Overheard at our house #2

"Hey, Owen, don't forget to water my buttcrack. "

"Look Mom, babies DO like popcorn. See, she's eating it!" (baby is 3 months old. )

"Dad that word really creeps me up."

"Look, that guy has no hair! He's totally balb!"

Love notes.

It's exciting when your child grasps the concept of phonetic spelling. I mean, I'm a teacher, this is the nerdy stuff I go nuts over. The other night at dinner I recieved this note on a paper napkin from the 5 year old:

"MOM IS O PP HEDT LOV OWEN" (Mom is a peepee head, love Owen)

and on the back:

"MOM IS O BG FAT AND O PP AND POOPOO HET LOVE OWEN" (Mom is a big, fat and peepee and poopoo head. Love Owen)

Owen is the three year old. They learn to sell eachother out at such a young age.

Good thing he's cute.

I think I love you

The middle one is a handful. He constantly climbing, jumping, yelling, running, pushing, fighting, wrestling, breaking and yelling. But, he can be the sweetest kid on the planet. It's like there's two midget almost-three-year-olds in his brain battling for control of the body; one you want to strangle and the other you can't squeeze tight enough.

He adds a neat dynamic to our little family. He has an awesome ability to make you feel loved, make you laugh, and make you crazy.

He'll look up at me while we're sharing cereal (MY cereal. He is The Mooch) and tell me, "I think you're beautiful." I melt every time.

We were driving around one evening and the light was beautiful. He looked out the window and said, "Oh Mom, it looks rearry rearry beautiful outside. It's so shiny." I love how he sees things. He's a neat kid, I think we'll keep him.

Trash talk

We have to leave in like 5 minutes. Grab a toy (read: ONE toy) and get your hiney in the car. No, 6 toys is 5 too many. More? No. ONE toy!

I take a phone call and 5 minutes later the oldest is asking me where my purse is and didn't it used to be in your room? Hey, why don't you check one of those trash cans outside.

I follow the kid outside and he leads me to the green trash bin that holds our green waste. Inside; my Uggs, two pair of slippers, my favorite hat, and a bag of clothes (my "purse"). I tip the thing over and crawl inside. It smells. Nasty. We're late and I'm in a trash bin. I want to wring his neck. It took all the Zoloft I had in me not to. Instead we had a civil talk about how we just don't throw people's stuff in nasty trash cans. It's just not good manners.

His excuse was that since I was being the meanest I ever could be, ever, that he had to do the meanest thing he could ever do. If trashing my stuff was the meanest thing he could think to do, we must be doing something right with him.