Size is Just a Number

There is an ongoing argument in our house. I think my husband is unobservant, perhaps oblivious at times. Hubby claims I am the unobservant one. I disagree, to a point. I would maintain that I notice the important things, maybe missing some of the little things along the way.
There are numerous examples to back up each side of the argument, including:

• He cut down a huge tree and waited to see how long it would take me to notice (three days, if you are interested)
• I repainted a room in our house, without telling him, leaving two very different colored walls side-by-side (I pointed it out to him after a week or so.)
• I backed one of our cars into the other one in our driveway (no excuse here ... never even looked behind me!)
• I have pointed out, more than once, that Diva's dress/shirt/skirt was on backwards (there have been repeat offenses with the same article of clothing)

Today, I will be claiming victory in this battle.
Hubby took Little Man to school and I picked him up. This is our usual routine, nothing special about it. I walked into the school and picked up a very familiar backpack and jacket in the hallway, before heading into the classroom.

I couldn't help but smile when talking with his teacher:
Me: "Please tell me he wore this jacket in this morning?"
She smiled back, looking a little puzzled.
Mrs. K: "No, he never had it on."
Me: "It's a 3-6 months. It's the baby's!"

For the record, he mistook a 3-6 month for a 3t. Need I say more?

Star Light, Star Bright

Once upon a time, about a hundred years ago, I was young and single - a typical college student working at a minimum wage retail job. There was a framing shop next door. In the window was a print that I loved. There it sat, day after day, hopelessly out of reach of the college student's budget. And then it was gone.

And then, it was mine - a house-warming gift for my first apartment, from a friend that had grown tired of hearing about it!

Fast forward a few years and that same print now hangs in our breakfast area. It has been the topic of many discussions between a three and five year old. One such conversation went something like this:

Little Man: I like that picture
Diva: Momma said a man named Bingo made it
Little Man: It's name is Tarry Night. Look there's our house, right there!

To review, we live in a church that dates to the late 1800's. You may have heard of it ... it can be seen in a world famous painting by Bingo. What an honor!

Dear Santa ...

Tis the season ...
Screaming, crying, clinging to your mother or breaking free and making a run for it. Worse than any slasher movie, roller coaster or natural disaster ever imagined. The dreaded SANTA VISIT!

Our last picture with Santa was two years ago. An adorable picture of my kids ... and their tonsils. Last year we were all big talk, until we were next in line. Then it just fell apart. I was parked in what seemed like the next town. It must have taken hours to drag the traumatized children out of the mall. I am sure someone along the way considered calling CPS on me ... or offering a stiff drink.

I was prepared this year. Reinforcements were recruited, bribes were given and an escape route was planned in hopes of avoiding a scene when the inevitable happened. Screaming and crying I was prepared for, but that was not what I was given ...

As we were next in line, it went something like this:
Little Man: "My booty's stretching."
Me: "What, I didn't hear you?"
Little Man: "My booty's stretching. I need go poo poo!"
Me: "You are going to have to wait!"
Little Man: "But, my booty's stretching!" *now sitting in the floor, holding his bottom with both hands*
"I NEED TO POO POO!" *and now the entire mall knows*

Um, uh ...
You sure you don't want to just throw a big screaming fit?

Oh the Power!

I am very lucky when it comes to work. I only work two days a week and my hours spent away from home occur when the kids are (or should be) sleeping. This affords me the luxury of missing very little in the way of birthday parties, dance recitals, etc. Generally, the only thing missed is a little sleep on my part. As an added bonus, I sometimes return home with donuts for breakfast the next morning. Because of this, there are rarely complaints when I leave for work.
Recently, we had an exception ...

Diva: "What are you doing?"
Me: "Mommy has to work tonight."
Diva: "I want you to stay home. You don't have to go to work. Someone else can take care of the babies."
Me: "Mommy is the boss tonight." *attempting to sound important and irreplaceable*
"I have to go to work and make sure that all of the babies are taken care of."
Diva: "I want you to stay home." *insert dramatic sigh here*
"You aren't the boss of the whole world!"

Indeed
Nothing like the honesty of a five-year-old to put it all in perspective for you ...

Tis the Season

It was a typical weekend morning:
I came in from work to be greeted by Diva and Little Man eating breakfast - "toaster pasters" for all involved. As noted previously, for whatever reason, clothing appears to be optional in the K house. This morning was no exception. Both kids were happily eating ... wearing nothing but their underwear. In honor of the upcoming holiday, Diva had added a Santa hat to her attire.
Thirty degrees outside and my daughter is eating breakfast in Hello Kitty panties and a Santa hat!

The conversation went something like this:
Me: "What are you eating?"
Diva: "Cherry toaster paster"
Me: "I like your hat, but aren't you missing something?"
*she looks around and thinks for a minute*
Diva: "My milk! I need my milk!"
Me: "Your clothes, sister! Where are your clothes?"

So, what did I do?
Got her milk.
Sometimes it just isn't worth it!

Scary Little Cars

Like many, we are a two car family. There is the SUV that could house a third world country and the smaller, older car used mainly for commuting. While it serves the intended purpose well, no one is a particularly big fan of the smaller car. It is older, has more miles and less "luxury" features (i.e. there is no DVD player). It does get significantly better gas milage, so it is the go-to vehicle if I am alone or only dragging one child along for the ride.

Being kids, they don't grasp this money-saving concept ... only the "no DVD player" part stands out in their minds, as evidenced by a recent overheard conversation:

Diva: "You are going with Momma and you have to take the little car."
Little Man: "No! I take the big car."
Diva: "You have to take the hond-ted, cause hond-ted is spanish for little car and we are taking the big car."

I feel the need to point out:

• little car is a honda
• it is in no way haunted
• we watch entirely too much Dora

Frankels and Moles, Oh My!

My children take after their mother in many aspects. The fairness of their skin is a perfect example. My diaper bag has always contained sunscreen and there is a spare in the car ... just in case. There is no such thing as a tan line, but freckles are never in short supply. Little Man has a "frankel" on his arm. It is a source of great pride. Fall always signals a battle of wills as the long-sleeved shirts will cover the beloved "frankel." Occasionally, he forgets which arm it is on. Panic sets in ... and then he checks the other arm!


Recently our favorite gym teacher, Ms. E, had quite a story to tell.
The conversation went something like this:
Little Man: "Ms. E, you got a frankel!" *pointing to her arm*
Ms. E: "No, it's a mole."
Little Man: "I got two moles!" *pulls his shirt up, pointing to his nipples*


If only I could have seen the look on Ms. E's face for that one!