The Recorder: Next Stop, Carnegie Hall!

The day has arrived. 

It’s a rite of passage that all 4^th grade parents dread. 

No, it’s not the family life / sex talk at school, it’s not frog dissection, and it’s not addition and subtraction of fractions.

It’s the recorder.

Large brought his recorder home from school yesterday.  I knew this day was coming . . . we pre-ordered the recorder and he decided he wanted a red one with a blue strap.  Now if that is not the epitome of cool, I don't know what is.  Can’t you picture James Dean with a red recorder hanging from a blue strap around his neck?  Or Pink, or Lady Gaga, or Madonna? 

Totally.  Badass.

Large proceeded to play me a “tune” on his recorder.  Apparently it was “Hot Cross Buns” but it sounded like one of the following:

a.  someone swinging cats around in a pillowcase

b.  a raccoon who is giving birth

c.  a drunk piccolo player

d.  a cat-swinging, pregnant, drunk raccoon playing piccolo

Please, make it stop!

Large was so excited about his recorder, I almost felt bad for telling him to “please make it stop.”  I suppose a good mother would have told him it sounded lovely, but I just didn’t have it in me.

Lest you think I’m exaggerating . . . Large told me “one of the deaf kids in class was almost crying because it was hurting his ears.”  At the risk of being insensitive, it’s not a good sign when the kid who can’t hear starts feeling thankful that he only has four fully-functioning senses.

I don’t know how the elementary school music teacher makes it through her day without hittin’ the sauce.  God love that woman.

Dinosaur S-E-X

We expected to have some follow-up questions regarding the whole Birds and Bees discussion, but I got a question I GUARANTEE none of you, dear readers, have had to face.

Medium is only six years old, but it just didn’t make any sense to explain, um, stuff to Large but not to Medium.  At least we know if WE explain to Medium, he’s getting all the correct information, as opposed to hearing it second hand from his big brother.  Given that his maturity level is at least two years behind his brother's, it’s not really surprising that he may have already forgotten some of what he’s been told.  Furthermore, his little six-year-old logic isn’t necessarily registering all the facts he has received.

Last weekend, he was busy making a mess craft out of paper, scissors, and yarn.  (This is the child who got his very own tape dispenser for his birthday last year, and was excited about it.)  He was making a dinosaur necklace.  Everyone should have one; it’s the fashion accessory of the season.  It was all perfectly innocuous, until . . .

Medium:  Mom, how did dinosaurs have babies?

Me:  Uhhhh . . . (insert nervous laughter here, a la Beavis and Butthead.)

Medium:  Did they go to the doctor to have their babies out?

Me:  Remember what Daddy told you?  They laid eggs from their vaginas.

At least I’m assuming that’s how it happened.  Last time I watched Dinosaur Train, there was no Tiny Visits the Gynecologistosaurus episode.

Medium:  How did the eggs get in their bellies?

Me:  The same way human babies get in their mommies’ bellies.

Medium:  (whispering, with a startled look on his face)  You mean they put their vaginas and wieners together?

Me:  Um.  I guess. I wasn’t there.

Seriously?  Now we’re fielding questions about Dinosaur S-E-X?  I just know he’s going to ask me how they put their naughty parts together, and I’m going to have to show him barnyard porn on the world wide internets.  

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