War with nicknames …

The war that is raging in my house at the moment is one involving nicknames.

Yes, nicknames.

It’s a silly war, really.

I am apparently no longer allowed to call my two older boys by their cute, adorable nicknames.

Names that I have called them by since before they were crawling.  Names that make my heart ache.  Names that only I can truly call them by.  Names that transport me back in time to a day when they were so little and innocent and sweet.  Names that make me smile.  Names that are … well, just … them.

How on earth can I not call them by their nicknames?

It all started when I did the unthinkable.

I apparently called my tween by his nickname.  At the playground.  In front of his friends.  And, I didn’t even know I had done it.

Yeah … it didn’t go over too well.  There were scowls and tantrums, huffs and a few choice nicknames to me that were muttered under breath.

And, so ended the days of cute, adorable nicknames for I have strict instructions to only call my sons by their given names.

No more ****** Bear or *****.

Truth be told, it’s a battle.

A war.

Between my mouth and them.

I mean, I’ve called them these nicknames forever so it’s hard.  I forget.  Until they give me the look and then I know I must have slipped up and so the war begins.

This post was inspired by this week’s writing workshop prompt #3 over at Josie’s fabulous blog Sleep is for the Weak.

Dodge Charger Ad … Man’s Last Stand vs. Woman’s Last Stand

Did you happen to see the Man’s Last Stand themed ad for the Dodge Charger that aired during the Superbowl?  Narrated by Michael C. Hall, it’s a very funny, tongue-in-cheek commercial that kind of makes you feel for the everyday guy … almost.

Or, if you’re like me you are too busy thinking about all the things he is saying he will do, but doesn’t … like getting his underwear in the hamper!

Anyway, here is the satirical female response that someone put together … it’s pretty funny, but there’s a deep, hidden message in there.

Your thoughts?

Valentine’s School Dance … FAIL

So, my oldest son announced very casually the other day that he wanted to go to his school’s Valentine’s Day dance.

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!

The one where her three-year-old told her he was free balling …

Oh, let me raise a glass to the joys of raising sons of varying ages … and while we’re at it, raise one with me.

*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?

Got Cold Cocoa?

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!

Dear Santa,

Dear Santa,

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.

Wordless/Wordful Wednesday … The One Where She Gets a New Do

So, the other day I marched in to my hairdresser’s and told her I wanted to mix it up a little and get something different for the upcoming holidays.  I settled on some nice, soft layers in my bob and my hairdresser worked her magic styling and flipping them out.  I walked out of there feeling and looking a million bucks!

However, when I got home and came face-to-face with my gorgeous gangly teen, I was mortified to realise my cut was strangely similar to his . . . and every other gangly floppy teen boy hairdo across the Western world!

*sigh*

Honestly, all I need are a pair of jeans, a hoodie and an x-box controller in my hand and I’d be able to hang with them!

What do you think?

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Some lofty goals . . .

You never know what will spew forth upon you when opening what can loosely be described as my oldest son’s backpack . . . so the other day I took upon the task of helping him organize it.

In wading through the jungle of papers, books and pens, we came across an index card that the teen had to write three future goals on for some class or another.  They gave me quite a kick to read, but also made me very proud.

Below are the goals he wrote with my own thoughts and comments added in italics.

  1. Go to college. (He’d better!)
  2. Law and government/architecture careers? (Shows how ambitious he is or maybe how much he likes to argue?)
  3. Support myself and my family and invest in companies (possibly).  (Love that he wrote “possibly” there, but woah, slow down there little feller — I agree, let’s see if the economy turns around before you start bank rolling those executives with your investments son)

So wise, right?  I think he’s going places!!

Red-faced and shamed at the dentist . . .

I think we all need a lesson in humility.

Mine came the other morning.

I had woken up to a messy kitchen — dirty dishes in the sink, caked on food on my stove top and crumbs all over the counters and dining room table.  If there is one thing I hate worse than laundry, it is a dirty kitchen.  I won’t go to bed with it like that unless I am sick . . . which is exactly what I was and I had been assured it would all be taken care of.

Obviously, this was not the case, but worse than the messy disaster was the fact that there were ants marching across my kitchen counter.  Yes, ants!  Marching one by one like they were practicing for the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade.

I freaked, had a temper tantrum and the shit hit the fan.

The hubby quickly left for work with no apology . . . leaving me banging about . . . cleaning up a dirty kitchen and splatting ants.

I calmed down . . . kind of . . . finished cleaning and settled in to my first cup of java for the day.  Then, I remembered my oldest son had an early morning dental appointment.

A quick calculation and I realised I had no time to shower, so reached blindly in to my closet and picked out an outfit that I literally threw on as I was running out the door with two of my kids in tow . . . my sister agreed to take my middle son to school.

We arrived at the dentist with only minutes before my son’s appointment, but I relaxed as soon as we settled in to the waiting room.  My kids love their dentist’s waiting room — it has a huge fish tank right in the middle of it full of clown fish a la Finding Nemo.  Once they called my oldest son back, my little one decided he needed to be up and down, up and down . . . as you do when you are a three-year-old bundle of energy.  We had about an hour to go before his big brother’s treatments were done so we went back to visit with his dental hygienest, chatted with some of the other staff, popped in to the restroom, read books and watched the fish swim by.  When he did finally sit still and I could take a breather, I looked down at my blouse and thought . . .  something’s not quite right here.  At first I thought the pattern didn’t look the same and wondered if it had been ruined at the cleaners.

Then, it dawned on me and horrified, shamed and red-faced I ran with my munchkin back to the restroom . . .

. . . to put my blouse on the right way round.

I had been sitting in that bloody dentist office with my blouse inside out, tags and seams to the world!  Honestly!!

I think we all need a lesson in humility.

Next time, I’ll leave the mess (and ants) and spend more time on ME!

FYI — The apology did come . . .  eventually.