So It's NOT Everywhere I Want to Go

Conversation with My Bitch last week:

Me: "So, my bank is forcing us to switch to Master Card."

My Bitch: "And..."

Me: "I really don't want to switch; I like Visa. Not to mention, Master Card isn't accepted everywhere."

My Bitch: "Like where? Where do you go that doesn't accept it?"

Me: (Trying to think up a quick example.) "Well, you know, like the Dollar Tree. They don't accept Master Card."

My Bitch: (Not even bothering to hold back the laugh.) "Could you repeat that, please..."

A Simple 'Thank You' Will Do

At the end of every day is this time I lovingly call, "The Witching Hour". It comes after dinner and before bed and is characterized by my sons acting as if they were possessed. Generally there are ridiculous fights, an ungodly amount of screaming and it ends with me threatening to run away from home.

Last night was no different.

They boys are in the tub and I had resigned myself to just mop up what ever amount of water gets poured out of the tub rather than sit in there with them. Sipping a glass of wine and looking at everyone's embarrassing photos on facebook that they wish someone hadn't tagged them in ,pondering world events, I hear Bonus scream in a panicked tone.

"Momma! My tooth fell out!" he shrieked.

Mildly concerned as we have spent enough money on his teeth already, I go to the bathroom. Bonus is holding a teeny tooth in one hand and a pool of blood in the other.

"Honey, it is a baby tooth. It fell out. That is what they are going to do for the next few years."

Analyzing the tooth in greater detail, he says, "Yeah, but it wasn't loose! Deuce knocked it out! He yanked a washcloth out of my mouth and the tooth came with it!"

A little surprised, I turn to Deuce to hear his side of the story and he responds with a smirk, "Yeah, and he didn't even thank me."

Evidence

Lately, I've been getting the sinking sensation that Dorkfish is trying to 'off' me. It's nothing big, like changing a life insurance policy or anything, but it's the subtle things that I am finally noticing. Small, incidental things such as leaving the glass shower door open, so when I get up in the middle of night to pee, I run into it. 'Misplacing' my wine bottle opener so I am forced to use a knife and screwdriver, which is no simple task when one has a tremor. Suggesting we trade in my Volvo (the safest car on the road) for something less expensive. I think the cleaning ladies may be in on it as well as they somehow accidentally put furniture cleaner on my floors...

But today's conversation with Deuce finally gives me concrete evidence and I am sharing it with ALL OF YOU for my safety.

Setting: In the car, driving Deuce to preschool. I take a sip of my coffee when he says...

"Momma. Did you know that if you get married and your wife dies, you can get married again?"

Me: *cough, choke, cough* "Um, no. I hadn't been told that. Where did YOU hear that?!"

Deuce: "Daddy told me."

So now you ALL KNOW that if I 'disappear' you have concrete evidence from a four year old...

And if he gets remarried, none of you better laugh at her jokes.

Preserving the Past: She Shot the Dog

I've always had a fond appreciation for listening tentatively to the stories of previous generations. I feel strongly that to be a good steward, we must record these stories to pass on to future generations for the purpose of learning valuable lessons from our wise ancestors.

It is because of this obligation that I am sharing this family story with you now.

But if you know my grandmother, don't you DARE tell her! Afterall, she doesn't even really understand 'the interwebs', let alone know I'm talking about her on here...

"Last night, I was sitting on the couch next to Papaw and when I got up to leave, he shuffeled his feet to the side in a funny way. Now he's done this a thousand times, but this time it just struck me as funny. When I laughed, a little wind slipped out. You know, when you get older those things just happen. Anyway, it was so loud that the dog jumped off the couch and ran off, scared to death. Papaw looked at me in complete surprise and said, "Well, Cotton, you shot my dog!" Honey, I have laughed about that harder than I've laughed in years!"

And now you understand where I get my sense of humor...

A Bright Future...

On Thursday, I told you about Bonus' little 'incident' in the cafeteria and how they apparently don't take kindly to the deafening sound that is made by crushing a milk carton in the cafeteria.

Seriously, they should live with him. That. Is. Nothing.

His teacher had already warned me that he hadn't returned the Here's-How-Screwed-Up-Your-Child-Is note, so I was completely prepared when he got off the bus.

Me: (In my most obnoxious mom tone.) "Hey Babe! How was school?!"

Bonus: (Staring at the ground.) "Um, good. It was a good day."

Me: "So, no problems we need to talk about?"

Bonus: "Um, nope. Not a thing. Nothing. Nope. Not at all."

Yeah, the kid can't lie to save his life. So we came home, I showed him his NEW! SHOES! I had purchased him since he'd had such a GREAT! WEEK! AT! SCHOOL! He did his homework so he could get ICE! CREAM! for being SO! GOOD! THIS! WEEK! Yet not once did he crack. He's either got a future in the CIA or he'll be in prison...

In fact, he even made it all the way to the car (where he spilled a milk and blamed it on Deuce even though he wasn't even IN THE CAR YET) before the game ended. By then, my patience had grown thin and I sent him to his room where I proceeded to lay it on thick.

Me: "Bonus, you know that when you LIE you get in MUCH WORSE TROUBLE than when you tell the TRUTH. Right?!"

Bonus: "Yeah."

Me: "And you LIED to me about spilling the milk. Didn't you?"

Bonus: "Yeah."

Me: "So if you have LIED about anything ELSE, I would suggest you tell me about it NOW because if I find out LATER it will be BAAAAAAAD. Is there anything you want to TELL ME NOW?"

Bonus: "Um... Nope."

Me: *sigh*

So I left him in there for a few more days, er minutes, and he finally caved.

He walked out with this:



My favorite part is the false start on the A.

That kid has a future, I tell ya...

Instilling Guilt is Apparently My Parental Gift

First grade has brought with it a few challenges to say the least. We've had a lot of new 'slams' thrown toward Deuce, some fancy eye-rolling when asked to do something and a frightening amount of lying. Considering Bonus received the Integrity Award last year for being the ONLY child in class to never tell a lie, this is quite a disheartening change.

I realize every kid lies. I know I tried to pull a few fast ones over on my parents a time or two but we have a zero-tolerance policy on lying.

Today I received a call from his teacher.

Yeah, those are always fun. There is nothing heavier than the weight in your stomach when you see the school name on your caller ID.

Apparently, after finishing his milk yesterday in the cafeteria, he proceeded to stomp the carton flat causing a sound so loud the entire lunchroom fell silent.

Yes, I laughed out loud when she told me this.

He was written up for this little stunt and was told to bring home the note for me to sign. Naturally, I never saw this note.

When the teacher asked about it today, he told her I hadn't seen it. (Which is the truth.) But when she explained that I had to sign it and he had to return it, he apparently went pale.

Bonus: "What does she need to write on it?"

The teacher: "She has to sign her name."

Bonus: "You mean, A.M.Y.? Because that's how she spells it..."

*You can smell the smoke from there, can't you?*

He has yet to mention the note and every question about school has been returned with a 'yeah, I'm doing GREAT!' response. So this evening I have been instilling as much guilt as possible; because that's what moms do best.

Right now we are going for ice cream because he has had such a GREAT! WEEK! and because he is such a GOOD! BOY! and because he hasn't had ANY! PROBLEMS! AT! SCHOOL!

But tomorrow morning, when I'm putting him on the bus and kissing him bye, I will whisper in his ear, "I know about the note from your school..."

And it will be a loooong weeeekend.

Dambit, I say...

About a month ago, Dorkfish sent me an email and in it, he spelled 'damn' as 'damb'. Being the astute journalist I am, (snort) I picked up on it immediately but decided it was because the 'bad word' filter at work was too stringent. (Yes, I completely made up this scenario to put my mind at ease over his typo.)

Then he did it again.

And again.

Finally, after the third 'damb' I asked him over dinner why he was spelling it that way. He put his fork down, looked at me with a perplexed expression, and said, "Because that's how you spell it."

*blink, blink*

Oh yes, my friends. My husband who is one of the smartest people I know had decided that 'damn' was actually 'DAMB'...

So of course I decided to let that one go. I certainly would never tell all of our mutual friends, make jokes on facebook, or use 'damb' in a sentence so frequently that it has become part of my vocabulary.

Never.

*snicker*

So now, almost every mutual friend is saying, "Damb" or "Dambit" on a daily basis. But what I wasn't prepared for was the reaction from our own two 'filters' at home.

Driving home from dinner last week, Bonus says, "It's already bed time?! Dambit." After I choked on my gum, I said, "Shhhhh, we don't say that word!" to which my very astute six year old says, "But I put a B in it."

Yes, I may have peed a little.

But yesterday is when it all came to a head. While being forced to clean their room, Deuce mumbled something under his breath. I turned the corner just as Bonus was preparing his speech to throw his brother under the bus, "MOMMA!!! Deuce just said a bad word!" Expecting another 'dambit', I sighed and said, "Okay, Bonus, what did he say?" Bonus looks at me with excitement knowing he gets a free shot at repeating it and says, "Fuck." Stumbling back, I glared at Deuce and said, "We don't use that kind of language, young man!" That's when my sweet, little, doe-eyed four year old looked up at me, shrugged his shoulders and said, "But I put a B in it..."