Lactose Intolerance

I have a friend who is the mother of three boys. And I guess she decided that once you hit three, what's one, or two, or even three more? So she invited Calvin for a sleepover. At one point she told me she had nine boys running around her house. I told her she was crazy, and that much chaos would make me either take to my bed or the bottle. I asked her how she puts up with it. She said it is because of conversations like this:

Boy 1: I love cheese!

Boy 2: Me too!

Boy 1: Cheese pizza is the best!

Boy 3: My dad can't eat cheese.

Boy 2: Why not?

Boy 3: He's lactose intolerant.

Boy 2: What does that mean?

Boy 3: It means he has really stinky farts.

Boy 2: Oh, then my dad has it too.

Eggs and Cupcakes

I supervised cupcake decorating AND Easter egg dyeing. I believe my "craft quota" has been fulfilled for the year.

Make That an EVIL Churro-Eating Sloth

D: You know, when I was a kid, I used to torment my sister.

Me: Why does that not surprise me?

D: She'd get really upset or sad over something. And then days, weeks, or even months later I could just say one word, like a code that only she understood, that would totally make her sob hysterically again. And my parents could never figure out why she was bursting into tears for no apparent reason.

Me: Really?

D: Oh, yeah. It was great fun to walk by my sister and whisper "bacon" and watch her burst into tears.

Hmmm . . .

Hours later I casually walk by Sabrina and say, "Churros." Tears spring to her eyes and she runs wailing down the hall to her room. I turn to David. "Hey, you're right. That is fun!"

Churro-Eating Sloth

While eating dinner out at a Mexican restaurant yesterday, Sabrina makes the comment that she feels like her eating has not been all that healthy lately. Maybe she shouldn't have had that third Twinkie at snack time. Perhaps she should institute a healthy-eating month, you know, no junk food, more fruits and veggies. David, never one to say no to challenge, is all over the idea and even ups the ante.

D: Why don't we all make it a family healthy-eating month challenge?

Me: With a chart and stickers?

D: Yes, you can have stickers if you want. And then those of us who are successful can earn a prize.

S: Yeah, like a book.

Rose: Or a new stuffed animal.

D: Or if we all make it . . . we could go to Disneyland!

Kids: Yay!!!!

Me: A book is good, don't you think? A little more in line with what we're trying to accomplish here?

Kids: Disneyland! Disneyland! Disneyland!

S: And, Dad, maybe when we go, could you and I be park buddies all by ourselves? We can run around the park and try to hit all the rides in one day. What do you think, Dad? Huh? That'd be fun. Wouldn't it, Dad?

Me: What about me? Isn't this a trip for all of us?

S: You can, you know, eat a churro and stroll around the park with Rose and Calvin.

Me: Excuse me! Do you want to rethink that statement?

S: What?

Calvin: Hey! I want to go with Sabrina and Dad!

D: (Speech impaired by margarita coming out his nose.)

Me: (to David) Did I just hear what I think I heard?

D: Yup. She wants to end healthy-eating month by giving you churros.

Me: She just called me a churro-eating sloth!

D: (Still mopping margarita boogers off his shirt) That too.

Wow. If I wasn't amazingly self-confident, and self-aware, that might have hurt.

Me: But I walked 10 miles a day in France for a week! Up and down hills!

D: And sat down in the middle of a dirt road and refused to move. A "Churros Ahead" sign would have been really helpful there.

Sabrina collapses into a hysterical mess of sobs and snorts. But seeing as I am the one who has just been insulted, I do not feel the need to comfort her. We try to ignore her hair which is splayed over the table and continue to eat, but five minutes later the sobbing is still going on.

Me: Do you think she's crying because she's heartbroken over realizing she insulted her mother? Or do you think she's crying because she suspects she might have jeopardized her chance at a blitzkrieg of Disneyland with you?

Sabrina jumps up howling and runs off to the bathroom, knocking over the creepy old balloon-animal guy on her way.

Me: Definitely the second one.

Waiter: Is everything OK? Can I get you guys some dessert?

Me: Do you have churros?

That's Hot . . . ?

Me: Honey, you rock!

D: Why?

Me: Your idea on how to repair my school project totally worked.

D: Oh. I thought it was because you couldn't get enough of me in my lumberjack shirt, shorts, and brown dress socks.

It's All In Your Perspective

Rose and I have been fighting a battle over exactly how clean her hair should be. I vote for squeaky, shiny clean. She votes for shiny, but it certainly ain't squeaky. And since I refuse to bodily pick her up and dump her in the shower, she wins the battle slightly more frequently than I do. I don't care what you think. I figure eventually peer pressure will get to her, and this is just not the ditch I choose to die in.

Monday I sent her off to school with greasy, stringy hair having lost the Sunday evening battle. And right after she left the house I got an email from the school reminding me that it was spring picture day. Whoops. Guess I won't be purchasing those. I shrugged my shoulders and went on with my day.

Later, I picked Rose up from school. She said, "Mom, guess what? It was picture day today. I totally forgot." I said, "Yeah, I know," getting ready to commiserate with her, when she cheerfully added, "Good thing I wore a totally cute outfit!"

I may need to purchase one after all, if for no other reason than potential future mortification.

Oh, Look. Scissors

You remember how Rose wanted to bring scissors in her carryon so she could perform yarn magic on the plane? And I told her she couldn't? Here's round two.

We're at the beach, which I have a love/hate relationship with. I love sitting, watching the waves, drinking a rum and coke. I hate sand. I really hate it. But my kids can't get enough of it. Rose's idea of a good time can be summed up by her ecstatic statement, "Look! The sand sticks better when you're wet!" This means sand gets everywhere. Even the lining of swimsuits get sand, and for the life of me I can't figure out how it gets there. There's no opening whatsoever, and yet sand accumulates to the point where the swimsuits are sagging and threatening to drop off bodies. And while most people on vacation are looking for entertainment, I'm pretty sure wardrobe malfunctions are not what they had in mind.

To prevent my kids from being arrested for indecent exposure, I knew I had to get rid of that sand in their swimsuits. And the only way I could think of was to cut a hole in the lining. I asked if anybody had seen a pair of scissors in the condo, and Sabrina handed me a pair. I cut holes like crazy, emptied the sand, and thought nothing more of it.

Until the next day on the beach, while sipping a rum and coke, the thought occurred to me that the scissors Sabrina handed to me looked awfully familiar. The more I thought about it, the more I was sure that those red-handled scissors were mine. How in the world did they get here?

I asked Sabrina where she got those scissors. She said, "I brought them."

"How?"

"In my backpack, of course," she replied, in that particular tone of voice preteens reserve for their very stupid parents.

Yep, the carryon backpack. The one that was diligently examined by two TSA experts by X-ray as we were taking off shoes and belts and emptying loose change into small buckets to prevent any of our young potential security threats from bringing any sharp or dangerous objects onto the plane. But they missed a pair of scissors with 8-inch blades. Huh. What do you know? Don't you feel safer?

Maybe I shouldn't post this, because the terrorists might just read it and realize they should be using purple backpacks to smuggle sharp objects.