Khakis Are to the Left of the Ball Gags

Oh, my goodness.  I love my sweet, little boys and how innocent they are.  I keep thinking that any minute now they’re going to transform into hideous, hormone-crazed, knuckle-dragging, voice-cracking, boob-ogling, pubescent idiots.  But I suppose that particular worry is a bit premature, seeing as how the boys are still only seven and four.  Still, it helps ease the paranoia of impending adolescent doom to hear them speak with sincere, cherubic purity on topics that might be a little on the PG-13 side of things.

For instance, here is the conversation I had in the car with Liam as we drove by an establishment, labeled simply as “Adult Store.”

LIAM: “Adult Store.”  Man, I bet that’s the most BORING store in the world!
ME: Uh … why?  Because it wouldn’t have any kid stuff?
LIAM: Yeah!  It would be all grown-up stuff like … jeans!  Yeah, I bet it’s just all jeans.
ME: You’re probably right.
LIAM: Wait.  It’s probably more than jeans.  It’s probably all KINDS of pants.
ME: Maybe they should call it “Pants-a-Rama” or “Happy Pants Kingdom” instead of “Adult Store.”
LIAM: Yeah, they should.  Psh.  How boring!  I bet they don’t have a single toy in there.
ME: I’m not so sure about that.
LIAM: Well, all I know is that I NEVER want to go in there.
ME: Glad to hear it.
LIAM: No, that place sounds too serious.  I just want to go to places where you can have fun.  … Why are you laughing?

On another day it was Sean’s turn to alert my trepidation when he just kind of nonchalantly announced out of the blue, “Boobs are powerful.”  Oh no, I thought.  It begins already.  He’s only four, and yet the mania has taken hold of him!

But I had to know.  So, I steeled myself for the worst and asked, “Why are boobs ‘powerful’?”

Then my boy replies, “Because they make milk to feed babies and make them grow strong.  They’re powerful.”

Oh, my heavens.  I almost cried.  Oh, those sweet boys!  I’m going to relish this time when they are such bright-eyed, innocent, little creatures.  I love it.  But truth be told, I think I’ll enjoy watching them grow into fine, fun-loving, honorable men one day.  I just have to get past that whole teenage-year speed bump of life.  I hereby promise that when the time comes I shall do my very best to be understanding, patient, and calm.  And I’ll sure as heck pick the store when Liam decides he needs to purchase some pants.

Why Weren’t There Any Underpants in MY Stocking?

Good morning and Merry Christmas!  I hope everyone had a splendid holiday.  We sure did … and I know we’re not the only ones.  On the day before Christmas Eve I was standing in the check-out line at Walmart behind this big, trucker-looking dude, who I know was about to have a great Christmas.  Why?  Because he was buying mixed nuts, beer, and a whole lot of fancy, lacey panties.  A lot.  I heard him say something to the cashier about them being “her” favorite thing to find in her stocking.  Yeah, I’ll bet.

Anyhoo, for us the holiday festivities were a bit different.  It was all kind of a blur of paper-ripping, kid-squealing, junk-food-stuffing, toy beeping, and joy.  Oh, and sleep deprivation; that too.  Luckily for all of us, I wrote up an account of the happenings of our Christmas morning very early yesterday.  Otherwise, I’m sure I would have forgotten them by now.  I’m fairly certain I hadn’t had enough sleep to actually place the events into my long term memory.  So, here’s what I found written in the computer … I think by me.

Mom’s Log – Christmas morning

It’s Christmas morning.  First kid sighting … 1:45 a.m.  He is sent back to bed.  Second kid sighting … 3:27 a.m.  Stocking already ravished.  He is told to go back to sleep.  He claims himself “too excited to sleep.”  Make deal with older child to keep younger child from opening presents while I sleep, in exchange for permission to watch TV until human waking hours resume.  Third kid sighting … 5:03 a.m.  He needs a drink … with ice.  Retrieve iced beverage … decide that since I’m up, and it’s past 5:00, I might as well stay up.  Badger husband until he’s up too.  Have a wonderful Christmas morning with a couple of VERY happy boys. Eat wicked holiday breakfast.  Youngest child renames the living room “the present room” and decides never to leave it.  Still haven’t looked in MY stocking.  Don’t care.  Nap imminent.

First nap interruption by four-year-old the moment I actually drift blissfully out of consciousness.  He needs help in the bathroom.  Remind him that his father is awake and all grievances and/or demands must go to him.  Explain importance of not waking Mama unless it’s a six-alarm emergency.   Return to nap.  Second nap interruption by same kid with the six-alarm emergency of needing his new Star Wars tattoos from his stocking stuck onto his body … right now.  Curse Star Wars.  Send him to his dad.  Return to nap.  Awaken to find the most colossal mess this house has ever seen.  Remember why I never nap.

Yeah, I complain a little, but it really was a fun day, and the boys are thrilled.  We had Christmas dinner (that I didn’t have to cook) with family, ate pie, watched the boys shriek with glee as Peter piloted their new remote control helicopter up into Grandma’s vaulted ceilings, and Sean got to show Grandma his new putty that makes spectacular fart sounds.  Then we went home and ate stocking candy while all of us watched a movie together under fluffy blankets with the cats.  So, yes, I’m happy.  I’m as happy as a woman with a stocking full of Walmart panties.