R is for Rekt

We have officially entered the phase where Little Man is embarrassed by his parents. Or at least me, anyway, and it’s so not for a reason I would’ve expected.

Lately he’s been talking about how corny everyone is. He regularly reports all of the corny puns or comments his teachers make. “Mrs. L said, ‘Full steam ahead, class!’ in STEAM today. Can you believe that? That is so corny. I just shook my head.”

A couple days ago, he had to use crutches because of a nerve problem that was making it hard for him to walk on his left leg. One of his teachers came out to talk to me about it while I waited in the car rider line and told me how she had asked what happened. She said that when he led up with, “I went to the doctor…” that she interjected with a joke, “And did he say ‘no more monkeys jumping on the bed?'” She said he didn’t get the joke (which sometimes happens because he’s so literal, which we have talked about before) and she had to explain that she was referencing the 5 Monkeys rhyme.

After LM came out and we left, I mentioned that the teacher stopped by to chat and then he launched into telling me about how she made the corniest joke at recess about his leg. “…and she said, ‘And did he say ‘no more monkeys jumping on the bed?'” Can you believe that, Mom? I just stared at her in disbelief that she would say something so corny.” Oh dear.

Today I was told how corny I am. 

“Ugh…Mom…it’s so corny when you say that your food is good,” he told me after we left the restaurant we had an early dinner at.

“What?” I was confused. What’s wrong with saying that your food is good?

“It’s just…when the waitress asked how your food was, you said it was really good.”

I still did not see the problem.

“If you can’t see how corny that is, then I don’t know what to tell you,” Little Man said.

I really thought he was bullshitting me at first, but no.

“The waitress asked how the food was. The food was good. I told her so. How on earth is this a negative thing?”

“It’s just corny! You said it was good with voice.”

Fucking hell. “What kind of voice?”

He copied me. “It’s really good!” he said in what seemed to be a happy, polite tone, which is exactly the way you’d act if your food was good and you were enjoying it.

“It’s just corny,” he reiterated.

“How could I have expressed that the food was good in a less corny way?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Just not like that.”

Good grief.

“So…was that as corny as you talking about ‘getting rekt’ all the time?” I asked. Boom. Roasted.

“Hey! No one thinks ‘rekt’ is corny,” he protested.

“Oh, yeah, they do,” I told him. “Anyone outside the ages of 9 and 12 definitely thinks that’s corny. Actually, it’s worse than corny — it’s cringey. And dabbing is, too.” Boom. Roasted again.

He huffed. “Just forget it.”

Hopefully I don’t embarrass him with my politeness again. And hopefully he’ll stop saying “rekt” and dabbing 50 times per day. If that happens, then being told that I’m corny will be worth it.

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M is for Mommy!

The kids were out of school for spring break this past week. Here are a few things they said…

“Mommy, come wipe my butt! It’s nasty and it stinks, so PLEASE wipe me!” Unless you’re sick and have diarrhea, wipe your own ass, son.

“Mommy, I gonna tear this house apart!” Well, obviously I’m going to let you watch a TV show now, Baby Girl. Wouldn’t want the house to be torn apart, would we?

“Mom, that kid’s BUTT CHEEKS are showing. We HAVE to switch tables.” I took the kids to McDonald’s on Friday. LM was quite disturbed by a small boy’s plumber’s crack.

“Mommy, [my friend] Orange came out of my ovary.” Baby Girl has an imaginary friend named Orange that lives in her forehead, but first, he came out of her ovary to be born.

“Mom, why’d you say BLEEP instead of saying the actual bad word? You know that I know what you were going to say, right? It’s okay for you to say what you want to say around me. I don’t mind bad words.” Dude, I know that I can say the words and that you don’t mind, and I don’t care because I know you won’t repeat them. That’s not the case with your sister, though, so let’s stick to BLEEP, hmm?

“Mommy, I can’t find my vulva.” I see you with your hands in your pants, Baby Girl. I know you found it, so go wash your hands.

“Mommy, why can’t I watch The Walking Dead? Or Fear the Walking Dead? Everyone in my class watches those. And everything. They all watch everything that I can’t watch.” Didn’t we have this conversation ten times already? Yeah? In that case, “Because I said so.”

‘J’ is for Just Stop Fighting

My offspring will not stop fighting, and it’s Spring Break, so instead of only having to hear this fighting in the evenings and on weekends, I’m getting it nonstop. And all of that fighting means yelling and constant tattling.

A few tattles from the past 24 hours:

“Mommy, Little Man’s not being a king!” I made the mistake of telling the kids to play together. LM wanted to play baseball and BG wanted to play kings and queens.

“Mommy, Little is calling [the dog] names!” After watching Coco, Baby Girl decided she wanted to rename our dog Bilbo and call him Dante. Little Man, of course, is opposed to this. So, last night when BG tattled on LM for calling the dog names, I assumed LM had called him dumb or something. Nope. He called him “Bilbo.” Sorry, BG, but calling one’s pet by the name it has gone by for 3.5 years is not calling him names in a bad way.

“Mom, Baby Girl called me a meanie!” Well, at least she didn’t call you an idiot this time, right? All of LM’s name-calling when he gets pissed at BG is really coming back to bite him in the ass.

“Mom, Baby Girl attacked me!” As usual, Little Man presented that as being randomly attacked. You’ve heard of drive-by shootings? Well, there are drive-by bites and scratches in this household. They just happen, for no rhyme or reason. Uh, no. LM, being bitten and scratched is what happens when you rip a toy out of a 3-year-old’s hands, after you told her it was hers to keep. Does it make her right? No, but you definitely aren’t innocent in this.

“Mommy, he’s licking the sucker!” It’s a sucker. People lick them. And it’s his sucker, so he has the right to lick it without being tattled on.

“Mommy, Little Man’s being a floofer!” We never figured out what she was trying to say there, but clearly being a floofer is not a good thing.

“Mom, she’s naked!” Come on, now. That child being in a state of only being partially clothed is nothing new around here.

“Mommy, Little Man is LOOKING at me.” Jesus Christ, child. This is when you start feeling your will to live exit your body. If you were on your death bed, there’d be no holding on for a little while longer. You’d be all “Toodleloo, motherfucker, I’m checking out now. Good riddance.”

Today we are taking the children to Great Wolf Lodge to stay overnight. My husband is taking BG to the kid area and I’m going to watch LM in the big kid area. We will be fight-free until we get back together for supper.

‘H’ is for Hit and ‘I’ is for I Hurt

Little Man has been all about soccer for the past few years. He played baseball for a couple of seasons prior to BG being born, but shifted to soccer, much to our dismay. We both love baseball, so it stung when he wasn’t in love with the sport and instead liked a sport that we knew nothing about, not that we let on.

But then he decided to skip out on soccer this season and has started showing a huge interest in baseball again. He’s even taking it upon himself to go outside and practice, and that child is lazy as sin and never wants to practice anything, so we’re thrilled and hopeful that this interest won’t be fleeting.

We’ve been like this:

It has been four years since LM played, and it shows. He’s got to start from the ground up, pretty much. Throwing, batting, fielding…when I talked about running bases tonight and mentioned hitting a single, he asked what a single was and fully earned his Smalls nickname.

Lawd. But we’ll get there.

‘H’ is for Hit is not about Little Man getting a hit, though. Or being hit, for that matter. This one’s all about me, but in order to explain how the hit happened, I needed to give a little background.

Last night we went to the baseball field near our house to practice with LM a bit. Our yard is decently sized, but not big enough to practice batting without risking hitting a neighbor’s house. After LM went through the bucket of balls a few times, I decided it was my turn to see if I could still get the ball out of the infield. And boy did I:

I hit that ball hard enough to tear up the cover. It didn’t make it over the fence, but was close. This impressed Little Man greatly (“You wrecked that ball!). That helped restore my status as the cool parent, which I briefly lost after making him take back Call of Duty to Gamestop because it was too old for him. That felt good.

And ‘I’ is for “I hurt.” My shoulder is hurting like hell today. When I throw to LM in our yard, it’s small enough that I can sidearm it, which doesn’t bother my shoulder. Sidearming it didn’t work well at the much larger field, and I tried throwing normally a few too many times, so…ouch, much slippage of the shoulder. I was reminded that I’ll never play softball for real again, even in a church league, since I can’t for-real throw anymore. Boo. But I guess it’s not like I was going to start attending church full-time so I could play in that league, anyway. (‘H’ is also for Heathen!)

That’s enough words for now.

‘D, E, and F’ are for “Drama and Equality, FFS”

Ah, just a few days into the challenge and I am already cheating.

Little Man considers himself a feminist. He’s the first to tell Baby Girl that there aren’t boy or girl toys and she can play with whatever she wants, he is still pissed off over a female Star Wars LEGO figure being sold for significantly cheaper than the male figures, and whenever he hears a kid comment “girls can’t ____,” he’ll chew their asses out.

A sign he made around the beginning of the school year. I can’t remember what prompted him to draw this.

So, yeah, he’s very vigilant when it comes to making sure his female counterparts aren’t getting the short end of the stick or whatever.

He always makes for damn sure that girls aren’t getting by with shit just because they’re girls, too. Little Man went on a tirade earlier this year because a girl at school threatened to hit him and he told her to go ahead and that he’d hit her back. Another boy told him he couldn’t hit a girl even if she does hit him, and this did not sit well with our budding feminist. We live about 20 minutes away from his school, so I got to listen to him rant for 20 minutes. (Listening to 20-minute rants is a common occurrence for me.)

Last week, it was rant-time again. There’s a girl in LM’s class that gets under his skin, and he lost his cool when she snatched something out of his hands while they were cleaning up.

As told by Little Man:

“I told her, ‘Hannah, I have HAD it with you. If you didn’t like how I was organizing the [I can’t remember what the hell they were organizing], then all you had to do was ASK for them.’

She didn’t even answer me, so I told her, ‘You know, you are the most EVIL person I know.’ And then Brandon walked up to me and said, ‘LM, you can’t go around calling girls evil!’ And I told him that she shouldn’t act evil all the time, then. And Brandon told me, ‘But she’s a GIRL! You can’t say bad things about girls, don’t you know that?’

Can you believe that, Mom? He said you can’t say bad things about GIRLS?! I told him, ‘Brandon, haven’t you ever heard of EQUALITY? Boys and girls are EQUAL to each other. So I can say bad things about Hannah just like I can say bad things about you, so stop interfering in my business before I tell you what I think about you, too.

And then Brandon told me, ‘LM, I wasn’t interfering in your business, I was just stepping in to tell you not to call Hannah evil.’ I just had to shake my head, Mom.

Oh my lord, the drama. For fucks sake (FFS, so I get my word in).