Monthly Archives: November 2009

Potential Underwear

So. 
We're at Wal-mart. On our way past the boys' section, I remember that my boys said they need underwear. Who knew: to be a tightey-whitey wearer in middle school is the utmost in humiliation–and apparently they know these things about one another. And so I send the oldest on a mission: Go pick out some boxers. 
I'm contemplating a display of holiday cards when he returns. He looks a little flushed; he is empty handed. 
"What?" I say.
"What what?"
"You couldn't find any?"
"No. I mean, yeah. I found some."
"Where are they?"
He pats his abdomen; it crinkles. For the first time I notice the bulge under his shirt.
"Give those to me!" I exclaim. "They're going to think you're a shoplifter!"
But the boy feints left; he won't let me have the underwear until he determines my motives. "Are you going to hide them, or are you going to walk around the store showing my underwear to everyone that walks by?" he asks.
Ah yes. The intensely personal nature of potential underwear; I had forgotten.

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Happy Mother’s Day

You know those times when two siblings have fairly equal claim to a certain privilege and the older one is coaxing, wheedling, offering mega-bucks in increasing increments in exchange for capitulation from his younger sibling and the younger sibling is digging in his heels deeper and deeper and you're listening to the exchange and you're bracing yourself for the worst? You know the feeling of dread? Because you know that no matter whose favor you come down on, your eardrums are done for?
And then the older child unexpectedly not only takes the high road but goes the extra mile and makes his whining little brother feel like king of the universe and everyone is suddenly all smiles and warm fuzzies and it turns out you were bracing yourself for nothing at all–don't you want to just break down and cry?

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The Eternal Optimist

"Mom, it's almost my birthday!"
"Really."
"Yeah–because it's almost December, and then after December it only has to be January, February, and then March!"

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Pee by Number

My sister wants to see the step-by-step instructions on the toilet seat–and since she's far from home in a strange city with nothing to do (tee-hee) but sit around the kidney center keeping track of creatine and blood pressure levels, here you go:
Eww. You can actually see evidence of past misdemeanors. Maybe I should post a smaller version…. And note the empty toilet paper roll, please. I want to know–have you ever entered the bathroom and not had to replace the empty roll? Ever?

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Little People

My boys made their own costumes for the Halloween dance this year; my daughter said she wasn't going. "I don't have a costume," she explained. 
"Do you want a costume?"
"No." Said with all the disgust a fifteen-year-old can muster. And you know that's quite a bit.
She has managed to avoid every dance she has been eligible to attend for the past three years; I felt it was my motherly duty to talk her into going. For about one minute. And then I asked myself why in the world I would want her to get into the boy/dating scene any sooner than she demanded it. And I gave her the option of going to the dance or babysitting. She babysat; we went out for dinner. 
Part of her job description included taking pictures of her brothers when they got home. Obviously they weren't very co-operative; nor could she figure out how to get the lawn gnome into one picture, but you get the idea–and aren't they better than storebought? (Especially the store-bought my six-year-old begged for, and then at the last minute refused to wear). 
Not only did he dress as a midget(can you figure out how he did it? He's normally about 5'10"), he made a solemn mockery of his father's high school wardrobe. Why, you ask, do we still possess any part of his father's high school wardrobe? The hat was in Grandma's attic. The coat in an emergency 72 hour kit; you should have seen the glasses. 
I'll just post both ends of the lawn gnome–she took his picture in six sections:
I have now written this post three times. My computer keeps blipping on me. Lucky you; it's much shorter this time. 

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