Favorite Quotes of the Summer . . . so far.

Favorite Quotes of Summer "Vacation"

1.  Necessary background info:  Small is . . . well . . . small.  He is only in the 1 percentile for weight; in fact, he isn’t even on the curve on the doctor’s growth chart.  He eats well and he is not malnourished, but of all three of our boys, he is the one who likes fruit and veggies.  Plus he is a busy little guy – he’s got the metabolism of a meth addict.  After our last weight check at the pediatrician’s office:

“Is Small gonna grow up to be a midget?”

Besides, I think they prefer to be called Little People.

2.  Medium hands me a tissue.  “Here.  I put the booger on the inside.”

Super.

3.  Randomly . . . “When you die, I’ll think of you.”

Um, thanks?

4.  SOMEone decided a giant plastic baseball bat full of gumballs would be a good birthday gift for Large.  It is not. 

“Mom, I have gum in my hair.  I have learned. my. lesson.”

Shane gets his math skillz from Mommy.

5.  Necessary background info:  Shane is a stuffed wolf Medium got at Great Wolf Lodge last fall.  He goes with us everywhere.  He’s like a member of the family, and I’ve had to superglue his nose back on three times.  You know I’m not supposed to play with the superglue after the Great Superhero Convalescent Home Incident of 2007. 

Medium: “Did you know Shane knows how to talk?  Watch.  Shane, what’s 2+2?”

Shane: “um, 5?”

Large: “It’s 4.”

Medium: “I said he knows how to talk; he doesn’t know math.”

6.  Necessary background info: I generally don’t wear tank tops as they accentuate my bat wings.  On one particularly persweaty day, however, I wore a tank top.  The fashion police, cleverly disguised as my 6-year-old, had comments:

“your armpits are getting furry.”

7.  Necessary background info: My in-laws have a pet turtle.  And by "pet," I mean they found him in the middle of the road and decided they needed to bring him INTO their home.  Now my FIL cooks the turtle hot dogs and lovingly cuts them up into little pieces, because lord knows we don’t want to have to take a choking turtle to the vet.  So when Hubby went to the fridge to get a snack, my MIL reminded him,

“Don’t eat the turtle’s watermelon.  It’s not as fresh.”

Boy, if I had a nickel for every time I’ve said THAT . . .

Yes, folks, the turtle also gets temperature-controlled watermelon chunks. 

8.  Trying to catch up with his cousins, who took off on their bikes . . . "I'll never catch up to them!  What if I come back with raccoons and sloths all over me?!"

Wha?  What the h*ll have you been watching?

It’s only the beginning of July . . . I’ll keep track of my family’s utterances so I have something to blog about again later!

Dust Catchers! Yours for Only $1!

For Christmas this year, my brother-in-law, The Cluer, bought $5 gift certificates to the Dollar Tree for my boys.  He thinks he’s funny.  He is not.

You see, I’m not a Dollar Tree kind of gal.  There’s nothing wrong with the Dollar Tree or other establishments of that ilk, and I will concede that there are bargains to be found.  When the boys step foot in there, however, their eyes get all big and buggy and they start running in circles like they’re on Speed because Look! There’s a pack of spatulas for a dollar!  We don't know what spatulas are!  But they're a dollar!

Several months ago, The Cluer took my boys and his into a dollar store and let them each pick something out while BooBoo and I settled the tab at the restaurant next door.  The boys got into the car all excited about their finds and we waved good-bye to the cousins.  Everybody buckled in and I started the engine.  All was right with the world.

And then all hell broke loose.

Whoppers exploded out of the box Large was trying to open and they began rolling all over the floor of my Swagger Wagon, and Medium started screaming because his quality-inspected plastic toy broke.  The car was still in "park," folks. 

Ever reserved and mature, I called The Cluer immediately.  “I’m still in PARK, you dumb*ass!  There are Whoppers EVERYwhere and Medium is throwing a temper tantrum because his toy doesn’t even work!  I haven’t even put the car in reverse!  This is YOUR fault!”

So I KNEW The Cluer would be purchasing gift certificates for the boys because he and I pick at each other like 10-year-old siblings.  Yesterday, Hubby took the boys out to run some errands and then promised them they could go spend their gift certificates afterwards.  Now we are the proud owners of these little gems:

God Bless America

1. a pack of Justin Bieber cards.  Medium’s comment was “the girls in my class are gonna LOVE this!”  I'm starting to get a little concerned with this new obsession with the Biebster.
2. a football sticker book and 3 packs of cards.  We would have had 4 packs of cards, but then Large spotted the following . .  . 
3. Eagle Dust Catchers.  Medium found them first, and Large’s response was, “Awwww, where’d you get THAT?  I want THAT!”  And thus, one pack of cards went back on the shelf.
4. Four giant army men, one of whom has apparently already been harmed in battle.  I would attempt to operate on his leg, but we all know what happened during the Great Superhero Convalescent Home Superglue Disaster of 2007. 

I despise Dust-Catchers.  I know many people collect Precious Moments and the like, but I am NOT one of those people.  If it doesn’t have some sort of sentimental meaning to me, I don’t want it.  I don’t even like trophies.  Why?  Because they serve no lasting purpose except to collect dust.  My only exception to this rule is a Willow Tree figurine my Mother-in-Law gave me when Medium was born – it’s a mother with two boys and I think it’s the sweetest thing ever. 

How long before those eagles “mysteriously” disappear?

It's Monday. Again.

Crazy busy weekend.  Hubby was in the Big Apple for a wedding, so it was just me and the kids.  Overall, they were pretty well-behaved, although I feel I should send out a blanket apology to anyone who may have been at the Algonkian playground on Saturday and witnessed TWO GIANT TEMPER TANTRUMS thrown (free of charge!) by my spirited 5-year-old.

An apology also goes out to the kind patrons of the Starbucks in Herndon.  My girlfriend Amy was visiting from WV with her three children, so we met up with our friend Liz and two of her three boys.  We met at Frying Pan Park, where I narrowly avoided a conversation about where pigs come from.  It was touch and go there for a minute.  Medium noticed the piglets "snuggling" with their mommy, to whom I could relate for a number of reasons, and he wanted to know how the piglets got out of the mommy's belly.  Months ago we had explained that Small got out of my belly when I went to the hospital and the doctor helped - and voila! there was Small!  Just so you know, for future reference, piglets are born when the farmer helps the mommy - and voila! there are piglets!  This is a conversation to which I do not look forward.  Seeing as how I can't even say the word "nipple," (and it just pained me to type it,) I think the birds & bees conversation is going to happen with Daddy.  Further, body parts in our family are referred to as hoo-ha, nether-regions, weewee, poop chute, etc.  I don't need Betty Friedan to tell me I'm sexually repressed.  Just ask my husband; he'll tell ya.

Afterwards we headed to Starbucks for a caffeine fix.  (surprise!)  We set the eight children up at one table while the mommies visited at another table close by.  We plied them with juice boxes, crackers, bread, goldfish, markers, and paper, but alas, we pushed the envelope by about 10 minutes and chaos ensued.  At one point I actually said aloud, "who are you, kid, and why are you talking to me?"  It didn't work.  He kept talking to me.



So it's Monday again, and guess what?  I have more bathroom humor:

This is just ONE of the services we provide here at Chez BoyMommy.  When using our facilities, we don't want you to expend any extra effort by actually having to unroll the toilet paper, so we've done it for you.  Now all you have to do is grab a few squares from the end of the roll, conveniently located on the floor.

Note to self: when you hear giggling coming from the bathroom, it's time to worry.






A few weeks ago I posted the following photo on Facebook as my explanation for why dinosaurs are extinct:

Someone forgot to put the cover on the sandbox . . . 

Now I offer you another possible explanation:

A trip through the washer and dryer mighta done it.

And finally I offer you this lengthy rationale for why I'm not allowed to use Superglue.  A few years ago when we were living in our apartment in New York, we decided to play Superhero Convalescent Home.  We took all the Superheroes who were missing appendages and set up the aforementioned Superhero Convalescent Home.  The boys laid random plastic body parts on some bed pillows we had set up as hospital beds in our kitchen, and I got out my trusty bottle of Superglue, prepared for surgery.  Fear not, Spiderman!  Help is on the way!  After a few comforting reminders to "hang in there" and "be strong," Spiderman was taken to the Operating Room, previously known as my kitchen sink.  Dr. Mommy grabbed the bottle of Superglue and applied it to Spiderman's joint, in hopes of repairing his severed arm and returning him to his arachnid glory.  When I squeezed the tube, however, only a few droplets came out, so I figured the bottle was almost empty and I flung it into the trashcan.  

Except nothing flung.  The tube was stuck to my hand.  Apparently there was a hole at the other end of the tube, so when I was squeezing, glue was most certainly coming out, just not from the end I had anticipated.

So there I was, with an audience of wide-eyed, hopeful Superheroes to whom I could no longer offer my medical expertise.  My surgical career was over because my ENTIRE HAND was now glued together.  Superglue had dripped all over my hand and my fingers were fused together.  It was like wearing one glove and one mitten, except permanent.  "Why BoyMommy," you're saying, "now you have the perfect beauty queen wave AND you can drink beer right from your hand."  True, gentle reader, but I've lived my entire life with two hands, and I kinda like it.  

I decided to wash my hands with soap and water, acknowledging that it would take a little extra effort since it was Superglue and all.  Cold water didn't work, however, so I switched to hot, because surely HOT water and soap will work.  No such luck.  Desperate, I reach for the Goo Gone - that sh*t'll take the white off rice.  I couldn't get it in between my fingers though, and it has a horrible odor that was making me dizzy.  It should be noted that I was starting to panic.  My fingers are stuck together, I'm dizzy from the Goo Gone, and now I'm sweating because I literally cannot open my fingers.  I am freakin' out, man!

I read the label on the Superglue bottle and discovered that nail polish remover should do the trick.  Of course I didn't have enough nail polish remover because I really needed to soak my entire hand, so I was rubbing it on my individual fingers with a cotton ball.  I was like the Lady MacBeth of Superglue, all hopped up on Goo Gone fumes and adrenaline.  

Finally Hubby came to my rescue.  Once we realized I was going to need a lot more nail polish remover, he ran to the drugstore for me.  I couldn't go earlier, because how was I going to get Large and Medium in their shoes (which would need to be tied) and jackets (which would need to be zipped,) pack a bag (lest we have a diaper emergency,) take them down three flights of stairs, unfold the stroller, buckle them in, go to the drugstore, open my wallet, and pay for nail polish remover with one hand?  When Hubby walked through the door with the nail polish remover, I swear I heard angels singing from above.

And this, my friends, is why I'm not allowed to use Superglue, and why Brett Favre is going to have to retire "fo' reals" this time.

Brett Favre, the one-handed quarterback