Yeti Jammies

It was a Thursday morning in Walmart. The youngest boy and I had just gathered several items, checked them out ourselves, and were heading out of the self-check area when we noticed a small boy wearing what we call Yeti Jammies. Will owns said pair of pajamas with snow monsters on them.

Will: He has my yeti jammies.

Me: Yes. He does have your jammies.

Will: He give them back?

Me: Oh, Honey, no. He has the same jammies. Those aren't yours. Yours are at home.

Will: He went into the laundry and took them?

Me: No. Those are his. Yours are still at home.

Will: He came into my house and took my yetis? 

None of this was said with any malice. He truly just assumed the baby, who looked like he was just shy of a year old, broke into our house to lift one blanket sleeper. He never raised his voice but instead kept talking in a normal, albeit slightly concerned, tone.

Me: He has his own. Those are not yours.

Will: Can I get them back from him ever?

Me: Will. I promise that your jammies are safe at home. I will show you when we get there.

At this point, I told the mom of the other boy that my son couldn't understand why her little boy was wearing his pajamas. She smiled and laughed and then pushed her cart, her kid, and his yeti jammies off in another direction.

Will: Wait! He still has my yetis on!

Me: Ok. Baby. I promise to show you your jammies as soon as we get home.

The entire way to the car, he calmly explained to me that the little boy still had his jammies and he had obviously stolen them from our home and he would like them back at some point. There was no reasoning with him. When I got home, the first thing I did was run up to his room. I opened his pajama drawer and...

THE YETI JAMMIES WERE NOT THERE.

I panicked briefly before remembering that they were in the dryer. I ran down and pulled them out.

Me: Will, look! Here are your yeti jammies.

Will: Oh! He already bringed them back! He is a nice boy.

Sigh.

A Zebra!

We just returned from several days in Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons. My favorite moment of the entire trip went something like this...

We'd driven into the park after dinner. It was evening and the park was alive with wildlife. We'd see many cars pulled over and a crowd of people pointing and taking pictures. As we looked to see what they saw, one of us would yell something like, "Oh! I found it. It's a deer!" or, "There it is! A buffalo." This went on for some time.

At one point, we were driving along. There wasn't an animal in sight. Suddenly, our barely two-year-old screams, " Found it! A zebra!"

We all basically died laughing and have repeated the phrases no less than 500 times. Toddlers are the best.

Merry Christmas and, Also, Circumcision

I just have a quick second and I wanted to wish the three of you that are still stopping by my blog a VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS INDEED! Thank you for reading even though this year hasn't really been hilarious.

I do hope you have a memorable and peaceful day tomorrow and that you take the time to remember that this holiday is about a baby come to save the world. Teach it to your children. There's way too much wrapping paper and not enough true meaning of Christmas these days. Think on the nativity scene for a moment. Consider Mary. Think about Joseph. Worship the baby. They are more than just figures on your mantel. They are real. This story is real.

And, since the ole blog has suffered a bit and been lost in our year of tears, I leave you with this remarkable story.

Last night, we piled on the couch to watch The Nativity. We had to pause it every now and then to explain some things--especially to the youngest. Turns out, we'd never actually told him about circumcision. There comes a point in the film where little baby John the Baptist has to endure the aforementioned procedure.

"What is happening?" Matthew asked, concerned.

Troy paused it and thus began a conversation about circumcision.

I KNOW there are those of you that are adamantly opposed to circumcision this day and age and whatever, I respect your opinion. But these Bassham boys are, well, Jewish in this particular regard. Deal with it. So, after the explanation which involved a pointer finger and a napkin (YOU ARE SO WELCOME FOR THIS POST, Y'ALL. MERRY CHRISTMAS!), Matthew's eyes widened.

"Is mine like that?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Is Garrett's?" The line of questioning was a bit weird because he's pretty much seen what there is to see around this house.

"Yes," Garrett answered for himself.

"Dad????"

"Uh huh," came the reply.

Then he turned and stared me down.

"Is your penis like that, Mom?"

"Well...I don't have a penis."

"Oh yeah!" he dissolved into fits of laughter. "I forgot!"

My Future Daughter in Law and the Bush House of Love

Garrett has never liked girls. Or he's always liked them. Something like that. He's always had girl friends but he's never had a girlfriend. This year he is finally admitting that he thinks certain girls are cute but he makes sure to insist that they are JUST FRIENDS.

Not Matthew. Matthew is a like a little, innocent Casanova. He's had a few crushes. He is always asking me how old he has to be to get married. He mercilessly teases his brother about liking girls.

They are the exact opposite.

Recently, Matthew and a girl from our church who we'll call Manhattan (because I feel like she needs a pseudonym, I really like New York City, and she may or may not share her actual name with one of the other NYC boroughs) decided that they are going to get married. This is not just your thirty second hilarious love story between young elementary school kids.

This is serious.

At least, if you ask them it is.

A month and a half ago, Manhattan told Matthew that she was going to marry a different boy because he had asked first. This led to Matthew literally sobbing his ever-loving head off in Troy's arms. Hysterical, hiccuping sobs. Troy's shirt was soaked as he tried to keep a straight face and mend his six-year-old's broken heart. "She ex-ed me out!" Matthew wailed. Troy explained they could still be friends and Matthew bawled about how he didn't want to be friends, he wanted her to be his wife. It was equal parts hilarious and gut-wrenching.

Her mom later told me that Manhattan had lamented her dilemma. There were two boys who loved her. Oh what a problem to have. She was with Matthew first. But then the other boy had proposed marriage and Matthew hadn't. In the words of Beyonce, If you like it then you should have put a ring on it. She had accepted the first proposal so she needed to stick with it.

But then something happened. I don't know what. I can't keep young love straight. Suddenly, Manhattan and Matthew were back together again. And they were taking it VERY seriously.

"Mom! I have to dress fancy for church because Manhattan is going to wear her fancy dress for me," he instructed one Sunday morning. Thankfully, his idea of dressing fancy is pants (of any kind) and a shirt with buttons.

We went to California for almost two weeks. We started our week off camping at Santee Lakes. Matthew discovered a kind of tree fort hollow and declared it his Bush House. He began regaling us with tales of moving Manhattan in to his Bush House. We threw concerns at him. "Do you think she'd like sleeping on the dirt?"

"I'll bring in some carpet."

"How about the fact that the rain will come right through and soak everything?"

"I'll get a tarp."

There was a solution for every problem. His face was determined, sure that he would one day move his girl into his Bush House. We asked him when he planned to move. "When she is 17 and I am 16."

"You can't get married that young," I reminded him.

"I know. We are going to get engaged when I am 20 and married when I am 21." So, apparently, they're just planning to play house in the bush for five years first. He told us about their children. One boy and one girl. My future grandson is Eric (one of Matthew's middle names) Rokie (I have no idea but the poor kid lives in Utah, the capitol of the baby naming apocalypse. He doesn't know any better). My future granddaughter is Delta.

"Can her middle name be Dawn? Because then I can sing to her. Delta Dawn, what's that flower you have on? Could it be a faded rose from days gone by?" My mom joined me. His eyes widened.

"Did you just make that up?" He then readily agreed to name her Delta Dawn.

I relayed all of this to Manhattan's mom on Sunday. She told me that that morning, she'd overheard Manhattan asking her sister if she thought Matthew would like her dress. I'm not making any of this up.

Sunday night the phone rang. When I answered it, Manhattan's tiny voice asked for Matthew. I handed him the phone. "Hello?" he said. "I don't even hear anyone!" he shouted at me. "HELLO?" Suddenly his eyes widened, "IT'S MANHATTAN...Hmmm...MOM?!! DID YOU TELL MANHATTAN ABOUT THE BUSH HOUSE? Well, Manhattan, I don't think you'll like it because there are ants."

I interjected, "You can call an exterminator."

"Oh. My mom says we can get a bug guy to get rid of the ants."

And then they proceeded to talk on the phone for ten minutes. He told her that they could live there but they'd probably have to come home to Utah to visit their families. He explained that he'd fish for their food in the lake. And Troy and I stood in the kitchen and cracked up.

Matthew brought me the phone. "She says she's done talking now. Goodbye, Manhattan!" He held the phone out to me. I spoke to my hypothetical future daughter in law and asked for the hypothetical other grandma of my future grandchildren. She got on the phone and we dissolved into hysterical laughter.

They are definitely taking this young love thing seriously. It is precious.

And so so funny.

A Real Sob

I was relaying a story to my mom. I was quoting someone else and I said, "She said he's a self-centered jerk and a real S.O.B." I don't usually say things like that, it was just a direct quote.

My nine-year-old, who was in the room, pipes up with a know-it-all attitude, "Mom, did you forget that I know how to spell? He's a sob."

"You're so smart. He's a sob," I replied. Garrett left the room and then I laughed for about five minutes. I hope I'm raising that little speller not to grow up to be a sob.

Over Lunch

For the past ten years, we've had access to free tickets to Sea World. (Thanks, Sea World employee who continues to hook us up!) Today, we were able to head to the park with my parents, my brother and FSIL*, FSIL's parents, her sister and her sister's boyfriend.

So. There we were, eating lunch altogether at Sea World. FSIL's sister and her boyfriend live in Maryland and it had been, like, 20 years since I'd seen her (and by 20, I mean 4). I'd never met her boyfriend. Topics of conversation ranged from, "Where did you grow up?" to, "Do you like snow crab?" Well, since we didn't know him and he didn't know us, obviously my ex-fiancé came up. What? Don't you talk about previous fiancés with people you've never met?

Actually, it was like this. Boyfriend asked us how we met. I explained that Troy's dad had come on as the pastor of the church I grew up in and we'd met there. Troy interjected that we were friends first because I was with another guy.

"He was an Egyptian!" my eight-year-old exclaimed and then made a comment about being related to king Tut. This was the first time I realized that my son doesn't understand that my ex-fiancé is just a guy whose father moved here from Egypt and that I wasn't actually engaged to someone with his own pyramid who dressed like the characters from Prince of Egypt. Note to self: Further cultural education for my children is needed. Another note to self: Explain the difference between ancient civilizations and current ones to said children.

I explained to the over eight crowd that he was half Egyptian and half Caucasian but that we had, indeed, ended our relationship and that did, indeed, make way for Troy. Garrett was still clearly sad this ancient Egyptian fellow was no longer in our lives. "It's a good thing we broke up and I married dad. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here," I reminded him.

Without skipping so much as a beat, with the comedic timing that wins awards, Matthew quickly shouted, " BUT I WOULD!"

And then eight adults erupted into hysterical laughter. Several of us were wiping tears away from our eyes. It was SO hilarious. I honestly don't know if he was trying to be funny or if he was just stating the fact that his father and I ending up together had absolutely no bearing whatsoever on his presence in the world. Regardless of effort, the effect was comic gold.

*Before my brother got married, I referred to his fiancée as FSIL (Fizzle) which stood for Future Sister-in-Law. We tried out SIL for awhile but it just didn't have the sticking power. So now it's FSIL and the "F" represents any adjective beginning with that letter. Often, it stands for FABULOUS.

Fish Baby

We have this beta fish. We bought him three years ago so, in fish years, he's got to be about 390 by now. Garrett got him as a reward when he stopped sleeping on our floor EVERY BLOOMIN' NIGHT. Last year, the fish went into some sort of hibernation mode and just stopped eating. Every day we thought it was his last but that fish just kept right on living. Spring came, he perked up, ate his body weight in beta food on a daily basis, and refused to die. This fall, he stopped eating again and entered into a state of floating in the same spot, all day, every day. We still offer him food because, if he dies of starvation, we want it to be on him. Not us.

This morning I asked Garrett if he'd fed the fish. He said he'd tried. A few moments later he informed me of the following.

Garrett: Mom, having a sister might be a lot like having a fish. You know, it's super hard.

Me: It's super hard having a fish? (Forgive my confusion but the fish stays where he's put. We always know where he is. He requires a bit of food--except in the winter when he goes on a self-proclaimed fast. He needs his bowl cleaned out every few weeks but I clean it out and only require minimal assistance from the fish's owner. That fish is not overly difficult.)

Garrett: Yeah. Feeding him...(his voice trailed off)

I just stood there, staring for a few moments. I might have blinked several times rapidly. It was an auto response from my brain. It was so tired trying to process this comparison of a baby and a fish that the extreme confusion filtered out my eyes in quick blinks.

Yeah, Buddy. Having a baby and having a fish is pretty much the exact same level of responsibility. The baby will totally just stay in one place. In a bowl. On your dresser. She also won't need to be fed during the winter months. We can leave her when we go on vacation and just ask a friend to stop by to offer her food every once in a while. Best of all, she'll be completely silent all the time. Yeah. Babies and fish are COMPLETELY THE SAME. How has it taken me this long to realize it?

Funny Kids

My kids are hilarious.

Matthew: Can I go play outside?
Me: Sure.
Matthew: Great! I'm going to play with Beck. We're going to play "Doggies" and that means we are going to pretend to be dogs.

But. Er. Um. Beck IS a dog. So, in this game, I suppose that the part of the golden retriever is going to be played by...the golden retriever?

And then, this morning, Garrett was cleaning toilets. I told him to make sure he was using a lot of elbow grease. He had no idea what that was so I explained it. He came upstairs a few minutes later and said, "Mom, I was just using so much arm grease!"

Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road Twice?

MATT: Hey Mom, why did the chicken cross the road?

ME: To get to the other side.

MATT: (pause) Well, why did the chicken cross the road twice?

ME: (smiling, thinking maybe he finally has a funny joke for me. Pausing, I try to think up an answer. When none comes to me) I don't know. (MATT says nothing. Too much time passes.) Do you know?

MATT: What?

ME: Why the chicken crossed the road twice?

MATT: Oh. Nope.

Well then.

It Changes the Meaning, Is All

My youngest son is voraciously devouring his Bob books. I mean, not at all literally. That would be a digestive nightmare. But he's reading them quickly and with wild abandon. Typically, he reads through one with little to no problems. But, alas, yesterday he came face to face with a book called Bow-Wow.

Bow-Wow is about two pet owners and their two dogs. One of the dogs bow-wows a lot and the other dog yip-yaps too often. The pet owners, Tim and Jan, tell their dogs to, "Shhhh! Sit!"

I feel like you already know where this is headed.

I explained the sound that comes when one reads the letters Shhhhh. He already knows his "th", "ch" and "sh" sounds so the lesson wasn't exactly a giant leap for mankind. He picked it right up. The problem was that his brain could simply not sound out the very easy, three letter word that followed. He had that shhhh stuck in his head already. So, at first, he read it, "Shhhh. Suh-ih-t," but then failed to repeat it as "Shhhh. Sit!" and instead said (you guessed it), "Sh-ih-t." But, seriously, it was totally and adorably phonetic like that.

As the book went on, he simply started recognizing the, "Shhhh! Sit!" as the word sh*t.

And. Listen. I tried to make it stop. I mean, I was laughing uncontrollably listening to him phonetically (and so innocently) continue to say sh*t. Finally, I said, "See, buddy, that word you keep saying, it's a naughty one." For some odd reason, my second born child is incredibly uptight about naughty words. In our house we don't even say pee, butt or fart because, apparently, we are Quakers. Or Puritans. Or nuns. But really because I just don't like the way they sound coming out of little people. I know, full well, that my high schoolers (heck, probably my third graders) are not going to walk around saying potty, bum and toot but it's been a good ride. Matthew always tells me when his friends say naughty words. And by that, he means that they said butt. So, when I told him that sh*t wasn't a nice word, he burst into tears.

"You're not in trouble," I explained. "You didn't know. It's just not a word we say." Then I explained to him how to read it correctly. We started over. When we got to the page where the first owner tells his dog to be quiet, Matthew boldly read.

"Sh*t, Tip."

"Sh*t, Jip."

Hick

Not long ago, we were out to lunch. Garrett asked me if he could have Hick to drink.

"I'm sorry, what?" I asked him.

"Can I have hick?" he repeated.

"HICK?" I questioned, looking at Troy. He shook his head slowly and raised his shoulders slightly, as if to say, Your guess is as good as mine.

"HICK. Yes!" Garrett said again.

"Oh," Troy said. "He means Hi C."

Reminds me of the time, as a child, when I didn't know that lbs was an abbreviation for pounds and pronounced it lilbles. Why I didn't just say libs, I'll never know.

Poor Nathan

I just hadn't laughed so hard in awhile, is the thing.

That's why I posted it on facebook, twitter and instagram. That's why I texted it to his teacher who replied, "Hahahaha that made my night!!! Thank you!!" That's why I'm posting it here, ensuring that my son will be on a couch someday blaming me for every blooming thing that's gone wrong in his life.

"Once, my mom told the entire universe that I meant to write pennies but, instead, wrote penis."

And I'll respond with, "Yes. I did it. I fully confess. How could I keep that kind of information to myself when I knew it could bring such joy to the rest of the world?"

The therapist will agree with me. I'm almost sure of it.

Nineteen Marines

So we're driving along.

Garrett: Were there nineteen ____________ marines?
Me: (Thinking that it really sounds like he just asked me if there were nineteen pissed off marines but knowing that my son doesn't say stuff like that) Nineteen what, Buddy?
Garrett: Nineteen marines.
Troy: What did you say before?
Garrett: What do you mean?
Troy: Nineteen what kind of marines?
Garrett: (hesitating) Um. I don't remember.
Me: You said nineteen some kind of marines. What did you say?
Garrett: Oh. Nineteen pissed off marines. (He says completely nonchalant.)
Me: Where did you hear that?
Garrett: It was on a show.
Me: Okay. Usually we don't say that.
Garrett: Oh.
Me: There are really naughty words and then there are kind of naughty words and that's a kind of naughty word and you shouldn't say it.
Garrett: Okay. (Pause) What does it mean?
Troy & Me: (At the same time) Really mad.
Garrett: Okay...so were there nineteen really mad marines?
Troy: Well, I don't know. If the show said there were, there probably were.

Phonemes and Carnivores

My kid is a funny one. He cracks me up with all the hysterical things he says. Just the other day I was telling him that he needed to pay good attention during his phonics lesson.

"It's not phonics!" he reprimanded. It's actually a huge spiral bound book full of all sorts of rhyming words and syllable work. It's called Phonemic Awareness. "It's PHONEMES!" he proceeded to holler.

"I stand corrected," I said. "Pay attention when you're learning about PHONEMES."

"The book is actually called Phony Book Awareness," he replied.

It's not the first time he's called it that. Back at the beginning of the year he told me all about Phony Book Awareness. I'd just forgotten about it until he said it again.

I forwarded my mom this email that his teacher sent me last week...

I have to tell you the funniest thing Garrett said yesterday. It was during the math lesson and I was introducing the students to the big words: organize, category, represent. I used an example of a grocery store to illustrate to students what category means. I said something like "you wouldn't go looking for a pepper in the cereal aisle." and "Where would you go to look for sugar?" etc etc. Then I said "Where would I go to look for meat?" and Garrett says "the carnivore aisle?" HA I laughed out loud. "Yes, actually." So funny, especially since he was sincere with his answer.

Bubbles

Matthew, the stubborn light of my life, kept getting up off the bench where he was eating his lunch yesterday. "Finish your food and don't get up again or I'm going to glue your bum to that bench," I said. Or, at least, something very like that.

My brother was sitting next to him and, apparently, Matthew said that he was going to glue my bum to the chair I was sitting in. My sister-in-law asked who would take him home if I was glued to a chair.

"Myself," he replied. "And bubble gum."

In the musical Wicked, Glinda informs the Ozians and the audience that, "We can't all travel by bubble." But, apparently, Matthew can.

The Way of the Ships

He talks in his sleep.

He gets it from me.

It is, most definitely, one of those things that falls into the "nature" category.

I check on them every night. Every. Single. Night. To make sure they're still breathing. I don't know why. They're seven and four and, for heaven's sake, if they weren't still breathing, it might be better to get one last good night of sleep before spending the duration of my lifetime in gut-wrenching grief.

I place a hand on them. Usually this makes them turn over because my hands are always ice cold. Turning over is good because turning over means they are still alive. If they don't move, my hand feels the rise and fall of their tiny chests which also means they are still alive. So far, so good. They've always been still alive.

The other night I placed my hand on Garrett's chest. He immediately began to speak to me. "Mommy! Mommy!" It sounded incredibly urgent.

"What?" I whispered.

"Can you go back down?"

I was standing on his brother's bed so that I could reach him on the top bunk and, at first, I thought he was annoyed that I was touching him and wanted me to get down. But then he followed up his question with, "You know, like how the ships get on?"

How the huh does what now?

"Um...do you want me to?" I asked him, amused.

"Yes. Please," he answered. Then he burrowed his little self deep into his covers and stopped talking.

So I got down. But I have no idea if I did it the way the ships get on.

Elf on Our Shelf

We have elves.

They do things like this...




And this...

                                   

Garrett's friend Brett* (of Bloody Mary fame) didn't have an elf so he did what any sensible first grader would do. He made one. Out of what, I have no earthly idea. Apparently, this elf possesses magical powers and moves around at night--just like Garrett's elf.

This prompted a hysterically funny conversation a couple of days ago in which Garrett declared, "Brett made his elf. I mean, he just made it. And it moves at night. I'm pretty sure it's just Brett's mom and dad moving it around while he's sleeping."

                                     

Hmmm. You don't say?

Meanwhile, he still believes, wholeheartedly, that his own elf moves all by himself.

You know, despite the fact that his hands are sown together and he has a rather large tag protruding from the back of his red felt unitard. 

*Still not his actual name.

Bloody Mary

A little bit of background before I jump right into this gem of a story:

I subbed in a first grade class at Garrett's school on Tuesday. I reckon that's about the only background you need. Speaking of "I reckon" I think we should all start saying that. I reckon it's time for dinner. I reckon we should be going now. I reckon I ought to get on with my story.

So the first graders rotate for spelling groups. When it was time for my class to come back in from their various locations, several of them--the ones who have been to my house--starting telling me that they're never coming back over, they don't want to play at my house anymore, and they downright reject any further invitation to our abode. "What? Why?" I asked them.

Turns out it was on account of all the Bloody Mary activity that goes on here.

"Wha? What are you talking about?"

Apparently, my child spent all of his twenty minutes of spelling working with another kid to scare the bejeepers out of their friends. Between the two of them they concocted some story about Bloody Mary, my house, and a dead kid on a trampoline.

Super.

So at lunch, when I saw my sweet angel child deviant little storyteller, I gave him a severe tongue lashing. The idea that we spend our time conjuring up a bloody corpse in our mirror is not the picture I want presented about our family. Additionally, he'd scared his friends to the point that they were all talking about it in the lunch line--and getting in trouble for it by the lunch ladies and the other teachers.

Now, fast forward to the end of the day. Garrett and I went into his old kindergarten class so that he could say hello to his teacher. In the course of conversation, he ended up saying, "I remember what group I was in last year. And I remember what group Brett* was in." Brett just happens to be the same child who was helping Garrett tell stories about summoning a woman who has been "known" to scream at her conjurers, curse them, strangle them, steal their bodies, and/or gouge their eyes out. I only know this from looking it up. What did we do before the all-knowing Wikipedia? I'm incredibly hopeful that my precious firstborn child, the one who only eight years ago was nestled innocently inside my body, doesn't know the gory details surrounding the Bloody Mary folklore. If he does, homeschooling may be in our future. Or a protective soundproof bubble where the only thing he hears is my own voice being piped in while I sing Kumbayah.

"I remember too," she said.

"Yeah, well, maybe from now on you and Brett shouldn't even be in the same classroom," I mumbled to him.

"Uh oh," the kindergarten teacher said. "Garrett, are you having trouble with Brett?"

"Today they decided not to do their spelling. Instead, the two of them told all kinds of stories about Bloody Mary and freaked everyone out," I said.

"Oh no. You have to do your work, Garrett," she instructed. Then, to me, she said, "It's always something. Last year there were a bunch of kids talking about Chuckie."

"He doesn't even know what Bloody Mary is," I said. Although, looking back, I'm not sure why I said that when what I should have said is, "I have no idea how he even knows what Bloody Mary is but I'm willing to bet it starts with PUBLIC and ends with SCHOOL."

In any case, once I said that he didn't know what it was, that kid looked right at me and said, "Yes, I do! It's a drink!" His old teacher actually hit the wall she was laughing so hard. And I started backpedaling in such a way that I made it sound like I'm the town drunk. "I...um...wow...I. How? What? I promise I don't start my day off with a Bloody Mary. I mean, really. I don't. I've never even had...I. What? HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT?"

"Mrs. Benson** told me!" he shouted.

Now his old teacher (By old I mean previous, not ancient. Because she is like 29.) was borderline hysterical. "Mrs. Benson told him!" she loudly laughed.

"Well I'm totally okay with that because that means I'm not the one who has to have a Bloody Mary just to get out of bed in the morning."

Still, if I now have the reputation, in this clean cut Mormon city, of being the town drunk, you know why. It all started with a kid who wanted to tell ghost stories.


*Not his real name.
**Definitely not her real name.

Strange Bedfellows

When Matthew had his tonsils out last winter, the hospital gave him a blanket to bring home. It's the kind where you take two pieces of fabric, cut the perimeter into strips, and tie the strips together. He loves it. Over time, some of the strips came apart. I could have easily fixed the blanket but I didn't because my boy loves to climb inside and use it as a sleeping bag. He refuses to sleep under his covers. Instead, he just sleeps in his blanket every night.

Several days ago, he had a friend over. It was this friend's first time at our house and Matthew was showing him all of his earthly possessions. They wandered through the playroom and then into the bedroom. I was downstairs baking cookies and I could hear the dialogue. "This is my truck. These are my ninja turtles. That's my brother's bed. This is my bed. This is my blanket that I got when I had my tonsils taken out."

The friend was muttering things like, "Oh, neat. Cool. Nice." And various other pleasantries. When it came to the blanket, Matthew said, "Do you want to see how I sleep in it every night?" I didn't hear the friend's response but Matthew must have started to climb into it.

"See," he said. "I get in it like this. Then I look just like a homeless little lady."

If something had been in my mouth, for sure I would have spit it across the room. Certainly homelessness isn't funny, but the way he said it so matter-of-fact was startlingly hilarious. I have no idea where he came up with this. Our children, for better or worse, really haven't been introduced to poverty. We do things like Operation Christmas Child and other ways of donating to those in need--especially at Christmastime--so they understand that there are people much less fortunate than they are, but they've never really seen what it looks like, up close and personal. So I'm not sure how he knows what a homeless little lady would look like.

But, apparently, when he goes to bed at night, he does so impersonating someone without a home. And someone who is female. And small.

I just don't know where he comes up with this stuff.

Hot Chocolate and Bad Words

This morning, while doing some reading work with Matthew, he was sounding out three letter words. They had pictures with them so he was having a great deal of success. That is, until he got to the card with a picture of a mug on it. "Hot chocolate!" he loudly declared, very proud of himself.

It didn't help that I started to laugh somewhat uncontrollably.

Also noteworthy was the fact that I read him Fix-It Duck. His job was to say that sight word "the" every time we came to it. He was moderately successful. His other job was to shout out the words, "FIX IT DUCK!" whenever we came to that part of the story.

He was doing very well with that part. That is, until the time when he became a little tongue-tied and replaced the all important D in duck with an F. He screamed loudly, "FIX IT %^#*!"

Have I mentioned that the people staying with us are in ministry? I'm sure it was startling when a four-year-old shouting the worst of all bad words echoed down through the ventilation system.