Sturm und Mom

The Storm & Stress (& Joy) of Motherhood

Archive for the tag “humor”

The Reason You Should Have Kids

The Reason You Should Have Kids

Princess drew a picture of a little girl being chased by a T-Rex. She then placed it on her dresser in a frame that reads, “Each Day is a Gift from God.”

So can you tell me, where else are you going to get that kind of perspective, if not from someone whose career goal is “have sparkly shoes”?

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5 Life Lessons for 2013 That My Kids Accidentally Taught Me

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Trust me — we’ve got it all figured out.

I know many will be shocked — nay floored — that I don’t yet know everything, but it’s true.  Luckily, my kids have also recognized that deficiency and have pitched in on project Improve Our Mom™.  Like when Big Boy points at those obnoxious weight loss clinic ads on the TV and screams “Yeah Mom!! You should do it, too!!  Look how happy that lady is!  And you get new clothes!!”

“Yeah,” adds Princess.  “I’ll come with you.”  (She’s 5.)

Or how my darling son pokes at the exposed small of my back as I scrub the tub.  “Time to get a Trendy Top, Mom!”

Of course, tells me that my first step must be to cancel the cable.  And stop cleaning the bathroom.  But beyond that, here is Liz’s Guide to Wisdom (Gleaned from People Not Yet That Wise):

 

You know I'm awesome

You know I’m awesome

Sarcasm from the under 18 set is always welcome

The best way to build a relationship and be taken seriously, is to totally roll your eyes when you talk, and add geezjust kidding to everything.  Trust me — this-is-suuch-a-good-idea <sigh>.

Many problems aren’t solved, not because you lack the solution, but because you just don’t want to do it

I have talked myself hoarse to tell kids the same thing over and over.  Everyone understands, everyone hugs, tomorrow’s a new day, yada yada yada.  The next day or week or month we’re right back at it.  I’ve now realized that the easiest way to deal with a problem, is to blow off steam by getting someone to brainstorm your solution, and then completely ignore it as you go back to acting the way that you always have.  It won’t actually fix the problem, but it makes you feel better for however long it takes for you to actually change your behaviour .

People are born thinking that, whatever they know, is the sum total of everything that there is to know

Yesterday, Dad tried to “scare” off Tall Girl with threats of a “Mercy Fight.”  This should have filled her with genuine terror, considering that her Dad is a veteran of both the High School wrestling team and Air Force Cadet Survival Camp, not to mention a really rough Junior High School.  Instead, she kept trying to grab his nose while squawking, “What?!  Bring it on!”   The concept that something really, really awful could exist outside the knowledge of her 11 year old mind, totally escaped her.  In other words, a junior version of “what could possibly go wrong?”

What really needs doing is the absolute last thing anyone wants to do

Be rich and famous, and drone endlessly on about your personal brand; tonnes of takers for that.  Repeatedly wipe down the powder room with Fantastik, plan menus on a budget, spend supper time conversation on why war happens, vacuum up Kleenex from under the bed; not too many line up for those duties.  Unfortunately, the first isn’t really needed, and the second is becoming more and more neglected, leading to a whole bunch of problems for everyone.  Which leads me to my last big lesson:

Real success often means looking like a failure

“Can’t you let your sister win?  She’s only a baby!”  And after some grumbling they do.  Later, they do it without being asked — let someone go first, bite their tongue, give the big piece away — it’s what makes a parent proudest. Yet, who really wants to do that?  Doesn’t it sound better to be one of those judges on a reality TV show, barking out insults and walking out to your limo?  No one ever calls someone a hero because they grabbed all the change off the table.  Unless it was to deliver it to the poor.

Now, thanks to my genetic contribution to the world, we can all become smarter, wiser people.  Maybe they still need the plots of iCarly explained to them, but they unintentionally do tell you a lot of what right and true.  Even if sometimes you need to hide in the mini-van from all that right and true, which of course is wrong and false, but nothing has burned down as of yet so no harm done. Right?

Have a Merry Christmas Season and a blessed 2013!

What are the egg and pineapple doing? Relaxing! (Silly question...)

What are the egg and pineapple doing? Relaxing! (Silly question…)

WANTED: Emotional Drama Assistant

Over at INTJ Life: One Woman’s View of the World, totally captured this woman’s view of my current world when she posted this pic:

(Along with a shwack load of other funny ones. Go take a look.)

INTJ, refers to the Myers Briggs Personality Type we both (along with my Dear Husband) share. Often referred to as the “Mastermind”, we live in our heads, know everything through argument, perpetually question reality and are hyper-emotionally reserved. Which comes in the opposite of handy when dealing with children, which are basically a bunch of uncontrolled impulses wrapped in raw emotion. And then they become tweens and really ramp it up. Every day I have to have some major discussion about some stunningly important issue that makes absolutely no rational sense.

If a 3 year old called you a “chicken” would you cry and hide in your bed? I have an 11 year old who would. Oh wait — it was because the 7 year old said that she had “chicken wings” and then the 3 year old put her over the edge with the “chicken” remark. Yeah, you better take that super seriously. Or my 5 year old who is constantly afraid that her bedroom closet harbours monsters. Really? Does she really think that if there were terrifying, flesh-eating beasts roaming the land, not only wouldn’t I be on guard against them, but I would be so sanguine as to allow them to encamp in my children’s rooms? Do I actually have to deal with this again?

The answer is: Yes. And I do. Day after day I grit my teeth and whiten my knuckles, and talk emotionally wrought children through terrors, and slights and squabbles gone horribly wrong. Plus all the Grade 5 angst of a new school, mean boys and a world that can seem downright hostile at times — even your locker that won’t close right. While I’m honoured to do it, it’s just downright exhausting. Sometimes, my husband and I are so drained, that once the kids are in bed we just stand there starring at each other, too mentally fried to even stuff cookies in our mouths.

“We need to put a ad in Kijiji for an Emotional Drama Assistant. Someone to come here and have 90 minute discussions on why people don’t consult Grade 6 boys on much of anything, especially whether or not you look good in your Liturgical Dance costume,” he’ll say.

“I’ve never been tempted to sneak prescription drugs. But if someone created a pill that would give me the emotionalism of a character that Mindy Kaling would play on TV — just like for 3 hours or so — I would so, so totally take it,” I mutter. Then we go back to starring at each other until it’s time to watch Top Gear.

This under-reactivity in the area of feelings has left us with at least one advantage. We are completely unmoved by tantrums, hissy-fits, breath holding and other emotional blackmail. Yet, recently I did find my Achilles heel — or rather had it pointed out to me. Sweetie Pie, my 9 year old, wandered up one afternoon.

“Mom. We kids should have ice cream,” she quietly, but firmly, declared.

“Oh. And why is that?” I said with a bemused smile on my face.

“Because that way, when Dad and you have your ice cream after we go to bed, you won’t have to feel guilty over being unfair.”

We locked eyes for a moment. I began to feel my smile turn to pride.

“Yes. I think you’ve earned some ice cream.”

Well done, my little Mastermind. Well done.

“How Empty is Your Life?” and Other Parenting Misses

Everything’s just peachy around here

Did you think I could stay away from the my little soap box for a whole 10 weeks?  Come on now.  You’re dealing with a woman who gets interrupted six times while screaming “FIRE!”  Plus, I went camping so there is only so much that one’s psyche can handle.

Since there is only 4 weeks left to the kids’ summer vacation, and I wouldn’t want them to have delusions that it was niceor anything, I thought I should permanently record the Mommy Misses so far of the season.  Think of this post as one of those Realty TV recap shows.   My kids will appreciate the cheat sheets for their memoirs.

“This will be perfect for the cover!”

  1. As for the title —  I didn’t actually say it that way.  Sweetie Pie came up and showed me some gross, dried-up glue in a tube, and said, “You could squirt it on some paper in a big blob.”  I assuming that, at age 9, she was a pretty much an adult in some Hunter-Gatherer cultures,  and quipped, “How empty would your life have to be to want to do that, eh?”  As I watched her eyes and then entire face fill with horror, I realized that I had made a grave mistake.  I gave her the glue and paper and a whole bunch of candy.  Things seem fine now.
  2. Look into my eyes!

    Tall Girl asked why I was staring “right there,” and pointed to a spot above her eyebrow.  I said that I was just looking at her.  Then I realized, being always crazy-run-around-busy, I never make eye contact with my kids.  They think all Moms have heart to heart talks with their heads stuck in the dryer.

  3. I got so out of shape I couldn’t get up off the floor.  Well, let’s back up on this one:  While I was pregnant with my SIXTH adorable child, I strained the ligaments in my back, which caused me an amazing amount of pain.  Being, like, not un-pregnant, I took it easy for a while.  A while being 18 months.  This rest period was abruptly terminated the day I lay down to retrieve a binky from under the kids’ bed and couldn’t get up.  I pacified the little ones by grinning furiously and telling them I was “playing whale.”  Daily walks have since ensued, and the call to “bring it here to Mommy” is slowly disappearing.
  4. Mommy is soooo distracted. Plus this tastes healthy.

    Today, my kids ate Chocolate Chip Cookies and a little piece of cheese for lunch.  I gave them buttered bread, cheese and peaches for lunch, with a cookie for dessert, and they just ignored all the real food and went straight to the sugar.  I was trying to fix my email and didn’t notice until I went to clean up and found all this perfectly good foodruined by sitting in sun outside for too long (they were having a picnic.)  Luckily, chocolate is a good source for Vitamin K.

  5. I told the kids the Ice Cream Man was “just a jerk in a truck.”  They retaliated by lying that he was riding a bike and wearing a FREE ICE CREAM hat .  I knew better — that’s too many letters for a hat, and those jerks avoid all physical activity.  Mom 1 Kids 0
  6. Big Boy reads Green Eggs and Hamto himself by stabbing the the picky guy with his finger and shouting, “I hate you.  I hate you.  I HATE YOU.”

    Come back here Sam-Not-I-Am! We’ve got a score to settle!

Yeah, lots to be proud of around here.   People sometimes says nice things to me like, “You have lovely family,” or “What good children,” or “Could you please go ahead of me in line because I can’t stand the noise” and I just have to laugh if they knew what a zoo I have.  Oh, well.  Four more weeks to screw up improve.

If you feel it would be helpful, feel free to share your parenting missteps in the comments.  Remember, it’s harder to catch a whole herd, than a single Bison.

My Little Commando

My little man just can’t stop moving!

Big Boy ran across the floor of the Toy Section, jumped at least 12″ up and landing 180° around, feet in a Sumo stance. “Ta Da!”

“It’s s Shaving Kit!  Just like Dad.”

There is something about being under 40lbs. that allows you to punctuate your sentences by leaping a third of your body height into the air.  Big Boy does it all the time.  He jumps, and kicks, and points, and air punches.  Like when he found a Junior Shaving Kit, complete with a can of foaming soap, a cracker sized mirror in a yellow frame, a tomato red Barber’s comb, and a plastic toy safety razor.

“Now,we can shave together,” he announced to the young salesgirl who was following us surreptitiously. “Me, and Dad.  Together.”

But he couldn’t wait that long.  As soon as we hit the back deck, he was scrapping white cream off his face with his blue and red Shaver.  “How do I look?”  Big Boy stuck out his chin, as if it was a pre-Prom inspection for missed spots and toilet paper First-Aid.

“Two big thumbs up, Dude. You’re perfect.”  Like you always are, Dude.

Big Boy is all of 3, and if you don’t know, hanging around with a 3 year old is a like keeping time with a non-stop one liner machine.

“When I grow up, I’m going to dance like SpiderMAN does.”  Punctuate this with a donkey kick or two.

“I wasn’t playing with the curtains, Mom.  I was just wiping my Boogy-juice.”

“But I can’t stop fiddling with my nose.  I’m exercising it.”

This morning I handed him an outfit straight from the dryer.  “Shirt, shorts, and underwear,” I said.

“Underwear?  Underwhoawhoawhoear,” he giggled and saluted the suddenly ridiculous garment toward the ceiling.  The invitation to Big Boy’s world includes the the letters:  U.O.L.O.L. or, Underwear Optional, Laugh Out Loud.  Never has anyone found anything so funny or so dispensable as Big Boy does his BVD’s.  I find discarded boy’s underthings – perfectly dry and clean, mind you – in the most unlikely of places.  Beside the powder room floor (tucked behind the waste basket,) on the TV couch, under my bed, by the kitchen table, and in with a bunch of doll dresses.  He’s never naked, just less dressed, you could say.  (We’re way beyond the stage where he come down “ready” in the morning, sporting nothing but sweater, Tee and socks.)

This all reminds of the time he was running around in his Board Shorts in the sprinkler.  They were big, baggy, Hawaiian print swimwear, and while the string ties were keeping things in place in front, the back was totally different universe.  I was blinded as two very round, very white cheeks reflected the sunlight straight into my eyes.  Sort of the pants version of a Mullet:  all business in the front, all Moon in the back.

“Dude!  Pull up your pants!”

He bent over at the waist and started twisting furiously back and forth looking evidence of immodesty.

“What?  Looks perfect to me, Mom.”

Yes, Big Boy.  You’re perfect.  Like always.

Today, I’m Gonna Parent Like It’s 1929!

Speak up, Sonny! I’m a very old lady!

Sigh.

It started off a good day.

Sun shining, breeze blowing, and I’m on time for once for dance class.  The MOST IMPORTANT dance class for my 5 year old, Princess, because we all get to come in and watch.  She was so happy to have Big Boy, Baby and me in her audience for once — even if it was just an ordinary class, and this was just a preschool introduction to dance at our city Recreation Centre.  Did I mention that I had left in time to be a little early?  Well, except my cell rang with an emergency phone call from Art Girl, who wouldn’t stop crying.  You see, her legs were cold.  Nothing more.  Her legs were cold in her shorts, so she spent the morning bawling at her seat, and I had to calm her down.

Just on time, I finagled two kids to the last available spot in the very corner in the room.  The other Parenta-razzis had brought every single relative within the local dialling area to watch their 4 year old jump in a hula-hoop with pointed toes.  I swerved  out of the way of some dude’s 8″ telephoto, past the kid who got pulled out of school so he could film sister with his own iPhone (exactly like Mom beside him was doing, ) and settled beside a guy with both video camera and a point and shoot, who spent down time from watching “Put your arms out reeeaaaallly straight!” to do editing on his touch screen.  I spent the next 45 minutes vacillating between utter cuteness-induced giddiness, and trying to keep a 13 month old off the stacks of weighted bars beside the floor to ceiling mirror, all while hissing “Quiet!”  to Big Boy so he wouldn’t end up ruining someone’s scene.  Kinda good times.

Then:  Race to the lobby of the kids’ school to collect them.  Suddenly, a woman I am sure I have never seen before, stops me.

“You know every time I see you, (?!) you remind me of my Grandmother.”  She starts.  I’m wondering if it’s because Grandma’s far, far away, which is where I’d like to be.

“She said that the first 5 kids were hard, and then after the 6th, they just all took care of themselves.”  I glanced nervously over at my eldest and smiled timidly, wondering if this was a veiled accusation of foisting the other kids’ upbringing onto her shoulders.

“Of course,” she continued, “that was a 100 years ago.”

Of course it was!  Here, I was thinking that I was a relevant, contemporary, with-it Mama, but I guess when I called penicillin “emerging technology,” I gave myself away.

Now back home, I’m sitting waiting inpatiently for the kids to get home from the park, so I can go and run an errand, except Tall Girl is late because there are no numbers on her Justin Beiber watch, since it would get in the way of his “dreaminess.”

Sigh.

Don’t listen to me.  I’m just having one of those Mommy days, where everyone else seems to be entering Mom-entrepreneur contests, and buying Franchises, and finishing their novels, and combing their hair.  My biggest accomplishments as of late are figuring out new ways to hide leftovers with Club House Gravy Mix, and how tight I have to pull a ponytail so that it hides the fact that I need a shampoo.

But things will look up.  Princess just invited me to Big Boy’s Birthday Party.  He was born in November and it’s now June.

“We’re serving Rock Cakes,”  she says and points at mounds of road crush left by the previous house owners.  Sounds good.  I hear that was a real delicacy about century or so ago.

The Dog is Dead. Long Live the Dog.

Please let me rest in peace. Please, please, please!

“Look — cute doggie toys.  We should get them.”

“That’s a nice jacket for a dog.  Why don’t we buy it for Karma?”

“There’s a picture of Karma doggie in the doctor’s office, Mom!  Look.  Look.  Looklooklookloooook!!”

“Mommy! You have to buy that dog food for Karma.  You should put it in the cart!”  Big Boy shouts as the bag of Mainstay floats by on the way to the Pringles.  Everywhere Princess and Big Boy go lately, they are on the lookout for stuff for our dog.  Food, toys, accessories.  They spy photos that look just like her, and little rubber boots to keep the salt off her toes.  I dread the Hartz section of Safeway, and all the requests for squeaky toys and flea collars.

There’s just one problem with all this.  The dog is dead.  Like over two-and-a-half-years dead.  Like dead when Big Boy was only two months old.  Our faithful, dopey Springer Spaniel was a great pet, super with children and a devoted companion.  But years of ear infections and allergies wore her down, and now she is taking her eternal afternoon nap in the great beyond.  If I could only explain this properly to my children…

“Um..Yeah…Honey, Karma went to heaven, remember?”

“Yeah.  That’s okay!”  He pipes.  “We can send it to her.”

Now, I’m flummoxed.  How do you explain to a 3 year old that heaven includes a meal plan?  Oh, wait — I’ll let the 5 year old do it.

“You don’t need food in heaven.  They give you lots of dog treats,” Princess states like this is common knowledge to everyone in their pre-Kindergarten year.  I start to relax and add something to the cart out of Baby’s reach.  Crisis avoided — or not.

“You know when you go to heaven, you can see Karma.  But I’ll go to heaven first.  No wait.”  She scrunches her face and looks at the ceiling.  “First Auntie D. will go, then Mom–”

“–And then Biscuit!”  Big Boy injects to make sure that Auntie D.’s Yorkie is not left out of the Big Dog Park in the Sky.

“Right.”  She points her finger at him in accord.  ” Auntie D. Biscuit.  Mom.  Me.  And you.”

Standing in front of the Miss. Vickie’s I realize that the sole determiner of mortality for my children is a) have we seen you with a dog lately, or b) are you currently in front of our faces.  If neither of these conditions apply, it seems that you’re going to live forever.  Forget the vitamins, healthy eating and all those laps at the pool — just plan your route to a drop off at the SPCA well away from us, and you are making it to at least 150!

This is my life:  one long theological debate with children.  If God can do everything, can He do something bad?  It’s not okay to hit, unless the person’s evil, right?  So, what if we hit them before they do something bad, and then we would be making them good?   And isn’t’ that good?  Why did God make mosquitos who are so ugly?  And bite me?  Why?

Usually, I answer these questions, and try to help little, forming minds tackle the tough stuff in a way they can handle.  But this Doggie Death March is just too much, even for me.  “When’s Auntie A. going to heaven, Mom?  Is it soon?”

Big Boy stares at me, all smiles and wide-eye innocence, waiting for an answer.

“You know what Karma told me?  That she wants you to stop talking about this and pick out chips.  Who wants treats?”

The crinkling cellophane chorus drowns out the nagging voice in my head that I am a terrible, terrible Mother, whose kids will be 16 and wondering why their departed relatives aren’t getting their postcards.  I’ll just tell them the truth:  Mail delivery is really spotty to the Pearly Gates.

Dear Chauvinist Pigs: Please Come Back and Help Me

Today, I had three little kids in the SUV, a low tire pressure warning on the dashboard, and the complete inability to read the PSI recommendation written on the sidewall of my tire.  Oh, I know it was there somewhere.  It’s just with pouring rain and all the road dust it was a little obscured.  I was also wearing a fashionable spring jacket that looked nice, but came with a completely impractical hood that made me look that that Darth Sidious guy from Star Wars when he was in evil disguise.  Plus, the air pump at the gas station was positioned right beside the freeway that the drive-through to the coffee shop located inside the gas station store.  (As in aside, I will never be comfortable buying “fresh” food from a place that specializes in motor oil, propylene glycol, and other extremely volatile fluids.)  So, eveytime I had to walk around the truck with my little metal stick to check the pressure, I took my life into my hands as some caffeine deprived driver finally noticed me at the last possible moment.  Which brings me to the big question of my morning:

Why couldn’t one of those drivers be some old-fashioned chauvinist pig who gets his ego boost out of helping females in distress?

Hey, I won’t complain — and I don’t.  When the mover jumped off the back of the truck to take a box headed to my trunk out of my arms and into his, I said “Thanks.”  When some youngster Rig Pig wanted to pull me out of a snow bank with his 3/4 ton truck, I said, “Tell me when to hit the gas.”  You got jumper cables?  Hook ’em up.  Wanna push my flats onto the cart at Ikea?  Knock yourself out.  When the older gentleman asked if he could carry my vacuum cleaner down the escalator at The Bay, I couldn’t offload it fast enough.  Hell, I married a guy who won’t let me operate his lawn mower!

You know, when I was in my teens, I would have been horrified.  I (mistakenly) thought that this meant that I was proving that women were the weaker sex.  It was as if with every door held open, we somehow morally surrendered power to men.  What we needed were sensitive men who just let us muddle through everything like equals.

Except the last thing I needed this wet, cold, frustrating morning was Phil Donahue telling me he knows how June Cleaver stereotypes must make me feel.   I needed some knucklehead who feels he knows everything about tires, and it’s his duty to come and save me.

‘Cuz ladies, after bearing down on six kids, I don’t feel I need to prove anything anymore.  But I could sure borrow some of that up body strength every so often.

Please come back chauvinist pigs.  We won’t yell anymore, and I really need some help with my car.

My House Has Told Me That We Need to Talk

I think our house wants to kick us in this region.

Yep, my house is starting to figure that something is up.  It’s noticed that I’ve been a bit more distracted lately.  That I’ve been stepping out for afternoons and coming back with empty boxes.  It’s tried to listen to my phone conversations and heard words like “possession” and “keys.”  But the lipstick on my collar was when a  guy walked through the house and shouted that with three guys and a truck it would be “easy to clean out.”  This house is no dummy — it’s figured out that we are leaving.

And it’s letting us know it’s displeasure.  This is no house to be easily scorned.  First, there was the tiny-tiniest rivulet of water from the door of the washing machine to the floor.  The repair man came.  He pronounced it a “non-specific leak” and told me to wipe my gasket.  But the house has other tricks up her sleeve.  The dishwasher has started making the strangest hum while running, yet isn’t sick enough for the fellow at South Appliance Repair, who was all too anxious to cash my $375 cheque just 18 months ago, to come out.  And somehow, the only bugs to come out of dormancy in this frozen wasteland I call home, have managed to die in the upstairs flush-mount light fixtures.  The ones I just washed 2 months ago.  The ones I guess I’m going to be washing again.

I’d bring home some flowers for the kitchen, but this house has upped its passive-agressive game, and now I know it would be a good $35 wasted.  As if to cover its eyes in horror, both light bulb on our porch blew at out at once, leaving our night-time coming and goings in darkness.  No cheery, bright welcomes anymore, just stumbling toward the keyhole by street lamp.  Then it brought out its big guns.  Friday morning I tried to open the door of our bathroom door and – nothing.  The lever handle had total ceased to engage the mechanism when you turn it on one direction.  In other words, a person could in a moment of er, urgency, find himself fumbling in futility as he tried to reach the fixtures on the other side of the door.

I realized that this was our house’s equivalent of hardball.  “Fine.  You want to leave?  Not until you clean up a bunch of carpet stains caused from some very small children with very large bladders.”

House, Baby.  I’ve avoided this conversation for way too long.  Yeah, we’re going, but you’ve got to know:  It’s us, not you.  Seriously.  Have you seen what a single bedroom with three girls packed in it looks like?  It ain’t pretty, unless you think being inside a room after a IED stuffed with nail polish, Barbie Dolls and used Kleenex has gone off is pretty.  And what about the time I nearly got hit by a bus putting the Baby in the truck?  In the rain?  WHEN I HAD A HEAD COLD?   Yeah, I’ve met someone new on a quiet street, but I only started looking because we’ve grown apart.  Or we’ve grown by three kids and have to part.  You get the picture.

Look, I know you’ll meet a new family real soon.  Yes, house I can guarantee it, because Transfer of Title is a legal document.  So buck up Sweetheart.  Us leaving is the best thing that could happen to you.

And please, please, please stop breaking things.  I promise I’ll buy you flowers.

Raising the Next Generation of Barbarian

Nothing says crazy like a tinfoil hat.

Big Boy was at the park when a gaggle of older girls came upon him.

“Hello cute little boy.  Do you want to be our friend?”

Big Boy was scared very of these big, bossy Kindergarteners, but he didn’t run back to his Mother’s skirts. Instead, he scrunched up his face, hunched his shoulders and balled his fists.

“I’m a tough guy,” he said.  “I don’t want friends.  I’m going to go fight my sister.”

He waited until they had walked away, and then directly hid behind his older sister, shielding himself with the thick denim of her pant leg, squinting his eyes at any further threats from those intimidating females.

Some blogging Moms get to brag that they are raising a new generation of leaders, or artists, or healthy eaters. I get to state that I’ve got the next generation of barbarians.

Spring has brought delightfully warm weather, and the kids begged me to let them lower the windows of our black Expedition as we tooled around the neighborhood.  Soon, three kids were cutting the wind with their snouts, their hair pushed back and eyes barely open.  It was then that I heard shouting.

“HEY!  HEY, there people.”  Art Girl hollered in her best stadium voice.  “How you all doin’?  YEEAAAHHH!!”  she called out to her audience on the sidewalks and parking lots.  The show continued as we pulled up to the curb on our busy street, just as a bus was pulling away.  Art Girl leapt out of the truck onto the boulevard, assumed the Power Stance, and pointed.

“Hey there! Mr. Bus Driver!  How’s your day on the bus?  Go drive that bus!  Oh YEEAAAHHH!!!”

“Dear God!  Stop it!  Stop it!  You sound like a crazy person!”  I screamed in horror.  But what can I expect from a kid who hums the Imperial March from Star Wars while pumping on the backyard swing set.

My face will scare you to jail!

Well, at least she’s keeping her inner Mongolian Horde somewhat under wraps.  Unlike Big Boy.  In addition to scaring off 5 year old girls, he has created a new game called Dr. Scary Face, who uses his incredibly angry face to, well, scare off bad guys.  But if that doesn’t  work, he’ll bring out the big guns.  Or big cucumbers — on Friday at Walmart he grabbed a $1 English Cuke and used it to “BANG BANG BANG!!!!” every passing shopper and toilet paper display.  Luckily us Prairie folk tend to have a sense of humour.  (I’m not sure about the toilet paper.  Its silence may have indicated extreme offence.)  I doubt they would have been as understanding of our bath night superhero:  Super Naked Boy.   Or maybe they would have been fine.  Our Church’s Sacramental Assistant thought it was funny that she had to cajole Big Boy into putting his shirt back on during Children’s Liturgy.  Since become a parent I have developed the ability to smile while slowly dying inside.

With all of this mucho-macho action, I wasn’t surprised to hear Big Boy tell Princess that in their game he was going to be Iron Man.

“Iron Man?”  I asked.  “Are you going to fight some Bad Guys?”

“No.  Today, I am going to have a tea party.  With Spider Man.   Then I’ll fight the Bad Guys.”

Maybe things are totally wild.  Yet.

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