern over the cost of his future psychologist visits that would, no doubt, be necessary after this perceived cruelty****, but something made me ask the question, "Why are you so worried about the kids seeing your nipples? You know it's ok for boys to show their nipples, but not girls, right?" To which my love bug said, pointing to his ARMPITS, "I just don't like them showing."
One undershirt later, we were jammin' out the door, which just totally proves the adage "Knowledge is POWER."
Ding, ding. Round two goes to MOM!
Oh, and in case you are wondering, he now knows the difference between an armpit and a nipple.
*Yes, I send underwear down the line if they don't have holes or serious marks. Sue me.
**Eddie Murphy, Delerious stand-up skit. His language will singe your ears but you'll be laughing while they burn.
***Stylin', I tell you, stylin'.
**** "For the fourteenth time, Dr. Spock, I was only THREE and she MADE ME SHOW MY NIPPLES!!! It was MORTIFYING, I tell you. MORTIFYING."
The usual response from our lucky hand-me-down contestant is something between a Superbowl end zone dance and some funky Latin dance move I don't even think has been invented yet, combined with the strains of "oh yeah, oh yeah", generally meant to convey to the older sibling "I got some ice cream, you don't got no ice cream"** Then I get the "MMMOOOOMMMM" and we start this little dance all over again.
This time, though, the hand-me-down fairy didn't fare so well. Baby doll didn't like the coordinating Nike orange/gray/white sleeveless tank and shorts even though he looked flat adorable in them***. He fussed, he adjusted, he cried, he practically spit green pea soup trying to get me to take this outfit off. I just couldn't understand.
Then he dropped the bomb: he didn't like the kids at Preschool seeing his "nipples". This hit me wrong on so many levels I didn't know where to start...
1. How did he learn the word "nipple"?
2. Into what whacked position were these kids getting if they could see nipple? I could see nada.
3. How did the style gene skip his generation and mine? Because he was missing out on an opportunity to look stellar....
So, I changed him and forgot about the nipple incident. Round one to the kid.
Until a few weeks later when said outfit was the only thing in sight that was clean (a continuous problem in our house until the coveted W/D of 2009). I'm not sure if it was the gnashing of teeth, my desire to not be late for the billionth time, or concern over the cost of his future psychologist visits that would, no doubt, be necessary after this perceived cruelty****, but something made me ask the question, "Why are you so worried about the kids seeing your nipples? You know it's ok for boys to show their nipples, but not girls, right?" To which my love bug said, pointing to his ARMPITS, "I just don't like them showing."
One undershirt later, we were jammin' out the door, which just totally proves the adage "Knowledge is POWER."
Ding, ding. Round two goes to MOM!
Oh, and in case you are wondering, he now knows the difference between an armpit and a nipple.
*Yes, I send underwear down the line if they don't have holes or serious marks. Sue me.
**Eddie Murphy, Delerious stand-up skit. His language will singe your ears but you'll be laughing while they burn.
***Stylin', I tell you, stylin'.
**** "For the fourteenth time, Dr. Spock, I was only THREE and she MADE ME SHOW MY NIPPLES!!! It was MORTIFYING, I tell you. MORTIFYING."
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