My 4-year-old, Ivy, has the most intriguing way of looking at the world. She is fascinated by talking about God and believes with that precious faith of a child that God is bigger, better, stronger and more powerful than anything else in the world.

Which, while true, also makes for some interesting proclamations by her. When we say, “Wow, that building sure is tall!” She says, “But not taller than God!” And so on and so on. Every day she reminds us how big God is. Sometimes, however, she gets a bit confused. Case in point:

Ivy: “Hey Mom, do you have hair in your armpits?”

Me: “Not right now, but I do if I don’t shave them.”

Okay, wait. That’s a lie. The conversation actually started more like this.

Ivy: “GROSS, Mom! You have hair under your arms!”

Me: “I know, I know. I need to shave. In the meantime stop looking under my armpits if you don’t want to see it.”

Ivy: “But Daddy has the most hair in his armpits, right?”

Me: “Yep. Daddy has the most hair.” (Thank God.)

Ivy: “Except you know who really has the most hair in their armpits?”

Me: “Who?”

Ivy: “Jesus and God, of course! No one has more hairy armpits than Jesus and God. Right, Mom?”

Me: “….”

How on Earth do I answer that? I will say that at least it is better than the time she asked me (in front of STRANGERS!) if Jesus and God have the “most biggest boobies for booby milk in the whole universe.” Because, um, yeah. I pretty much had no idea how to answer that one…

10 days without a post? That is a long time for me. The pipeline of crazy stories to blog about is officially full. But, last week I just didn’t have it in me. On top of the septic tank issue we’re now having trouble with our heating and air. BIG trouble. Like the “OMG we can’t run heat or air because of an apparent leak of Carbon Monoxide when the heat is on and a mold problem in our ducts when the air is on and so all the windows are open all the time and the house is 100 degrees inside and a new HVAC costs $8500 and holy crap what are we gonna do” kind of problems.  And I needed a break from reality.

We took a little trip and got away as a family and I’m feeling much more prepared to face the problems in this money pit of a house. And I think I’ll be a much more cheerful blogger now.

In the meantime, here’s a taste of the funny that happened when we were out of town.

On an elevator at the place we were staying an older lady started guessing the ages of the kids. She couldn’t have been more than 70 and she clearly had grandkids about the same age as my kids because she got all their ages perfectly right. After she guessed them all correctly, Ivy looked at her ever so sweetly and said, “And you’re a hundred aren’t you? I just know it!”

It was hilarious painful. She should have just asked her if she had a baby in her tummy and made it really awkward. New Loving family rule: Never try to guess someone’s age. Or gender. Because, really, what good can come of that?

Kai has been having a hard time lately with what she calls “bad thoughts.” Bad thoughts include things like mommy is mean, mommy’s hair looks “hideous,” mommy’s rules are stupid.

Ivy, on the other hand, is the Eddie Haskell of the family.  When Kai says, “My bad thoughts are making me think you look fat in that sweater.” Ivy inevitably says, “Well, I love that sweater, mommy.”

What’s weird about Kai’s “thoughts” is that she knows these things are wrong to say and so she always tells on herself. I feel pretty confident that it is an effort to get more attention. It wasn’t long before she had a theory for why she was thinking these things. It was, of course, the devil that was putting bad thoughts in her mind. Which is just…great.

Can I tell you how much I do not want to hear my 5-year-old tell me that the devil is controlling her thoughts? So much. I think, though, that she thinks if she says the devil put those thoughts in her head that she gets off the hook. But, it doesn’t quite work that way around here.

Ivy, being in all ways contrary to her sister, has her own way of handling this situation.

Ivy: Mommy, I think you are the most beautiful mommy ever.

Me: Thank you, Ivy. That is so sweet.

Ivy (smiling proudly): You welcome. The nice devil put that thought in my mind.

Great. It’s like The Omen meets Sesame Street around here. Maybe I should get out the anointing oil…

Kai and I used to watch John & Kate + 8 together sometimes. It seemed like a much better idea than the time I let her watch that episode of Hoarders with me. Though I suspect now she’ll never let her room get so messy we find a dead cat buried under Barbie clothes so at least there’s that.

But just recently she asked why we couldn’t watch Jon & Kate any more. And I explained why in a vague way. If you know anything about Kai you’ll know she is completely unsatisfied with anything vague. So, we talked a little about divorce. Which she doesn’t understand and hadn’t really heard of since no one in her daily sphere of family is divorced. Apparently I butchered the explanation. And thanks to this little exchange I got to overhear the following Barbie conversation:

Kai (imitating a man’s voice with her Ken doll): “Hey, Barbie. I think we should get a divorce.”

Ivy (in a falsetto Barbie voice): “A what?”

Kai (as Ken): “A divorce. It’s where we decide to stop loving each other. I’ve already decided to stop loving you so you should stop loving me so we can get a divorce.”

Kai (whispering in her normal voice): “Just say okay, Ivy, so they can go ahead and get divorced.”

Ivy (again with the falsetto): “Okay.”

Kai (as Ken): “Great. So now we’re divorced. Want to help me pick out a new girl to marry? And you can pick any of the other boys.”

Nice. Looks like I’m going to have to figure out how exactly to explain this in a way that sounds different than exchanging pants at Old Navy.

My kids have lots of toys. Lots and lots. But, the one thing they love to play with? Cardboard boxes. Big boxes. Little boxes. All boxes.They currently have two they’re playing with. A super big shipping box and a much smaller diaper box. So, knowing this, I wasn’t surprised the other day when I called to Ivy to see what she was doing and she said,

“I’m playin’ wif the widda box.”

The little box. Great. No problem there.

About 30 minutes later Ivy came over very sweetly and said, “Mommy…there is sort of a mess in the bathroom but don’t worry because you can sweep it up.”

When I asked her what the mess was from she said it was because of playing in the “Widda box.”

And then it dawned on me. “Do you mean the little box or the LITTER box?”

Can you guess which one she was talking about?

Yes. My daughter had been playing for the last 45 minutes in the litter box. As if it were a sandbox. Because, well, that’s apparently how my kids roll.

To be honest, I was so tickled by the whole thing that I couldn’t scold her without giggling. So, I just cleaned her up and explained that in the future we don’t play with, you know, the cat’s toilet. There’s a rule I never thought I’d have to make.

No building sandcastles in the litter box.

At least it was clean at the time…

Ivy is bit freaked out by the fact that I’m nursing Traveler. Much like the business with his boy parts, she finds the whole thing gross. And disturbing.

I’ve tried more times than I can count to explain to her that it is natural and how God made mommy’s body to work, but she’s not buying it. It doesn’t help that it makes cuddling on my lap crowded when he’s actually nursing.

But I still didn’t expect the scene that unfolded in a restaurant the other day. I’m pretty sure our waiter didn’t see it coming either.

Waiter (to Ivy): “What would you like to drink, sweetie?”

Ivy: “Chocolate milk.”

Waiter: “Okay, we can do that!”

Ivy (giving her best “I mean business” glare): “But not boobie milk! I drink milk from cows. NOT milk from boobies. OOOOkaaaayyy??”

The waiter looks at me. I flush purple from head to toe and he graciously agrees to make sure to bring her cow’s milk.

Apparently the kitchen was all out of boobie milk anyways.

Ivy is kind of fascinated with her brother. She’s trying to figure out this whole “new baby” thing we’ve got going on and nothing is more confusing to her than what is going on inside Trav’s diaper.

No matter how many times I explain it she is completely unwilling to acknowledge that his “boy parts” are something that are actually supposed to be there.

Which is why every time I change his diaper, our dialog goes a little something like this:

Ivy: “Ewwww, what’s that??”

Me: “Honey, that is Traveler’s bottom. Remember what I said? He’s different than you because he is a boy.”

Ivy: “Oh yeah! Okay…it’s yucky. Wipe it off.”

Me: “No, honey, I can’t wipe it off. It has to stay there, remember?”

Ivy, laughing: “Oooohhh. I see. Okay. Now wipe it off! It’s gross.”

And round and round we go. I guess I’d be happy if I could just get her to stop calling Trav “she” and “her.” Poor guy. Isn’t this how Hemingway ended up the way he did?

Kai: “Can you turn on the Jesus song please?”

Ivy: “Jejus! Jejus!”

Kai: “No, Ivy, it JeSus.”

Ivy: “Jejus!”

Kai: “JeeeeSSSSuuuussss!”

Ivy: “Jeeejjjjuuuusss!”

Kai: “Mom, Ivy’s messing up Jesus’ name!”

Oh, how my girls love them some knock-knock jokes. But, they just don’t get them. You know?

Ivy sure is trying, though, as evidenced by her latest attempt.

Ivy: Knock-knock.

Me: Who’s there?

Ivy: Owl.

Me: Owl, who?

Ivy: Who, who!

She was trying to repeat one she’d heard me tell her sister and just got mixed up. But, what she lacked in understanding she made up for in her enthusiasm! She was positively delighted at telling her very first joke!

Ivy is a talker. But, for the most part, Thomas and I are the only ones who have a clue about what she’s saying. We call it speaking Ivylish. It’s much like Spanish, except not a real language and impossible to translate with 100% accuracy.

The only thing we know for sure is that it’s not English. It’s Ivylish.

And, here is her first ever appearance on the blog. She’s growing up so fast!

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Me, marveling in the 100+ degree heat: Wow, Ivy it is too hot!

Ivy: No, Mommy. Is three hot!

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That is actually an accurate depiction of the heat today. Three hot. Much, much hotter than too hot.