Whose Kids Are They Anyway?

So, I’ve been trying to blog lately. Guess what’s been coming out of my keyboard? Whining. Yep. It’s a classic case of GIGO. Garbage in, garbage out. Whining in, whining out.

And what the world needs now is…NOT another mom blogger whining about how busy, how tired, how leaned in OR how maxed out this crazy gig makes ya. The world might need another folk singer, but I’ll leave that up to the deeply philosophical musicians of Cracker. As a side note, it’s funny what things have and have not changed since I actually had Teen Angst. 

So I’ll let the kids be funny for me. It’s a gateway blog. Taste this light, humorous, cute kiddie blog. Feels good, doesn’t it? Warm. Fuzzy. Enjoy it. Maybe you’ll want to read another one…

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 So, S. keeps on making jokes. She amazes me. Her dad caught this one—when she told me, I figured she’d gotten it out of a book. Big A. gets props for asking who made it up.

S.: What kind of insects live on the moon?

Big A.: I don’t know, what kind?

S.: Luna-tics!

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S. has that quick punchline down, but Little A.’s humor comes out in conversation. He’ll be a blogger someday, I swear.

The other night, as we discussed the ever-fascinating subject of Big A.’s 42^nd birthday, I smiled at my husband and said, “This year, Daddy is the answer to life, the universe, and everything.” Then it went something like this:

S.: Why do you keep saying that, Mommy?

Me: It’s from a book called The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy about some mice who create earth to find the answer to life, the universe, and everything. When earth is destroyed, the last dolphins report the answer is “42.” 

[Big A inserts a pithy, profound speech about how the earth was destroyed for a Vogon bypass here. The kids look a little alarmed, so I jump in.] 

Me: Basically, the book says to carry a towel everywhere because they’re so handy—

S.: You have a towel in the car.

Me: Yes, and so does Daddy and look how handy they are. Like when we go to the beach—

Little A.: Are there beaches in space?

S., scoffing: No!

Me: Anyway, the book says to carry a towel and it has the words “Don’t Panic” on the cover.\

Little A.: Well, that’s easy. I mean, if you’re carrying a towel, you wouldn’t panic. Now, if you were carrying a shark…then you’d panic.

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As S. gets older, she is starting to pick up on more social cues. One Saturday morning, I felt something in my shirt, then a piercing pain. Turns out some bug (based on my extensive experience, I’m guessing deer fly) had bitten the base of my spine. Whatever it was, it hurt!

I tore into the house, flung off my shirt, and screamed for Big. A to come look at my back and make sure it wasn’t, you know, a brown recluse or something. After a quick discussion, we found no undue swelling, angry red streaks, or blackened, rotting flesh.

Much later, S. asked us a fairly important question and I said that she probably should have asked earlier. She said—drumroll, please—

“Well, Mommy, you were taking your clothes off and Daddy was staring at you, and you both sounded worried, so I thought I’d wait.”

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Over Thanksgiving, we drove to a park in Big A.’s hometown. Now, Big A.’s hometown has grown from a sleepy fishing village to a major league attraction for well-heeled seasonal residents since he moved away. It’s a running family gag to imitate him saying, “That was a tomato field when I was a kid!”

Well, Big A. took a wrong turn on the way to the park and we circled a few blocks, passing his elementary school (now much bigger), the new city hall, the Starbucks in the building where he used to take piano lessons—you know the sort of thing.

Making lemons out of lemonade, Big A. said, “Well, at least you all are getting a tour of Naples.”

Little A. said, “Daddy’s getting a tour of Naples, too. It didn’t look like this when he was a kid.” 

He’s six, people—six! 

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Please bear in mind that S. loves climbing more than anything, does hand over hand like a monkey, regularly shinnies up poles, trees, and ropes, and takes a circus class once a week. She considers each callus on her palm (and there are many) a badge of honor.

We were listening to Bruce Springsteen’s classic, “Pink Houses,” on the way home from dinner one night and she said, “You know, I used to think he said, ‘little pink calluses’ when I was younger.”

That struck me as hilarious all on its own, but it’s a pretty neat exercise to replace the real lyrics and contemplate the American dream and the state of modern America and the contemporary American work ethic in reference to “little pink calluses”….Or you could just laugh. 


There you go—a couple of perfectly ordinary conversations around here. Can you see why I absolutely enjoy the beejabbers out of these kids?