Category: funny (page 1 of 3)

Smells like…what?!

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This boy of mine is a charmer. And he has me thoroughly wrapped around his little finger. But one of the things I love the most about this little man is that I never really know what to expect from him or what new crazy thing is going to come out of his mouth. Case in point.

One morning this week he came into my room as the house was waking up and he crawled right up into bed with me. He snuggled up beside me, looked me in the eyes, and said:

“Where is your heart, mama?”

I told him where my heart was and he asked me to give him my heart. Now, this boy has my heart. Every single hour of every single day. But because I wanted to see where he was going with this I mimed giving him my heart. He held the imaginary heart in his two hands and looked at me sweetly. Then a horrified look came over his face.

Traveler: “Mama! What is that smell! Your heart is so…STINKY!!!”

Me (laughing): “My heart is stinky?! What does it smell like?”

Traveler (looking like a light just went on in his head and also a little bit relieved): “oooooooh, I know. It’s Jesus. It smells like Jesus.”

There you have it. Mystery of the stinky heart solved.

I wasn’t prepared for this.

There are lots of things I have found myself unprepared for in my parenting journey. Hard to answer questions about life and death. The “birds & the bees” talk. Poop in the bathtub. You know, the BIG stuff.

But they all pale in comparison to this newest experience. One word, friends…BALLS.

Traveler asked us about a particular part of his anatomy. And we explained what that part is. And so that is how he came to be running across the Olive Garden to see his Nina (Grandma) and yelling at the top of his lungs while grabbing his boy parts: “Hey Niiiiinnnaaaa!! Guess what?! These are my BALLS!! My balls are right here!! Isn’t that awesome! My BAAAAAALLLLLLSSSS!”

So, yeah. I bet that ruined some people’s dinner. Or, you know, maybe not. It was pretty stinking funny. And also? Mortifying.

But the good news is it isn’t just at the Olive Garden. Oh, no! He tells the little old ladies at AWANAS on Wednesday nights. And new people we meet in public. And pretty much anyone he hasn’t already told about his balls. Pretty awesome, no?

Uh…No.

Sensory Boxes: A cautionary tale

I love sensory boxes. Really, I do. But, apparently it has taken me four kids to realize that sensory boxes are not intended to be utilized without adult supervision. Or at least not inside. Here’s to 16 ounces of Penne pasta all over my kitchen. At least they had fun doing it. : )

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Kai-versations: Quite the little gossip…

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get worried whenever Kai spends any time alone with another adult. Because, let me tell you, the girl can talk.

In fact, just yesterday when I picked her up from tutoring her tutor (a fantastic godly woman who we just love!) said that Kai is 6 going on 30 and that she is so excellent at conversation. Oh. So. True.

On our way home I asked Kai what they had talked about at tutoring. “Oh, you know,” she said “I told her about what you said last night.”

At that moment, I knew there was a blog post in the making. Because the night before just before Kai had gone to bed I had called my mom to ask her something. My mom, weighing about 110 pounds and having not had lunch that day before drinking a pre-dinner glass of wine, was a bit tipsy on the phone. Not Spring Break 2010 tipsy. Just a little giggly.

So, when I got off the phone my husband asked what had been so funny. I jokingly told him my mom must have been drinking way too much wine because she was acting crazy. It didn’t even occur to me that Kai was picking up on any of this. At least not until she told me that she talked to her tutor about “what happened last night.”

Me: What exactly did you tell her about last night?

Kai: Oh, you know, that Nina is just drinking WAY too much wine and it makes her act so CRAYzayZAY.

Me: Kai! That is not true and that is definitely not something we say to other people!

Kai: Oh, Mom. Don’t worry! I told her that if she ever meets my Nina to pretend like I didn’t just tell her about how she drinks too much.

Well, that’s a relief.

And that is how I came to be emailing Kai’s tutor yesterday afternoon and reassuring her that Kai’s grandma is not, in fact, a falling down drunk. What scares me most is that this is just what she admits to telling people while I’m not there. It terrifies me to imagine what else gets said while I’m not around…

At this point maybe Wendy’s should just change the name of the Frosty shake…

I have one major goal when writing customer service complaints. To get results. And if I can get those results while simultaneously writing letters that entertain the faithful men and women who are forced to read tale after tale of angry rants about things beyond their control then all the better. So, when our trip to Wendy’s the other night took a turn for the hilarious I knew that it would be an easy letter to write. Because, I’ll be honest. As creative as I am, I simply couldn’t make this stuff up.

(Here’s the letter I wrote to Wendy’s Saturday night…)

Dear Wendy’s,

You guys should know. I love Wendy’s. And I love your Frosty’s. So when my husband and I took the girls out for a special family night to see Toy Story 3 we knew that we wanted to treat our kids to something cold & yummy after the movie and a Frosty seemed like the perfect thing. I don’t have to tell you that in this economy we, like many other middle class families, are watching our pennies and only splurging occasionally.

So, when we got our Chocolate Frosty shakes you can imagine our disappointment when they were literally undrinkable. And I don’t mean they just tasted a little unpleasant. I mean my children gagged when they tasted them and my husband and I both spit our the shake before we could even swallow it. They were rancid. Or soured. Or something else that was a whole mess of nasty. It was bad.

And since we had driven through and couldn’t go back I decided to at least give the restaurant a call to let them know that something had gone terribly awry with their frosty milkshake machine so at least the next customer would be spared the absolutely vile experience we had just had.

I swear to you I am not exaggerating when I recount the conversation I had with the manager. I wrote it down because I truly could not believe what I was hearing. It went like this:

Me: Hi, we just visited your drive-thru and got Chocolate Frosty Shakes and I just wanted to let you know that they were really, really gross. I don’t know if the milk is soured or if something went wrong but they were undrinkable. My children literally gagged when they tasted them and my husband and I couldn’t even bare to swallow ours.

Manager: Yes, I know. That is the flavor.

Me: You mean something was wrong with the flavoring?

Manager: No. The flavor of the chocolate tastes bad. We have had other people tell us it tastes like sour vomit. That’s how it is supposed to taste.

Me: Are you telling me that our milkshakes are SUPPOSED to taste like sour vomit?

Manager: Yes. That is the flavor. The Vanilla and Strawberry are okay if you want to come back and get one of those.

Me: Um, well, after having the taste of sour vomit in my mouth I’d really just rather have my money back. Because it was a seriously disgusting experience.

Manager: Well, I can only give you a milkshake of another flavor because that is how the chocolate is supposed to taste. It just has a kind of gross taste to it.

Me: **nearly speechless** So, let me just get this straight. You are the manager and you are telling me that the fact that my milkshake tasted like sour vomit and that I literally had to pull over my car and spit it out is normal and how it is supposed to be and that my only option is to drive back and get a Frosty shake in another flavor?

Manager: Yes.

Me: Okay, then, well I guess there is nothing else you can do for me.

Manager: Okay, have a good night.

I am so not kidding about that. I mean, I wasn’t even the one who brought the term “sour vomit” into the conversation. I honestly kind of wish they’d just change the name of the shakes to “Sour Vomit Frosty Shake” instead of “Chocolate Frosty Shake” so the customers are at least informed about what they’re ordering.

I actually ended up receiving an email from Wendy’s within 24 hours (and on a Sunday!) of writing that letter. The manager of our Wendy’s assured us the Sour Vomit is actually not the intended flavor of their chocolate shakes and offered us a full refund and replacement Frosty’s of our choice. I must give credit where credit is due and say that I’m amazed at the speed of their customer service department’s response. Good job, Wendy’s!

Ivylish: Well, we did say that God is the ultimate everything. So…

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…

And then I let a baby chick get to second base without even buying me coffee first.

We have new chickens. Of course, right? Because what do I need more than an extra 11 mouths to feed around here? Nothing, I tell you. The thing is it was all my idea. I just love these chickens. (In case you can’t tell, that last part was not sarcasm. Promise.)

When I got this wild idea to get more chickens my patient husband indulged me. I’d seen these Frizzles at this wonderful farm we’ve gotten quite a few red hens from and really thought it would be fun to add them to our chicken flock in the backyard. So, we did. And that is when it got interesting.

Before we picked up the trio (2 hens & 1 rooster) one of the hen’s hatched some eggs. Which meant we also got 8 precious little baby chicks. I love baby chicks. But they do make me nervous. They’re so tiny and seem so fragile that I’m always worried about what tragedy could befall them.

And this is why when Kai came running over to me screaming bloody murder I knew what had happened. One of the baby chicks had fallen into the water bowl. High drama ensued.

It was a horrible site. The soggy little chick was soaking wet and lying pitifully in her hand. It was listless. It was opening and closing its mouth in a some horrible death rattle. You have no idea.

If you were anywhere within, oh, 10 miles of our house yesterday I’m sure you could hear my kids screaming “SAAAAAAVVVEEEE IT!!! IT’S DYYYYYYYIIIINNNG!!”

I mean, what could I do in the face of that, right? I did the only thing I could.

Kai tried to give it back to its mom. But she wanted nothing to do with it. So I crawled on my hands and knees into this tiny little coop in a dress and snatched this little chick up.

(On a related note, I am not the only one who is thankful that I am still wearing full-bottom maternity panties 12 months post-partum. You’re welcome, elderly backyard neighbors.)

I wrapped the baby chick in a towel and proceeded to warm it with my breath. Which means I was actually putting my mouth up against its feathers and blowing hot air all over its tiny shivering lifeless body. My mouth. On feathers.

{shudder}

And I was praying. Oh how I was praying.

The warming up seemed to be working. Or maybe it was the prayer but either way the little guy seemed to be doing a bit better. I just couldn’t get it warm enough.

And then I did the only other thing I could think of.

I. Put. A. Baby. Chick. In. My. Bra.

Oh, yes I did. I stuck that little guy right between my, well, you know. It layed there. And got warm. And strong. And 30 minutes later it joined its brothers & sisters and lived happily ever after.

Because apparently my boobs are magical. Which I think is pretty darn awesome.

Let it never be said that I am not an animal lover. Or that good cleavage isn’t a thing of value.

Because I am. And it is.

Have you ever wondered what would happen if Shrek and Yoda had a baby together?

There is an important lesson here. Never let a blogger bake your Yoda cake. At least not this blogger.

My husband loved it because he is contractually obligated to. The kids, on the other hand, were less kind. Still, what it lacked in looks it made up for in taste. So at least that’s something.

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Ivy-lish: The lisp will get you every time

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…

Um…really?

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