Sometimes KIDS Know Best

I realize that I’ve pretty much done nothing but moan and groan over the past two weeks with the hubby being out of town for so frickin’ long.  Can I help it, though, if my fairy godmother decided to go off on a bender and that the shadow of doom chose to make my household its bitch?  No, unfortunately, I cannot.  Surprisingly, however, there HAVE been two small incidents that brought about a much-needed smile across my tired, weary face.  When you’re at the end of your very frayed rope, little things mean a lot.

A couple of nights ago during bath time when I was on the verge of running off to join the circus, my son must have somehow sensed my desperation.  The dog had just chewed up my favorite slippers, the dirty laundry looked like Mount Kilimanjaro, and I had refereed more than my fair share of fights for the day.  So when I saw that my daughter had then turned the tub into a damn wave pool, I had no other choice but to begin my transformation into Mean Mommy.  My lid was just about to flip when I felt a little pair of arms envelop me from behind like a warm blanket.  I glanced over my shoulder to see my amazingly perceptive little guy smiling sweetly at me as if to say that everything was gonna be alright.  Just that teensy tiny little hug was all I needed to get me through the rest of that long day.

And maybe it’s a twin thing because my daughter, too, must have had a feeling that Mama was at her breaking point.  It was after yet another nerve-racking afternoon that she holed herself up with some paper and crayons and forbade me from entering the room.  She claimed that she was working on a surprise for me that was “super duper top secret.”  I grumbled about the wreck of a mess that had taken over the kitchen and struggled to keep my heavy eyelids open.  All I wanted to do was to crawl into bed and forget about all the madness of my frickin’ world.  And that’s exactly the point that my angelic little girl presented me with this:

I “fink” it was just what I needed to snap me out of my funk.

Kids really are amazing, aren’t they?!

Advertisements

The Bath Show

vsh1127l-1

     Bath time.  Never been my particular favorite time of the day.  I’m usually exhausted by that point and gladly turn that duty over to my husband if and when he’s home.  He likes to hang out with the kids one on one since he’s gone from them all day, and I usually utilize that time to breathe and take my first uninterrupted pee of the day. However, when I have no choice but to be in charge of project kid clean, I want everybody in and outta there and have no time for dilly dallying. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and in that light, my ass is plopped on the couch, feet propped, wine in hand.  Even with as little patience that I tend to have at this point in the day, however, I do at least get to spend individual time talking to my kids. I may have to pry it out of them, but slowly but surely they often come around when the bath is a flowin’.  I kinda like to be there every once in a while to witness it.  And believe me, I’ve learned all kinds of doozies at bath time about what goes on inside the mind of a six year old.

     More often than not the conversation turns to talk of private parts. They are by far the hottest topic in this household, children and husband alike.  These talks usually start out with some type of exhibitionist display of talent.  Sometimes we all end up laughing hysterically and other times, someone ends up crying and being sent to time out.  For example, my daughter might be dancing buck naked in the tub one minute, trying her damnedest to get everyone to look at her and then completely wigging out the next when she thinks about the fact that her brother is, in fact, looking at her.  My son, on the other hand, is quite comfortable in his birthday suit and isn’t afraid to strut his stuff at all.  His hands are generally on his Johnson anyway, so what would he care?  This night time nude cavorting has led to numerous deep discussions about the differences between boys and girls.  

     One of the latest of these conversations took place the other night as I was drying my daughter off while my son was getting in the tub. They were trying to determine just what what made them alike and what made them different.  My daughter concluded that they both have the same boobs and butts, but she got the hoo-hoo, and my son got the peeper. Gotta love a woman who cuts right to the point. On another occasion this week, as my daughter was soaking in the tub, she boldly announced that she prefers to call her nipples “dimples” since she can’t say the word “nipple” without erupting into a fit of giggles.  And now, thanks to this little talk, I’ll never look at my Rob Lowe’s chin the same.

    It’s not always about body parts, though.  Sometimes we end up talking about their day at school.  Like last night, my kids informed me that they are learning about Michael Jackson in music class. I know, it made me do a double take at first, too. But when I was washing my daughter’s hair last night, she suddenly started humming a tune that sounded very much like “Rockin’ Robin.”   When I asked her about it, she told me that they’d been working on a choreographed version of the song.  Apparently, the music teacher has taught them hand motions to go along with the song, and her favorite part is when they get to break dance.  I’m thinking, what the?!  Now some parents may flip out about this, but I, on the other hand, happen to think it’s kinda cool, especially if it actually is true. (I’m learning that I can only believe about 75% of what my six year olds tell me anyway.)  It was solidified even more for me when my son proceeded to show me his best breakin’ moves all whilst still in the tub, completely soaking me and sending waves of water all throughout the bathroom.  I have a little feeling that the music teacher didn’t intend for this body rockin’ practice to necessarily take place in the bathtub.

     So, while bending over a tub after a long-ass day of poop scooping, car pooling, and playing referee isn’t necessarily my cup of tea, I do enjoy the front row seat to my kids’ imaginations.  Their little brains retain some of the craziest information and tend to wait to let it run wild after the sun goes down.  It’s often way better than the crappy t.v. shows for which we pay our cable company an arm and a leg to watch. All I need is some popcorn and some Raisinets, and I’ve got myself a ticket to the cheap show.

Private Parts

When my kids were younger and first started asking about their private parts, I decided we would call them the “hoo-hoo” and the “peeper” and explained that these were very special parts of them that only the doctor, grandparents, siblings, or parents should see.  It all seemed cute and even kinda funny in the beginning, but the charm has since faded for a laundry list of reasons.  For instance, they love to LOUDLY yell out an I-spy of my own adult hoo-hoo in public restrooms, which often generates a curious chuckle from innocent bystanders, much to my embarrassment.  They also have been banned from joint baths now, something that used to be so much of a time-saver for me. There was way too much compare and contrast analysis taking place in that tub. The latest nerve-grinding issue has been a sudden need for modesty — they each demand that the other not even so much as glance at his/her private parts. This is a constant battle because they both want to be in the same bathroom at the exact same time.  More often than not I have one of them screaming and crying that the other was doing way too much hoo-hoo or peeper staring.  I really thought I was doing a good thing with the whole “they’re called private parts for a reason” speech.  However, as is the case with most aspects of parenting, this is yet another conversation that has come back to bite me in the butt, no private parts pun intended!

mpcn59l