It’s gonna go in your butt. . .

Reece:  It’s gonna go in your butt.

Reece:  It’s gonna go in your butt.

Reece:  It’s gonna go in your butt.

Me:  What?

Reece:  It’s gonna go in your butt.  The spaceship’s gonna go in your butt.

This conversation occurs as I am sitting on the arm of the sofa, facing away from the boy, who is apparently attempting to stick a plastic hamburger, which he believes is a spaceship, up my butt.

I have something alive in here.

That’s probably the single best thing a kid can say to you while you’re in the confines of a moving vehicle.

“Here” was a tiny play-doh container, so the “something” couldn’t have been that big of a deal, but still.

We get into the car after daycare, and Shae says to me, with a sneaky grin on her face, “I have something alive in heeeeere” and shakes the play-doh container.  Given the size of the container,  I wasn’t terribly alarmed, but still, if you’ve got something alive in my new car, I kinda wanna know what it is RIGHT AWAY.

But, I’m a patient mom, so I play along. 

“Is it a monkey?!  A tiny, baby monkey?!  A PURPLE, tiny, baby monkey?!  I HOPE IT’S A PURPLE TINY BABY MONKEY!!!”

*child giggling*

“Noooo”. . .

Is it an animal?  No.

Is it a plant?  No.

Is it a bug?  No.

Um.  That rules out most things that are alive.

Turns out my daughter could use a lesson or two in science.  Because a lizard is too an animal.

Inside the tiny play-doh container was a tiny gecko.  She just “took his tail off” so he could fit in the container!

I’ll admit, I’m a little bit of a bleeding heart when it comes to animals. . . so I may have overreacted to the casual removal of a lizard’s tail, but seriously.  Do you want some giant walk up and just take your leg off so you can fit more conveniently into his tiny play-doh container?   Probably not.

Anyway.  Moral of the story is, if you’re going to bring home something alive from daycare in a tiny play-doh container, it better be a purple tiny baby monkey.  Otherwise, I’ll make you put it outside.

Little Boys

For the past two years, everyone has been trying to convince me that boys are so much easier to raise than girls. 

All of you jerks are LIARS.  Boys are not easier.  LIARS LIARS LIARS.

This boy is mouthy and headstrong and stubborn and LOUD.  He can throw a temper tantrum for hours (his current record is 3 solid hours) and if he wants something, he will argue and negotiate and flat out demand it until you give in or take away everything he owns.

He is undoubtedly the biggest challenge I’ve ever faced.  And, it’s such an amazing contrast because Shae is very well behaved, and she might pout for 5 minutes if she doesn’t get her way, but then she’s over it.  She rarely talks back, and she certainly doesn’t kick me. 

There are a lot of times when I wonder what the Hell I was thinking. . . how I thought I could handle this on my own and who on Earth convinced me to take this little demon boy. 

Lucky for him, he has his redeeming qualities, and for every moment of doubt I have, he provides a more resonating moment of laughter and all of the doubt melts away.

This week, the boy has twice informed me that I cannot leave the house the way I was dressed.  One day, he didn’t like my sweater and he told me to change it.  I refused, and he pouted about it all the way to school.  Another day, I was running too late to care, and I threw on black socks with brown shoes.  Reece wasn’t having any of it. 

Today, however, I threw on my turquoise, sequined tank and a white sweatsuit.  No big deal.  But, when Reece rounded the corner to my bathroom to see what was taking me so long to get ready, you’d think I was covered in lollipops and puppy dogs.  His eyes widened and he ran to throw himself into me and said, “I LOVE THIS!”. 

5 minutes later, after I’d peeled him from my body, he asked me if he can have my shirt when he’s bigger.

I don’t see why not.

Consequences

Every Friday is movie night.  Some Fridays we go out to eat first.

Tonight was one such Friday.  We piled ourselves into the fantastic new car and headed to Kerbey Lane for breakfast for dinner.  It was lovely.  Except they forgot the sour cream for my baked potato omelet and the sour cream is pretty much what makes the baked potato omelet, but whatever.

As we were leaving, a tow truck was in the parking lot, getting ready to tow a big van that had just been in an accident.  There were flashing lights and policemen.  As we walked to the car, we saw the car the van had obviously hit.  A policeman was taking a look with his flashlight and we stopped to stare for a minute before we made our way to our car.

A few feet from the car, Reece decided he no longer needed to hold my hand or walk slowly and he took off.  I very sternly requested that he stop, and he refused.  When I caught up to him, he said, “Ha ha!  I beat you!” and I said, “NO SIR, that was NOT APPROPRIATE” and he said, “NU HUH” and yanked his hand away again. 

I did what any rational mother would do, I said, “Do you want me to go tell the policemen that you aren’t behaving?”.

To which, he responded, in a very loud screaming voice, “NO!  I DON’T WANT TO GO TO JAIL!” . . . and because he was being so loud, his sister had to shout over him to make sure I heard her when she said, “Yeah, like daddy!”.

It was pretty awesome.  Mostly because there were at least two dozen people within ear shot.

Forever and ever until we die

Forget that a 6 year old child probably shouldn’t be concerned with old age or death yet.

My beautiful daughter, who loves me so, so much, just informed me that she’ll be living with me forever. 

It was great because just prior to making that declaration, she told me that she’ll take care of me when I’m old because I’m the best mom in the world (ha! ha! ha!  I’m sure that’s not true, but she’s so easy to trick!).  And, then she told me I’m already getting old, so she’ll have to take care of me when she’s still a child.  *mumbles incoherently* 

So, I tried to explain to her that she’ll someday get older and want to get married and have kids of her own, and she probably won’t want to live with me then.

And, then she said what any daughter of mine should say.  . . she said she’s not getting married, and she doesn’t have to get married to have kids, she’ll just adopt some like me!

When I explained that she’s absolutely right, she doesn’t have to get married and she can adopt, but it’s not easy and she might want to get married so she can have someone to help her take care of the kids.

My brilliant daughter laughed the kind of laugh that says “You’re so foolish, you old hag”,  and said, “NO.  YOU’LL help me because I’m going to live with you forever and ever until we die”.

This is NOT what I signed up for.

Conversations with a 3 year old

Me:  Do you want peanut butter & jelly or bologna?

Reece:  Beanut buttewr & jelly

Me:  Ok, here.

Reece:  I donut wanna eat now.

Me:  Fine.  Lunch is on the counter when you’re ready.

Reece:  *watches a 1.5 hour movie*

Me:  Don’t forget – your sandwich is on the counter.

Reece:  Oh. 

Reece then goes into the kitchen, gets his sandwich off the counter, stares at it in disbelief, puts it back, and runs around the corner to me, grabs my hand and exclaims:  STEPHANIE!  I’M SO PROUD OF YOU FOR MAKING THAT SANDWICH!

Eh, I think I’ll keep him.