Sweet Boy#2 and Sweet Boy#3 were caught arguing about whether fairness was measured in kilometers or milliliters. Once someone discovers whether fairness is a liquid or a distance, please let us know. Inquiring minds wish to know!
I was talking about how fruitful something was. Sweet Boy#2 informed me: “I am fruitful in mischievous ways!” On that, I must agree.
Princess Leia Freyja laid a trap for me with abandoned avocado. “That seems unlikely,” you might think. And yet, she did. Now earlier I had made a lovely breakfast of eggs on toast with strips of avocado placed beautifully on top. As I was sipping my coffee and preparing to dive into this early morning feast, Princess Leia swooped in. With one mighty slurp she collected every single slice of avocado and snorked it down. This foolishly led me to believe that she liked avocado. The next time I had slightly bruised avocado bits, I put them into her dish. She refused to eat them. Not only that, but when we were away and she grew hungry, she somehow felt that she could not consume her dog food with the avocado on top. She plucked up the avocado and carried it into the hallway, where she set it down. Later, I came blithely into the living room, thinking that it was safe to traverse. I slipped on something greasy and green and almost fell. The avocado!
Sweet Boy#3 corrects my grammar (as I am always correcting his) and then wraps that up by exclaiming: “You’re a confused old prune!”
Sweet Boy#3 later expects assistance from this wrinkled old prune when he asks: “Can you help me (put on socks), I’m really tired and my hands have been weakened by sleep.”
Sweet Boy#2–Wakes up at 5:00 am on a Monday morning to bake us homemade eclairs!
Sweet Boy#3–Shouts out “Think fast!” and throws his ipod to me … which promptly whacks me in the head.
Sweet Boy#2–I ask my middle son if he has been licking peanut butter off the floor (I can’t remember why, but I’m sure there was a reason) and he explains: “I’m Leia’s apprentice!”
Sweet Boy#2–Gasps and looks around in his pocket after he jumps into the creek. “I’m sure glad I didn’t have those chicken fingers in my pocket! I ate them in math class.” Apparently, math class is right after lunch and … well, there really is no sane way to explain why the heck he might transport chicken fingers in his pockets to math rather than simply eating them off a tray in the lunch room. Who knows the mind of a twelve-year old boy?
Both Sweet Boy#2 and Sweet Boy#3 have one arm broken off their glasses, which they must wear until the replacements arrive.
When I was a teen, I assured myself that I would never “freak out” like my parents if my own responsible teen got a hold of the blue food coloring and attacked her hair. Well, perhaps they had solid reasons for expressing disapproval of my lovely blue locks. Sweet Boy#2 came home from school with a greasy, matted, oozy, mop of orange and gunk upon his head. “Your hair seems, especially dirty.” I said. “Remember, you can only choose your own style if you keep it tidy and clean.” Sweet Boy#2 promptly informed me that: “Nasty is a style!” Yep, he had colored his hair and chin with orange marker and rubbed deodorant into his hair. Why, oh why, did I not consider that a shocked parental response is delightful to my son and that if a shaggy cut or bright color doesn’t accomplish it, the next step is deodorant in the hair? Although, deodorant? I don’t know that anyone could have foreseen that.