Birthday Wishes

Several times a year I am asked by relatives, and therefore have to ask my kids, what they want for their birthdays. I am thankful that they don't give answers like, "An iPad."  They know better than that, because then, without a doubt, they will be forced to suffer through a mini-lecture on iPads and children, and being grateful for what they have, and some kids would be happy to have a meal made from the layer of cast-off crumbs that we find under the kitchen table every night after dinner.  So they would never ask for an iPad. Or anything like that. Especially since they know the passwords to ours, and in the wee hours of the morning, when we are weak-willed and sleepy, they already use this to their advantage.

Instead, my kids come up with these great, imaginative, if not slightly depressing birthday wish lists. Allison turned 6 last year, and asked for the following items: 

• a blue lampshade (because she just got tired of her purple one)
• art supplies (because the twins get into her markers, etc., and mess everything up)
• a new swimsuit (many of her swimsuits are hand-me downs and well-worn by now)
• eczema cream (she's almost out)
• a birthday hug (she never gets enough hugs)

Michael turned double digits.  He asked for:

• a pork pie hat (because he already has a fedora)
• book 3 from the Eragon series (he has books 1, 2, and 4)
• a lock for his bedroom door (the twins keep getting in to his room and messing everything up)
• a birthday hug (because Allison got birthday hugs)

I'm sure this will all change once they become tweens and teens, or when we decide to upgrade to the next version and suddenly have an older iPad just sitting around.  I imagine their sense of entitlement will deepen, and they see the other kids at school with all of their iToys, but we will still fight it. In the meantime, I am happy for them to get their new lampshade, pork pie hat, and of course, plenty of hugs.

Rear-ended Again

Kids, there is a reason they are not letting you on that bus.

My kids, like many others, are fascinated with butts. Not just butts, but also bums, poop, toots, diarrhea, and anything remotely resembling any of those things. They are all precocious scatology experts, no doubt about it. The twins in fact sing a lovely ditty (to the tune of the Beverly Hillbillies theme song) that goes,

My name is Stinky the Butthole Car.

I live in your bum so I can't go very far. 

But every day when I'm driving on my route, 

 I honk my horn, and it comes out like a toot.

ppfffft ppfffft.

It would be cuter if they had made up the song themselves, but they learned it from a grown-up. One who lives in our house. Whose genetic material they have inherited. And it's not me.

One time we went to a store that has one of those contraptions that grinds peanuts into fresh all-natural peanut butter for you- you know, the kind without emulsifiers and added sugar. You have to stir it all the time.  I thought it would be a fun way to learn how peanut butter is made.  They could participate by pushing the button, and then we'd all enjoy peanut butter sandwiches when we got home.  What I didn't anticipate was that when the peanut butter is extruded from the machine, it has the consistency and appearance of... "MOMMY!  IT LOOKS LIKE POOP! IS DAT POOP?!!"  I had to admit to myself that they were right.  Children always speak the truth. But I answered, "No honey, that's not poop. That's peanut butter."

Until we got home, and I made grilled Elvis sandwiches, with fresh peanut butter, banana slices, and a drizzle of honey. Buttered and grilled, with bacon if you have it, on multi-grain bread because we're trying to be more healthy (ha). "Mommy, these are the best poop sandwiches I've ever had." Er, thanks guys. And the name stuck, even for regular poop and jelly sandwiches.

A tiny little Allison!

Not too long ago, I took the twins with me to get Allison's hair cut.  I figured they would enjoy watching other people get their haircut, and it wouldn't really be a huge deal. Until a man with certain plumber-like qualities sat down in the chair to get his haircut right in front of them. With his backside gloriously displayed in the space in the back of the seat. Half a foot of his vertical smile, none of it covered by the stylist's cape. (This was a chain salon, not a fancy place, so the capes were smaller I guess.)  I didn't really notice it at first, until one of the twins yelled, "LOOKEE HITH BUTT!!!"  and then the other twin yelled, "DAT MAN IS SHOWING HIS BUM!!! WHY IS HE SHOWING HIS BUM?!!!"  Allison was cracking up. I glared at her, although it was nearly impossible to feign anger.

I guess it's time to re-implement the "Potty words go in the potty" rule that we used to have when Michael was about this age. Essentially, it means that as long as you go into the bathroom and shut the door, you can yell "poopDIARRHEAtooooooooots" to your heart's content. Just not at the dinner table. Unless we're having poop sandwiches.

They know no shame and
waggle their bums proudly.