Things Kids Say Thursday: Robbing Banks

Little Man has often held me in high esteem throughout his years. He regularly tells anyone who listens (be it someone in the checkout line, the family doctor, or his father) that his mom is awesome. In the mind of this 8-year-old, I’m the smartest and funniest person around. (It’s gonna be a sad day for us all when reality comes crashing down.)

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Great kid, huh? Except for when he makes a point to emphasize that my brains and funnies are vastly superior to his father’s as well. He doesn’t understand why that would be hurtful to his dad since he’s “just stating a fact.” Fortunately his dad doesn’t disagree with him, but still…poor daddy. Hopefully Baby Girl will be in Sam’s corner.

Last night my praises weren’t sung. I don’t think.

Sam and I took the kids to Chick-Fil-A last night to eat and play, and on the way there, we stopped at CVS to pick up a prescription.

When Sam got out of the car to run in, Baby Girl started fussing and said, “Bye, DaDa.”

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” Little Man said. “Daddy will come back to us. He’s a good daddy, and he will always come back when he leaves.”

Aw. My heart grew three sizes.

“He sure is,” I said. “And Mommy will always come back, too.”

I was hoping for “She’s a good mommy,” but instead what I got from Little Man was, “Nah, I don’t think you’d come back.”

“Yes, I would,” I said.

“No, I think if you left you’d probably go out robbing banks and stuff. You’d probably take people’s weapons, then shoot them.”

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“What? Why does Daddy come back and I go off and rob banks?”

“That’s just the way you are,” Little Man said. “You’re the type that would rob banks. You can tell.”

Well then.

“Well, if I did go off robbing banks, I’d make sure I stopped to get you a toy before coming home,” I told Little Man.

“And I’d take it back, because it’s not right to keep things you got with stolen money,” LM countered.

Fine. I’ll keep my loot to myself.

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My Children Make Me Want To Cry

This isn’t a post about how sweet and precious my children are, or the sweet and precious things they say that make me tear up. Instead, it’s about how repulsive they are at times.

We all know that kids can be downright nasty sometimes.

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They pick their noses and wipe that shit everywhere. One time my friend got in the backseat of my car after I had taken Little Man’s car seat out and about had a heart attack when she noticed he had been wiping his boogers on the fucking window. And I about died of embarrassment.

They eat shit off the ground. In all fairness, my husband abides by the three second rule (so he’s nasty, too), which he will sometimes extend to five or even ten seconds if the food item is worth it, but then you have Little Man.

Little Man, who has attempted to wipe dirt off of something, failed, and ate it anyway. Little Man, who has dropped a sample piece of cheesecake on the ground at Walmart and swooped it up and stuck it in his mouth with lightning speed before I could stop him. This kid is deathly afraid of germs, unless food is involved, and then all bets are off. Have some consistency, man! 

Don’t think Baby Girl is an angel just because she’s one. She just hasn’t had much opportunity to be nasty. But I know she’ll get there.

So far she mostly only grabs stray Cheerios from the floor and eats them. (Also with lightning speed, because kids apparently have a Spidey sense when it comes to know they’ve got something their mom will snatch from them.) There was also the time she grabbed a piece of quesadilla that fell out of her diaper and popped it in her mouth. I tried to swoop my finger in to take it and was promptly bitten. Don’t come between a child and her food!

The thing that really had me disgusted last night, so disgusted I was almost to the point of tears, was their car seats.

I take out their car seats every three months, take off the covers, wash them, and scrub down the car seat itself. That’s important to know based on what I’m about to tell you, so you don’t think “well, she probably only washes them once per year.”

I decided last night was car seat cleaning day. (And we do vacuum out the car seats whenever we take the car to the car wash, FYI.) So I had Sam bring them in and start spot cleaning the seats while I took the car seats apart and got the covers in the washing machine.

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That was me, pretty much.

The food. The dirt. The grime. The filth.

Little Man’s car seat was atrocious. I just don’t get it–we made him stop eating in the car, mostly.

You see, when he started the new school, we let him each breakfast in the car, because he is notorious for taking forever to get out the door in the morning. We thought that would help get him out the door quicker. It didn’t, he just became even slower at simple tasks such as brushing his teeth or putting clothes on (like 45 minutes). Well, he eats like the Cookie Monster.

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Which means there is food err’where. I don’t want food err’where in my car that is only two years old. After we realized that he was not only not getting out the door any quicker, but was making an unholy mess in the car, we stopped letting him have breakfast there. He has the occasional snack, but nothing that should warrant his car seat looking like it should have a condemned noticed attached to it. I knew it would be bad, because Little Man, but lord.

So I scrubbed, scrubbed, scrubbed. I got a knife out and pushed it in all the cracks. I found what appeared to be sludge in once crevice and started muttering “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me” under my breath. Sam had come back in then (he spot-cleaned the entire car and I was still on the one car seat) and kept saying “sure!” Sigh.

Then I got to Baby Girl’s car seat and base. If you’re thinking that the pretty little princess wouldn’t have anything to clean much, you’d be wrong.

It turns out that she had made a mess with Cheerios, puffs, and milk. Like, it had all combined together in crustiness underneath the car seat cover. As one of my blog friends says, I thought “What the fresh hell is that?” when seeing this, because her cover was actually fairly clean. Apparently everything just had a fun run and went under the crack where her buckle comes up, then dispersed.

So I had to take the knife and Lysol wipes to her car seat as well. Once particularly bad area had me muttering “fuck my life, fuck my life, fuck my life.”

We now have clean car seat covers, clean car seats, and a clean base. And the next time when we do the cleaning, I’m spot-cleaning the car, as Sam got off very fucking easy!

 

A Boy And His Dog

“Mom, I miss Lucky,” Little Man told me today during the car ride to his grandpa’s house. “I’d do anything to get her back,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

Little Man’s first dog died nearly a year ago, a sweet beagle/basset mix named Lucky that LM got as a puppy when he was three.

As someone who has never been much of an animal person, I was often skeptical of the connection some people say they have with their pets. Sure, a pet makes a good companion, but love? Considering them as members of your own family?

Watching Little Man and Lucky together made me a believer.

Those two had such a special connection. She was so loving and affectionate with him, yet so fiercely protective at the same time. I have so many pictures of the two of them just looking at each other, and the love is so obvious, almost painfully so.

Lucky was incredibly smart, too. When LM’s grandparents tried to take him home with them one day (they said their goodbyes inside), Lucky barked and circled their new car until my husband and I went outside to load LM into the car. They switched cars a few times, so this happened more than once.

Shortly before she died, LM took his favorite stuffed animal in the backyard when he was playing, but forgot to bring it in when he came inside, which he realized shortly before bedtime. We couldn’t find it, and he was in tears over the thought of one of his “sons” being gone and not getting to sleep with it. I later went to the front yard to get something out of the car and found Lucky sitting beside LM’s side of the car with the bear–not a chew mark on it.

Breaking the news to LM about his dog dying (we found her having a seizure and she died within minutes) when he got home from school that day was incredibly tough. After letting him know that we had some terrible news, I told him outright that the dog had gotten sick suddenly and had passed. It broke his little heart and he sobbed for hours, in between a few fits of rage where he punched the pillows on his bed.

Sometimes I wonder if it would had been easier on him had we told him that she just ran off and that someone found her and kept her. Maybe that would have been easier for him to deal with than the truth.

Every so often, LM brings up Lucky and talks about how much he misses her. I’m not sure what prompted him to think of her today, but he presented a Would You Rather? for himself:

“If you asked me, ‘Would you rather have every single toy and screen you own taken and never have anything else again or get Lucky back?’ I would take Lucky. I miss her so much.”

I reached behind me to hold his hand while I drove while trying not to cry myself. I told him that I was sorry that he was hurting over losing his dog and that I wished we could have her back, too.

“You know what, Mommy?” LM asked. “It would be cool if Lucky would just come up out of her grave. I wouldn’t care if she was a zombie or a vampire that wanted to suck my blood. I’d let her have it, just to have her.”

I squeezed his hand a little tighter. “I’m sure you would.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Well, I don’t know if I would want her back as a zombie or a vampire because she might try to kill me. So what I would do is just bury her again. But since burying her alive might kill her, then I’ll use a screwdriver to put some holes in the ground so she can breathe.”

Okay, then. His little brain was going off on one of his tangents, which is a good sign, even if that’s a rather disturbing image.

“You know what, Mommy? Lucky will never be really dead because her spirit will always be alive in heaven. It’d be nice if God would decide that she could come back and visit me, though, wouldn’t it?”

“It would. Who knows, maybe when you lose someone you love, God lets a little bit of their spirit go into something new, that way you can find each other again.”

“You mean like with Bilbo?” he asked. He got a new dog, also part beagle, before Christmas. Like Lucky, LM and this dog connected instantly and are also inseparable.

“Yep. I don’t know for sure, but maybe it could work that way.”

That thought cheered up Little Man a lot, and he was back to discussing various ninja moves by the time we arrived at his grandpa’s house.

“So There You Go” – A Boy and His Stuffed Animal

Last night, I was playing with Baby Girl on the bed. Since Little Man had slept with us the night before, his favorite stuffed animal was on the bed, and I was using it to play with BG. Every time I would wave the stuffed dog closer, she would squeal and reach her arms out, then try to clutch him to put his ears in her mouth.

It was a lot of fun, and then Little Man entered and saw what was going on.

“That’s my dog,” he stated matter-of-factly, narrowing his eyes at his six-month-old sister, who looked at him innocently while slobbering all over the dog’s ear.

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What Happens When You Give Your Kid Guidelines for Personalized Gifts

While I’ve been taking care of the last minute gift wrapping today, Little Man has been working on gifts for his grandparents. I purchased some mugs that can be personalized to show a drawing from the child from the local dollar store, thinking that this would be a sweet gift for the grandparents.

He set up his little table behind the couch where I was wrapping and grabbed his box of art supplies.

“Hey mom, can I glue something?” he asked.

I considered it. “No, that’s probably not a good idea. Just use your crayons and markers.” Since I’m assuming that the art will have to be removed each time the grandparent washes the mug (it is a dollar store mug, after all), I didn’t think using glue would be the best idea, since it would inevitably attach to the wrong place and tear the picture.

He huffed, but didn’t say anything more about it. A few minutes later he said, “I’m done with Nana’s! Here.” He handed me the paper to put inside the mug:

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Merry Christmas

Note > Mommy won’t let me give you something special. 

Wait, what?!

He saw nothing wrong with that. He later told me what he had planned to glue–a Monopoly game piece he saved from McDonald’s.