And, not just any toy.

A Woody toy.

But, not just any Woody toy.

My four-year old had very specific requests about this toy. 

It had to be … a Big.  Soft.  Talking. Woody.

You’re all wondering does such a thing exist, right?

My sister … bless … tried and failed to get him the perfect Woody doll for his birthday, so I had to assure him that if he stayed off the naughty list by Christmas that Santa may bring him it.

I know, I know.

You’re all … what’s she like?  Christmas shouldn’t be about the presents, the consumerism, the branding.  Where’s the peace, love and good will toward each other?  Believe me, I totally get that, but what can I say when this toy is all your youngest has harped on about for months? 

Fuck all that. 

I was bound and determined to find this Woody doll for my baby this Christmas. 

You’d think it would be easy.  I actually started to look for it as soon as we arrived over here, but in the run up to Christmas there aren’t too many toy shops that carry said doll.  And, enquiring about it either in person or via telephone was no easy feat for someone who snorts and chuckles as much as I do, let me tell you.  With only a couple of weeks before the big day, I still hadn’t found one.  

Just as I was about to admit defeat, I managed to track down an online boutique toy shop that had one left in stock.  I called to get  clarification that it was indeed a big, soft, talking Woody doll and felt like I’d won the lottery.   The price was absolutely extortionate, but no matter.  I ordered it and celebrated the end of my quest with a happy dance. 

Until, that is, the return of Snowpocalypse. 

I will admit that it was at this point as I looked out at the never-ending snowstorms, that I might have started to panic.  A bit.  Well, not just a bit … a lot.  But, the real heroes of this worst winter ever came through for me and hopefully every other online shopping parent … the delivery dudes.  Woody was dropped off a couple of days before Christmas. 

The look on my wee boy’s face this Christmas morning when he opened that toy was absolutely priceless and so worth it all.  

Happy fucking Christmas y’all.

He literally dropped the toy he was playing with and stared intently at the stars rocking out on our screen. 

He loves all things music and dance so at first I just thought he was enjoying that.  I’ve been told on more than one occasion that I should think about getting him enrolled in dance lessons and seeing the intensity on his face as he watched the singing brothers had me making mental notes to call some of the local dance schools. 

And, then the ad finished and I learned the true reason behind his keen interest in the Jonas Brothers. 

“Mum,” he asked me excitedly with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Yes, son,” I answered him waiting for some remark about how he was going to do that when he grew up.  I was actually picturing his name in lights, him singing and dancing away on stage while millions of young fans screamed his name.  And, the celebrity parties he would be bringing his old mum to.  It was going to be fabulous!

“Is that my Daddy?”

“Huh?”

His question snapped me back to reality.

“Is that what my Daddy does when he goes to work?”

“What?”

“That’s my Daddy, right?”

The look on his face was priceless.  Excited, earnest and intently he waited for my answer.

Yes, folks.  My youngest son apparently thinks his Dad is a Jonas Brother and who am I to take that away from him.  So, I just smiled and nodded my head in agreement before busting a gut laughing my head off.

What do you think?

“Uh-huh,” I mumble back … not even looking up from my first cup of coffee to see what it was he was actually asking to play with. 

In my defence, it was not even 8 a.m.

“Mummy, can I really?” he inquires again.

“Sure thing, son.”

This time my head was in my favourite online news provider.

Happy to hear the sounds of my littlest boy playing away with swooshing sound effects et al, I pour myself another cup of coffee and settle back to my morning reads.  Life is good.

“But, mummy?”

“Yes,” I mumble back, engrossed in what I’m reading.

“Mummy, I want to use them as swords,” the imaginative one says to me.  “Is that really okay?”

My youngest son has such a fantastic imagination where he loves to role play.  On any day, he can appear to me as a pirate or a knight or a sorcerer or a veterinarian or a soldier, etc.  I never really know who or what he is going to be, but it was obvious at this time he was going to be a swashbuckler of some sort.  

This time, I glance up as I say “of course, baby.  Just so long as no one gets hurt, you can use your imagination any way you waaaaaaaaaaaaa ….. nt.”

My voice trails off as the realisation of what he’s been playing with hits me.  How the heck do I explain this one?

And, then I can’t stop laughing at my little man.  He’s standing in front of me armed with two tampons and one fierce look of determination as he gets ready for battle.

In my defence, it was not even 8 a.m.

Or this one …

Here’s a photo of all the world cup shaped snacks currently being sold in the UK …

Hilarious!  Thanks W for sending me these photos along with your World Cup willy fever and for making me feel like I was back ‘ome for the world’s greatest sporting event!

Some days it feels like I’m on the set of a movie.  A great, big Hollywood blockbuster!

Honestly. 

Not that my life is particularly dramatic or anything, but much in the same way that a song can take you back to a certain place or time, a conversation or an event can occur that pulls up a memory of a movie I’ve seen.

Take for example, the other morning … 

When I asked my oldest son to put his socks on, he started muttering things under his breath like, “I told you! I spent it with my uncle in Alaska hunting wolverines” and stomping around a la Napoleon Dynamite.  I don’t know where it came from, but he was definitely channeling that curly-haired, bespectacled geek.

I then went upstairs only to find my middle son walking out of the bathroom where he had just plastered his hair with copious amounts of hair gel achieving the unfortunate look of a  certain German dictator.  Trying very hard to stifle a laugh I pondered, was I now on the set of Inglourious Basterds?

After helping that son re-style his hair, cue to me walking downstairs  to be met by my tiny little dog who had just had the most ginormous wee … on my hard wood floor.  I kid you not, it was akin to the giant flood in that crap movie that was 2012.  Where was my ark to save me from the rising waters?

I stomped myself through to the next room where I was met with my youngest sitting on the loo.  He was surrounded by the biggest pile of what looked like used toilet paper, grinning away at me telling me, ‘Look, mummy I wiped my own butt.”  Aaargh, where was Ben Stiller and the rest of the cast from Meet the Fockers?

If only I’d had a film crew in my house … and, scene!

Me: Mmmmmmm.

Hubby: You put them on over your pants. I think I might get some.  What do you think?  Here, take a look at them so you can better understand what I’m describing.

Me: Hun, just in case you didn’t know I wore leg warmers.  In the 80′s.  When they were in fashion?  Only difference is mine were pink.  Oh yeah and I think I had a grey pair too.  Watch Flashdance babe and catch up.

Hubby: Well, I don’t care.  I’m ordering them.  I think they’re a great idea.

Me: *mutters under breath* Yeah, you and every child of the 80′s out there.

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Me:  *after getting littlest one out of time-out for being naughty* Now, come sit with mummy and say you’re sorry.

Littlest one: I sowwy, mummy.

Me: That’s okay.  Now, shall we finish playing with your trains.

Littlest one: *giggles* I just farted on your leg, mum.

Me: *sigh*

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Me: Did anyone tell you how cute you look in your new outifit?

Oldest cool, hip teen son: Really, mom?  Really?

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Littlest one when he had a runny nose: Mum, my nose won’t stop running away.

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Middle tween son: Mum, does lipstick make your food taste funny?

Me: I don’t think so.  Well, I’ve not really ever noticed.

Middle tween son: Well, that pink lipstick you have tastes awful.

Me: I don’t want to know.

************************************************************************************

Grandma: Let me catch that juicy boy and eat him all up.

Littlest one: Gwandma, I am not food.

************************************************************************************

Middle tween son: Did you  know I’m going to be 11 this year, Mum?

Me: Yes, son.  I can’t believe it.

Middle tween son: It must make you feel so old.

Me: Er, yeah. Thanks son.

************************************************************************************

Me: I’m just a big kid really. In fact, I’m a girl trapped in a woman’s body.

Oldest cool, hip teen son: Well, that’s just gross.

Middle tween son: Are you sure there’s only one in there?

Me: Hey, ey, ey!  Watch it!

************************************************************************************

Littlest one cuddling his aunt: *points to a zit on her face* I think your big bump is coming back.

This kind of threw me as it was clearly a marked change in his behavior.  I typically have to encourage and coerce him to go his school dances telling him how fun they’ll be and how he’ll regret not going and participating in the long run.  I only say this because his father was not one to take part in extracurricular school activities and has said on more than one occasion that he wished he had.

Me?  Well, I attended any and every school dance I could.

It took me a while, but I began to wonder exactly why there was this sudden desire to go to his Valentine’s dance.

And, there it was.

It’s a Valentine’s dance.

Valentine’s.

Could my teen be … shock, horror, gasp … in love?

Dare I inquire?

Yeah, I did.  On the drive to school the following morning, I casually started a conversation with him about the dance and asked him if he wanted me to pick him up some Valentine’s cards.  My middle son who overheard the conversation piped up from the back seat, “Why?  Do they sell Valentine’s for $^%@s [insert your own expletive]?”

Ignoring this obvious act of brotherly love, I plowed on telling the teen that Valentine’s day was a perfect time of the year to tell someone you like them with a nice card or teddy bear to which he mumbled in reply, “yeah, maybe in your century”

*sigh*

I quickly reminded him that we were actually from the same century.

*sigh*

As of today, he and his friends were not sure if they were going as they had heard there was only going to be 6th graders at the dance.  Which ye know, when you’re an 8th grader … is so not cool!

*clink*

This morning, I was trying desperately to convince my three-year-old to put on his underwear UNDER his clothing when he turned to me and said, “No thanks, mummy … I’m free balling today.”

What, what, what?

Free balling?

Well, you can imagine my surprise, then shock and horror as I realised what he meant.

Free balling?

As in going commando?

I’m still in shock that my precious little boy uttered these words and once I picked myself up off the ground, feigned my ignorance and told him that we really should wear underwear … all … the … time, I silently cursed his brothers.

Oh yes, the joys of raising sons of varying ages indeed!

I wonder if this sort of thing happens in the Duggar household?

Since the holidays, my little one has renamed his chocolate milk “cold cocoa.”

It all started one day at Starbucks when his big brothers asked for some hot cocoa.  He became a little obsessed by it, but didn’t actually didn’t try it till just the other day.  I made him a cup of it at home with luke warm milk and chocolate syrup, but hardly a drop got past his lips before he proclaimed he did not like it, adding, ”I only like cold cocoa.”

A literary genius in the making, but there you have it … cold milk with chocolate syrup is his cold cocoa.  Simply put, it’s chocolate milk.

Well, this past weekend with warmer weather on its way, my sister and I went to get pedicures this weekend.  I wasn’t long in to my pedi when my phone rang.  Sure enough, it was the hubby.

And, he was calling to ask exactly what “cold cocoa” was.

Apparently, when the little man had asked for it, Daddy had given him cold Ovaltine.

You can imagine how well that went down.  The little man no longer lets his father make up ANY of his drinks never mind his cold blooming cocoa!

I am writing to tell you that this year I’ve been a very good girl and to ask for the most amazing gift ever … for my three-year-old to be fully potty trained.

He goes wee on the toilet, but as for those stinky #2′s?  Well, he refuses to sit on the toilet!  I take that back — he went once and for some reason, it freaked him out so much that he will only poop in his bed-time nappies.  I’ve tried being soothing and coaxing, stickers and prizes, hiding the nappies and done the happy poo-poo dance way too many times, but all to no avail.

Everything I’ve been told or read tells me to just wait it out, but yesterday, when he decided to show his dad how you do the poo-poo walk … that is, how to walk with po0py in your nappy so that it doesn’t squish everywhere … I thought it high time I send you my Christmas wish.

Thanks in advance.

Love,

Crunchie Mummy

P.S. If you are not able to grant this wish, then a Tiffany charm bracelet will gratefully be received too.