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Son of a Diddly!

 

A couple weeks before winter break, the Munchkin came home upset because he had gotten into trouble at school.

When pressed for details, he lied about the incident, claiming it was because he had called another child’s drawing “stupid.”

While not a fantastic thing to do, I wondered why he was so emotional about it, when the truth finally came out. Well, it came out after being badgered about it for the remainder of the day by moi, as my Spidey-senses told me all was not as it seemed.

Turns out, a fellow classmate had accused him of saying the word hell in a non-opposite-of-heaven way.

He swore up and down that he didn’t say it at all, and claimed to not even know what it meant.

I’m on the fence as to whether he did say it or not, but I’m pretty sure he knows what it means.

Did the Munchkin get punished?

Well he did, but not for the cussing part.  He got punished for not being upfront about what had happened.

Because yelling at him for cussing? Pot, meet kettle.

You see, my father, who was a very fix-it type of guy, would curse up a storm every time he worked on a project.  So if he had to fix a leaky sink, my young self would stand in the kitchen, see a waist and a pair of legs sticking out from the cabinet doors, and hear a stream of curses that would make any sailor blush. 

Did I cuss in elementary school? You betcha.  And I was a very straight-laced honor student at a Catholic school.

I was just smart enough not to cuss around anybody that would tell on me.

I truly try not to curse in front of my children, and I would say I am 99.8% successful.  But one of his best buddies is an 11 year old from a home that has a lot of salty language being thrown about, not to mention my in-laws not watching their language around him, or even my own dad on occasion.  Oh, and my own husband isn’t all that great at keeping his language perfectly clean either.

Yes, I know all about the people who say that cussing means you are ignorant and haven’t the language skills to truly express your outrage, so cursing is just a way of flaunting your lack of vocabulary.

Actually, I think the people who go around saying made-up expressions are worse.  You can go around all day and spout nonsensical expressions, but when you stub your toe against the bedpost, “fiddlesticks” just will not do.

Glinda’s Serenity Prayer

God grant me the serenity
to accept the fact that my kids are going to drive me crazy during the winter break;
courage to actually get out of bed each morning ;
and wisdom to know the urge to book a one-way flight to Barbados will pass.

Eventually.

The Inconvenient Truth

The other day some friends of ours had a “private” Santa party, one where the kids could sit and take pictures with Santa and chat with him for however long they liked.

My husband wanted to go, but our daughter did not cooperate with a nap, thus ensuring that venturing out of the house at the specified time of the evening would result in a spectacular tantrum of epic proportions. Besides, I told my husband, why go through all the trouble when our son is a non-believer?

That’s right, my eight year old does not believe in Santa Claus, and actually hasn’t since kindergarten.

You see, I blame his aunt.

Auntie always has an Easter egg hunt at her house, and one day a few years back he was in her garage and recognized the eggs. He then asked my husband and me if there really was an Easter Bunny, seeing as how he found it odd the Easter Bunny would use Auntie’s garage for a storage facility.

I have always maintained that I will NOT lie to my children, especially when asked a question point-blank. I did caution my son about the answer, asking him if he really wanted to know, and once he knew, there was no un-knowing. If you know what I mean.

He said he wanted the truth.

So I told him the truth. No Easter Bunny. From there, it wasn’t hard for him to extrapolate every other holiday figure as being imaginary as well, right down to the Tooth Fairy.

And you know what? I don’t regret what I did one bit.

My husband still thinks I shouldn’t have done it, and my neighbor across the street claims that her eleven year old still believes in Santa, and that she will never tell him otherwise.

But my son is an analyst, a deductive thinker who was already headed down the path of jadedness long before I ever intervened.  This is the same son, who, when sent to a religious pre-school made this complaint, “Mom, all we ever do is pray! We pray at snack, we pray at chapel.  An ambulance goes by, and what do we do? PRAY! Does God even have time to listen to all that praying? I would think he doesn’t care about us praying about our lunch.” 

So really, it was only a matter of time before my budding atheist figured it out for himself.

And as for those parents who maintain that their fifth-grader still believes in Santa, I know it’s hard, but you need to let that go.  Like, now.

Monday Teeny Poll

16% of you say that taking children to Hooters Restaurant is not a big deal.  Apparently boobs are just boobs.  However, technically the majority is against, with 21% stating and unequivocal “no” and 45% stating a wishy-washy “no, but I can’t stop anybody else.”  Be judgemental people, it’s the American way!  As for me, I will never take a step with either my son or daughter into Hooters, which is a place that will teach them in no uncertain terms to objectify women, which is a lesson neither one of them should be learning.

Today I’m all about the holiday season and that annual favorite, the Santa photo.  And yes, I’ve already featured a Santa photo on another post, but one can never quite get enough Santa photos, in my opinion.

The Munchkinette Mix

As a Saturday bonus because I was way late in posting the CDF, I give you the Munchkinette Mix.

What exactly, Glinda, is the Munchkinette Mix, is what you are asking.

Well, we SAHM’s sometimes have to do inconsequential things like go to the bathroom. Sometimes we don’t feel like having a visitor with us in the bathroom, and so we must secure our children somewhere and make sure they stay safe and happy for however long it’s going to take. Many people put their children in a playpen and have them watch something educational, like Sesame Street. Well, I tried that, but no luck.

After much trial and error, it was discovered that the Munchkinette really, really likes music videos. She’s partial to 80’s music, but she’ll give new stuff a try. She will only tolerate one video by a female artist, but at least it’s a kickass song. So, here is some music for your weekend listening/watching pleasure, courtesty of my one year old music fanatic.

Your Weekend AMAZING

These girls are BEYOND SUPERFANTASTIC!

via Boing Boing

In Which I Prevail Upon the Internets for Wisdom

All right, I’ve got a problem.

Well, at least both grandmothers think I have a problem. And when two grandmas think you have a problem, it does really become a problem in more ways than one, if you know what I mean.

I’ll cut right to the chase.  My daughter, she is among the teeniest of Teeny Manolos.

She wasn’t born extremely small, a bit less than seven pounds, a week before her due date.  She was breastfed exclusively until eight months, half formula and half breastmilk for the next month, and then formula exclusively.  I’ll write about my adventures in pumping at another time.

Suffice it to say that girlfriend isn’t really toeing the line in the weight department.  She actually lost weight from her 9 month well-baby to the 12 month well-baby exam.  She rings in at an unimpressive 18 pounds.  Which puts her in the 6th percentile for weight.  She’s in the 14th for height, but she’s never been past the 20th percentile in any category since birth.  Her doctor showed me her plot points on the growth chart, and she is advancing up the curve as she is supposed to.  She’s just on the lower end of it.

Developmentally, she’s right on track in every other way.  She began walking at 10.5 months, and can clap and wave and grasp small objects like nobody’s business.  She’s not talking in words, but her brother pulled the same crap, and didn’t talk until almost 18 months.  When he did, he spoke in perfectly formed sentences, so I’ll cut her a bit of slack on that one.

I would definitely describe her as a picky eater, and not a hearty eater, either.  I think our main problem right now is that she refuses to eat anything she can’t pick up herself.  She is so NOT ready to feed herself with a spoon, though.  I’ve tried and it just ends up in lots of wailing and teeth-gnashing and food on the floor.  She’s much too fond of flinging things onto the floor at this point.

I will add that my husband and myself, we are not small people.  Not in height, or at this stage in our lives, girth.  I’ve always been, ahem, “big-boned” and my husband is a former defensive lineman.  Which is to say, you would never pick a fight with either of us in a bar.  As for the Munchkin, he was always in the 90th percentile or above for height and weight as a baby.  He is now very tall and very, very slim.  However, both sets of gradparents, and great-grandparents, for that matter, are all quite small.  My husband and I are familial aberrations, if you will.

So, it has come to the point where one grandmother is offering to pay for specialists to run tests on baby girl, while the other keeps clucking and making noises about “failure to thrive” and that kind of annoying talk that implicates I am a bad, bad, mother.  Never mind that the child is as loud and rambunctious as any group of drunk bikers. 

Should I worry?  Should I call and order some specialists like my MIL wants me to?  Is it a grandma thing? 

What say you, dear readers?  The readers of the Manolosphere are well-known to be the sharpest crayons in the box, so I await your advice.

The Hostages

My family likes to drive.

Well, we used to anyway.

Until my daughter made her appearance into the world and took advantage of every time she was strapped into her car seat to let everyone know in very loud and screechy tones exactly how much she hates being in the car.

She might actually enjoy being in the car if she was allowed to roam free, but of course, that’s not an option.

So she fights her harness like a wild cat, trying to wriggle out of it and generally making our lives miserable every second of the drive.

Which is very unfortunate for everyone, as we go in the car quite a bit.

No amount of toy rotating or desperate song-singing or even her brother’s weird faces will deter her for long.

She’s been known to cry so hard that she vomits. Cleaning vomit out of a car seat and off of a crying child is very, very low on my list of preferred activities. It ties somewhere around finding a parking spot at the mall on Christmas Eve.

So until she makes the connection (hello, why has this not happened yet?) that 99 times out of 100 that a car trip means something really fun at the end, we are all held hostage. Since she’s already a year old, we’re not all that hopeful this will occur any time soon.

We’re considering investing in a covered wagon.

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