I had to get the hell out of West Palm Beach. I'm frayed. I'm done. The fight or flight instinct had been pushed to flight.
I promised the boys I'd take them to see their cousin, The Great Flambina. It's a 9 hour drive, so I literally drove up for 9 hours, we played with the baby for a couple days, and I drove back.
I've been in full sensory overload for too long, much that is not blogged here, much coming that I cannot blog on, and 9 hours alone with my thoughts while the boys slept or played video games was a good thing. (No, my marriage is not in trouble.) Part of my issue is that I'm not running anymore. I know that about me, when I'm stressed I need to run and I haven't done anything since 31 October.
It's taking it's toll.
I will say... I love my niece so much, it breaks my heart. I miss her like I am missing a piece of my soul. I didn't think it was possible.
I took a nap with her... and it was the first time I'd slept with a baby since Bones was 3. I think it's the best nap I've had in 7 years. Inhaling her as I slept, feeling her light little body sighing next to mine, hearing her tiny baby noises... took probably 90% of my stress away.
That 1 hour did for me what weeks of running would not.
I cannot wait until June when I see her again.
I will post some pictures later... pictures I took on my cell phone. God Love Her.
So on a funny note, keeping things in perspective again as to what is important...
We were driving home today and stopped by Wendy's for lunch. I loathe fast food, but I was hungry and we had to eat.
We got our order to the asexual mom-mobile, opened it up and we were living in the land of 'almost perfect'.
I sighed and said, "Not sure how they didn't quite get this right... whatever".
And from the back of my car, I heard Mr. T say, "Mom, the folks working at Wendys aren't working on rockets. They're working there for a reason..."
I laughed, ate my sandwich and we drove away.
I got to McDonald's a few hours later as I needed coffee. I don't drink a lot of coffee, but I heard McDonald's has good coffee and I knew I needed some to make the rest of the trip.
Me, at the drive thru: I'd like a small cup of coffee please.
McD: Would you like cream and sugar?
Me: Yes, please.
McD: How many?
Me: Ummm... 3 cream and a handful of sugars.
McD: How many sugar?
Sidenote: I DO NOT DRINK COFFEE. So I don't know how strong THEIR coffee is, how big their container is, how much of anything I'll need. And I'm a WIMP. I hate black coffee.
Me: I don't know. Just a handful.
McD: You want it all on the side?
Me: YES! That would be GREAT! Thank you!
I looked at the screen and it said, "3 creamers, 10 sugar" I thought, WTF? 10? Really? But... hey, I said on the side, so did it matter?
I got to the window, the guy handed me a cup.
Me: I need cream and sugar.
McD-man: I put it in there
Me: *blink* what?
McD-man: I put it in there.
Me: Wait. I asked for it ALL on the side. Are you kidding? You filled that coffee cup with 10 sugars? Really?
McD-man: Yes... she didn't tell me on the side. I need to make you a new one.
20 seconds later, McD-man: We need to make you a new pot. It's going to take about 3-5 minutes.
Me: *big sigh* Seriously, no thanks. I just want my money back. It was $1.27.
I got it back and left. As I pulled out, I heard Mr. T say in the back, "They don't work on rockets, Mom... there is a reason they work at McDonald's."
I sighed again and said, "You are right. It's no big deal. It's just coffee and I just want to get home..."
We got to a rest stop 2 hours later, I needed gas and the boys needed to eat.
They got food and I stopped by the Dunkin' Doughnuts located in the turnpike reststop to get coffee.
Me: Small cup of coffee please, and I need cream and sugar, but will put it in MYSELF.
DD woman: Ok. You can get it all from behind you at the counter.
She handed me my cup and it when I opened it, it was FILLED to the brim, no room for anything.
I sat there staring at it.
Me: Seriously, this is starting to suck.
Bones: You know what you're going to do, Mom? You're going to pour out what you don't need right here in the garbage can so you can add cream and sugar.
I stood there, because in MY world, you do not pour liquids into a garbage can. In the world of Bones' anything is possible.
Me: You're right...
And I poured an inch into the garbage can, filled up what I needed with skim milk and sugar, and behind me I heard Mr. T say, "They aren't working on rockets, Mom. This is why they work at Dunkin' Doughnuts..."
I'd forgotten a lot about babies. Babies who are 14 months, will flat wear you out.
So for a basic rundown:
Raisins do not digest.
Chickpeas do not either.
I don't miss poopy diapers.
I have never heard of a baby's first word being... Balloon, pronounced Bah---oon. Yet, I have witnessed it.
All other words are a variation of balloon... only 'B' words.
With the exception of airplane. It's "ahhh". Her obsession of airplanes is endearing to me. She ignores birds, but is quick to point out any airplane she hears... immediately.
My boys with their niece warm my heart. Ringo carries her everywhere he can and if she's not in a bad mood where she only wants Mo or me, she happily goes with him everywhere...
... in particular if he has Rice Krispy Treats.
I don't think I recall a baby being so young to insist on doing something by herself. We took her for her first ice cream at Dairy Queen, my boys' favorite place, and she insisted she had to feed herself. What a mess...
Only a baby can get away with wearing a fleece with bear ears, let alone a pink fleece with bear ears.
Babies don't walk, they stomp. I call her Frankenbaby.
My boys are in love. They asked for another baby in the family. Right. Factory is closed... my body is beat and worn... and I don't have the energy level.
They can have their own... and I will arrive to love on them whenever needed.
Starting in 1992 my job was assisting in the fielding the C-17 airlifter. It was one of the best jobs I had... I absolutely loved it. I'd worked fighter aircraft previously, and wasn't sure how I'd like the airlift community. Not only was their mission unfamiliar to me, but I was a bit clueless with their structure within the USAF.
I spent a lot of time in the field and writing various studies. I traveled to bases that flew the C-141, the aircraft that was to be replaced by the C-17, as well as SAC HQ. I was grilled by the GAO for numbers I'd produced that pissed someone off, spent an inordinate amount of time with maintenance crews doing engine teardowns both commercial and military, and ate in some excellent restaurants as the philosophy of the guys I traveled with was 'Eat Your Per Diem'.
And it was during these trips that I met my co-worker I wrote of in my previous post and we had some seriously funny things happen during all those years. Probably, of all the teams I've worked on, the C-17 team was my favorite.
Our first trip to SAC HQ was a bust, but this was my first trip with my former co-worker, who I'll call... Steve.
I was new to traveling, all of 26 years old and had only been on the job for a year. We were to go from West Palm Beach to Atlanta to St. Louis.
We got to Atlanta, the guys had a beer, and I guess I was in my own little world. I was BIG energy back then. The old me makes the now me look nearly dead.
And as I bounced back to rejoin the guys after they'd had their beer, Steve, a low energy former USAF Master Chief, said to me in his slow southern drawl, "Bou, I do believe they just called your name over the intercom". And sure enough... there was my name.
I went to the airport counter to retrieve my message from Wright Patt that our meeting had been canceled. I sat down to tell the guys. They were more along the lines of "Hey, we got a beer out of it", but that wasn't on my mind.
I blurted out, 'Crap! My birth control pills are on their way to St. Louis!"
Who in the world packs their medications in check in?
Steve said quietly and slowly, 'Weelll... I guess y'all will have to be careful this month, huh?"
I was horrified by my stupidity...and this introductory trip with me, probably set our tone.
Two weeks later we finally made it to St. Louis. The meeting lasted... one hour.
By 9AM, even with a tour of SAC HQ finished, the entire trip, in my mind was over.
And in all my greenness and eagerness, I told my two co-workers, we had enough time to get back to West Palm and get a couple hours of work in.
My two coworkers looked at me like I was nuts. Steve said, "We're going sight seeing..." to which I replied, "NO! NO WAY! We can't go sight seeing! We need to get back!" My other coworker shook the keys at me and said, "No... I have the keys and you're stuck. We're sight seeing..."
And so we did. We went all over St. Louis and we had a fantastic time. We went to the old courthouse, old churches, museums, a great little place for lunch, and we laughed and cut up the entire time.
I will admit though, intermittently throughout the trip, I kept saying, 'Guys, seriously, we should be back at work!" They would pretend I didnt' say a word.
The big thing we all wanted to do was the St. Louis Arch. You don't go sightseeing in St. Louis and not go to the Arch.
The three of us stood in line... waiting our turn. I kept saying, "I can't believe we're doing this", we continued with our bantering, when we got to the front of the line.
In the front we stood, waiting for the doors to open, and as we waited, the doors finally opened and out walked... my boss on vacation with his family.
The three of us just stood there incredulously. My boss looked at us and then at me and said, 'Bou, what in the world are YOU doing here?"
We got in our little cart, and if I recall it was pretty squishy, the two guys laughing hysterically, my head hung low saying, "I didn't even KNOW they were coming here on vacation!! WHAT WAS THE PROBABILITY OF THAT HAPPENING?"
To which Steve, laughing himself silly said to me, "Bou, I Can't quit laughing. That would ONLY happen to YOU!"
And so that's my story. That's the story I should be sharing with Steve's son, and not with you. But Steve's son isn't here anymore.
All those who know me know... I'm the only person who can play hookie from work, nearly half way across the country, and run into their boss.
Seriously... what was the probability?
I did something this week that I think I've not done before. I copped out on going to a funeral. I go the funerals for the living. I think they're more important than weddings.
A co-worker of mine from my past, his son passed a week ago. I have no idea what happened, but I know he was an upstanding successful businessman with two beautiful children.
He was 3 months younger than I.
I've been wrestling with this since I found out last week. I'm not sure on what level it's bothering me since I only met the guy a few times. As it turns out, his oldest and my youngest were on the same soccer team one Spring. It was funny to see my former co-worker as a grandfather.
The craziest story I ever had while working at Company X happened with this co-worker. It's a story everyone who knows me still laughs about and when it occurred (blog fodder for another day), in his heavy southern drawl, my co-worker said to me, 'Bou, I can't quit laughing. This would ONLY happen to YOU."
And so when I heard his son died, I was asked if I was going to go to the funeral and the vision of seeing my old buddy there, with his young grandchildren, with his son in the casket was more than my heart could take.
Sometimes a voice will pop into your head, like an engine warning light on your dashboard, and it will say, "This is beyond your coping mechanisms. Back off..."
And when the voice says that, it is best to listen.
I'm still... shaking my head trying to make it go away. I didn't know this guy, but yet I'm so affected by his death. I have read his obit 20 times. I keep thinking of his babies, the eldest probably 10? And his Dad... the natural order of things has been disturbed.
I just couldn't cope with witnessing it.
May God keep those babies in the palms of His hands and see them through this. My heart breaks.
I've been in Hydrangea Hell as I ran the band hydrangea sale today. The plants will be in full bloom for Easter and they are going to be gorgeous.
If I don't kill mine first, it should be beautiful.
The truck was two hours late, an hour into the wait, when I called the nursery, they informed me they had some truck problems. I'm unsure why they didn't call me.
I had some issues with the invoicing which was taken care of, but not very nicely by one of their employees over the phone. (I suspect the employee is the mother of the owner...)
Each time I call I am polite and try to find a way to be accomodating while I do business with them.
By my calculations, today brought in a $800 PROFIT FOR THEM. From growing, to watering, to potting, to delivering, that was probably it.
Who sneezes at that kind of cash? I don't. My husband doesn't.
Yet I find them to be more and more difficult to do business with. How hard would it have been to pick up the phone when they realized they weren't getting underway? And did the woman really need to argue with me when I said we were missing ONE plant and needed to take it off the invoice? (I wanted to sell that plant. This is a fundraiser!!!) Or did she need to argue with me when I said I had a written quote per plant and her invoice numbers were too high?
Because I suspect there are other nurseries that would do business with me.
I may be on the lookout for one. I'm going to talk to the owner first... and if it's not satisfactory, I'm finding a new nursery.
But the plants are beautiful.
They really are...
I love hydrangeas.
Sidenote, one of my co-workers said to me today as I went to work while waiting on the truck fiasco to resolve, 'You know what the problem is? You do too much volunteer work. I've never seen anyone do as much volunteer work as you do."
Interesting take. It would definitely eliminate a lot of the stress in my life if I just... got rid of it all. Most definitely...
While we are on the topic of things that have been horrifying me lately, allow me to tell you a story of a couple weeks ago.
Bones is being bullied by a boy in school, who we shall call... Ian. Ian is a big boy, probably the biggest boy in the grade and Bones is a very little boy, one of the smallest.
The bullying has been nasty remarks, mostly regarding Bones' size. The problem is... it just won't stop. No matter what Bones does, the kid will not stop making nasty remarks.
The teachers are now aware and we're monitoring the situation.
But a few weeks back, "Ian" did something mean to Bones at lunch, stole his seat, making Bones look like the bad guy, until another kid came to Bones' defense and Ian got in trouble.
While walking back to class, Ian told Bones' friend, Mike, that he was going to tell Bones what a 'd-word' he was.
And this is, no kidding, nearly exactly the conversation between Bones and me.
Bones: And as Ian was walking back, he told Mike he was going to call me the D word.
Me: D word?
Me: *blink* D word? Dope? Dummy? Dork?
Bones: No. The other one.
Me: Damn? He was going to call you a Damn? That's kind of an adjective...
Bones: No... the other one.
T is being very quiet.
Me: Dude. I don't know any other D words. We covered them.
I am at an absolute LOSS.
Bones: Douche. He was going to call me a douche.
And at that point, I 'd'amn near drove off the road and I think my breathing got shallow.
What the hell? Who uses that word?! That is NASTY! I was PISSED!
I told my husband, "If Bones asks me what a douche is, I'm marching him right into the Principal's office so the Principal can explain it to him, RIGHT AFTER I tell him where Bones heard it. I'm DONE."
That is the nastiest word. And Bones never asked.
But I said something to his teacher and you know what her reply was? "That's what 5th graders call each other."
And that makes it OK?
Tell me, what would the school think if kids went around calling each other F***heads, because in my mind, that's about as bad. I bet that would come to a QUICK stop.
We knew it would not be easy with Bones. We knew the sex talk thing was going to go sideways eventually.
I just didn't know when.
How far sideways.
What to expect.
Which is what makes it so fun for you, my readers, right? Not so fun for me.
I think I nearly stroked today.
And I've spent the last 5 hours trying to figure out how to write it, how much detail, and how to put it out here with my not being near as dang uncomfortable putting it out here as it was when it happened, because quite frankly, I think I'm damaged.
And if you get uncomfortable reading it, up that 1000 fold and you're living my life.
And herein sits the problem. If they ask the question, I answer it. I just always expect them to be the normal questions: 'how does it work?', 'how'd that baby get out of there?', and of course the classic 'you did that for us?' questions.
I never expected to hear questions regarding positions or... homosexual sex.
That's not in my parent handbook, the handbook I seem to be creating on the fly.
And so I'm retelling this, leaving out pieces because I just can't bring myself to go into too much detail, me who comes across as so bold, but still prefers to refer to body parts with my children as 'weenies and hoo hoos' on normal days, using real terms during sex talks, but I'm sorry... I'm not typing that stuff out.
Bones got in the car today and something came up about the sex talk again. He was irritated with some survey he had to fill out before the talk, a survey wondering what they wanted to know. Were they comfortable with their body? Did they understand the body changes that were about to happen? Etc, etc.
(It turns out their 'sex talk' was NOT a 'sex talk', but only talked about puberty. Bones thinks they were 'way too hung up on body hair'.)
He said he didn't like his height and weight. Those are the least of MY worries.
And so I opened the door to more questions, it just being him and me, and I figured it was as good a time as any. I found out that at dismissal, all the boys were huddled together talking about sex.
Most of this conversation took place through the rear view mirror, which I think hid the fits of choking I was trying to hold back.
Me: Sex. As in the act?
Me: Ok. So they were talking about the parts and how everything fits together?
Bones: Yes. Exactly. There are four ways.
Me: *blink* Wait. Aren't you glad I told you about all this though, so you didn't learn it from them?
Bones: Yup. There are four ways.
Now... I'm about to have a kitten. Four ways? What does that mean? Are they talking oral sex, etc? Really? In 5th grade? Do they mean 4 positions? Really? In 5th grade?
Me: Four ways. Hunh. *taking a gamble* Well, there is only one way the parts fit together...
Bones: Yeah, but different ways you can make them fit.
Me, trying to act all cool, but wanting to vomit: AHHH! You mean positions. Yes, but there are many of those *wtf was I thinking, potentially egging him on?*
Bones: Yeah. I don't know what those four are...
Me, quietly praying he doesn't want to know about missionary, versus doggy, versus reverse cowgirl because I'm about to stroke, or so I thought, little did I know it would get worse: Yeah, don't worry about that stuff. You only need to know the basics.
Bones: I know that mah***
and that is about where I started to black out. He used the word. THE word came out of my 10 year old's mouth. I can't even type it. mah... mah... mast...
But he said it.
Bones, continuing: masturbation is one.
Me, feeling blood vessels pop: Yes, that could I guess be considered one, but you can't conceive a baby that way.
And so there were more questions that I will not expand upon here, that I proceeded to act very cool about, very calm, explained a few things... and I thought... we were in... the free and clear.
I was wrong.
Bones: Oh yeah, that's the way gay men have sex.
Me, definitely feeling chest restriction: *blink*
I'm a pretty laid back person when it comes to society and sex. In my mind, I care not what anyone does behind closed doors as long as it involves consenting adults. Move into the realm of non-consenting adults, children or animals and I'm a firm believer that a single bullet to the head would eliminate any possibility that situation would arise again.
But other than that? I truly don't care.
But... I never in my wildest dreams expected my 10 year old could POSSIBLY ask me how homosexuals get it on.
And as open as I am, that crossed the realm of both my comfort zone and capabilities.
Back to Bones...
Me: Well, yes.
Bones (Note:this is the sanitized version so I don't black out. Read into it what you want): Because their body parts are the same and they're not going to fit.
Me, deep breaths: Yes.
Bones: So that is what they must do.
Me: Absolutely. Yes. They do that.
Bones: They can't have babies either, because...
Bones: And two girls?
Me, seeing stars, and praying to Sweet Mother Mary he is NOT going to ask about female mahhh... mahhh... masst... (you get it): *deep breath and hedging my bets* Cannot have a baby either. They need sperm.
Bones: Right. OK. That makes sense.
And that was that.
On a sidenote, he did ask me as we got out of the car if I had any gay friends. I told him that I do in fact. He took that information in as I explained one should not be judged by color, religion or what they do behind closed doors. That last one is none of our business.
I just don't want any more questions on how they do it. I don't think I can take it... actually I know I can't. Good Lord.
For those keeping up with Hoops this month, I've been filling in my brackets. It's the only time I follow Bball.
First, what in the heck is a Gonzaga? Am I the ONLY person who has never heard of this school?
I'm rooting for Cornell against Kentucky. Wouldn't that be cool to see them take it all the way?
I think the Duke Purdue game is going to be a rumble.
I'm rooting for Xavier because I like the name.
I think I'd like to see St. Mary's take Baylor, although I do think St. Mary's sounds like an all girls Prep school. Do they wear plaid jumpers when they play?
That's all for my expert commentary on basketball. I know. I should work for Fox Sports...
I'm trying desperately to keep my mind off of what Congress and our President have just done to our Country.
I'm trying not to think of the fact they have single handedly thrown us into a downward spiral that will bankrupt this Nation on the backs of my children.
And the IRS. No longer will it be the Tax Man Cometh, but the Insurance Police Cometh. I keep picturing that Executioner guy from the comic Wizard of Id, that would go door to door with the Tax Man.
And nothing will happen... nothing is going to happen to the people who voted on this POS that sold us all down the river and is about to destroy us.
The guys I voted for didn't vote for this. I'm not in a precinct to vote anyone out that offered up their vote. And the Americans will forget. The collective memory is so short, come November, I fear there will be NO retaliation.
We are stuck.
It is a feeling of hopelessness... it is.
And so... some thoughts that aren't about politics and the demise of this great Country, a Country so far in debt that we can not possibly be considered with any great seriousness in this World.
It is best we all learn Chinese...
My father in law came to dinner tonight. He brought with him a Panettone. Evidently this is something that can only be acquired about 40 minutes south of us from some Italian Bakery (no kidding, it is SHIPPED from Italy), so he and his buddy trekked down to purchase said sweet bread.
I'd never had it before. They told me it was like raisin bread, but it appeared to be raisin bread on steroids as I'm not sure what kind of loaf pan they bake it in, but it's huge.
Think HUGE CUBE of bread.
The boys were sitting at the table laughing. Pop's back was to me. I took a bite thinking raisin bread and... it's not.
I don't care what Pop says, it's not raisin bread. The look on my face threw them into fits of laughter, which of course made me play it up more.
I'm not sure how to describe Panettone except perhaps it is a cross between a Challa bread and old fashioned American Fruit cake.
I ate my hunk of bread and thanked them profusely, but honestly, I've been sick to my stomach ever since, but I suspect it's because of Congress more so than I've eaten something I normally don't eat in my diet. (I still don't eat white flour products.)
Jerry at Back Home Again had a cool idea of looking at your Census Footprint.
As he puts it, where were you on those zero years? So here we go... (assuming it is always March of the Zero year...)
1960 Not born. Hell, my folks weren't even married.
1970: Going on 5 years old, living in Mayport, FL. Shoot. Mom wasn't even pregnant with Mo yet! I had one brother, going on 3. TGOO was on the USS Saratoga, my best little girlfriend's Dad was on the Kitty Hawk. The things that don't show up in a Census...
1980 Freshman in high school, 14 years old, Pensacola, FL. One brother, one sister. We'd just moved back Stateside from Taiwan the year before.
1990 24 years old, single, graduated from college, working for Company X in West Palm Beach, and dating my husband.
2000 34 years old, married, three boys, aged 5 yr, 3 yr and 10 mo, still working parttime but just weeks away from being laid off (thankfully) due to the plant closing. My MIL had just died... so she didn't even make this Census. Dang. I'd not thought of that. Pop had to put down Single. That had to suck.
2010 44 years old, married, three boys 15, 13, 10. Working parttime again... but happy about it, subcontracting for the same company that closed locally 10 years previously.
In 2020... I'll be 54, and all my boys will be nearly out of college. Dang. I still won't be in the free and clear!!! Hopefully nobody will be living here, however. Hopefully my Census will just say two in this household.
As it should be. Not that I'm counting or anything...
Am I the only one who finds other kids' clothes in their home?
Thursday, we were looking for a Class B shirt for Scouts for Mr. T. I went into Ringo's room where he was sorting through his drawers. I found one in the bottom of a drawer.
Ringo: It's not ours. It's Sean's.
Me: What are we doing with SEAN'S Class B?
Ringo: He has mine.
Me: And? Are we going to swap back?
Ringo: I dunno. I guess I should call him.
I threw it to T to wear.
Flash forward to today. I was going through clean laundry in the basket, looking for a shirt for Ringo as he had spent the night at a friend's home spontaneously and I was going to take him clean clothes during my day's travels. (Sidenote: Does my oldest son own any t-shirts that aren't black, have a picture of a skull or a bloody handprint, with a band name that doesn't illicit visions of death? I think not... for I did not see one.)
I picked up a pair of shorts. I held them up as 1) I'd never seen them before and 2) they came down to my shins.
Me: Whose are these?
Bones: Oh those are Peter's.
Me: Peter's? What in the heck are they doing here?
Bones: He left them here. I'm seeing him tonight at the sleepover. I'll take it back to him.
Continuing on, I found a shirt that was NOT black, did NOT have a skull or bloody handprint, and did NOT have a name of a band illiciting visions of death.
Me: This is not ours.
Bones: No. That's Michael's. He lives down the street. I'll ride my bike over and get it to him when he's back from vacation.
I have found strange underwear in my home (boy's I should add for clarification!), bathing suits, shoes (who forgets their SHOES?), towels, socks, and a rashguard shirt, whose owner we were never able to determine, so it became ours.
Am I the only Mother who perpetually finds and washes other kid's clothes in their home? What IS this ABOUT?! Sheesh.
I've been telling my boys lately, individually, how each of them is so lucky to have the other two as brothers. I pointed out the positives in each of their siblings as well as telling them how bad it really COULD be.
Overall my boys get along pretty well, but sometimes, as with all siblings, things can go not so well.
I ended the conversation with each, bringing out examples of other sets of siblings we know that 'could have just as well been their sibling, and then what?' The younger two were both saying, "Oh yeah, he would be awful to have as a brother!" as I brought up names. I know, it's not nice, but it hammered home some real points to them.
Love what you have; there are always others that could make life TRULY miserable.
But my eldest's take was much different, and this was pretty much the conversation as it wound down.
Me: Hey. You could have Peter as your brother. He's very whiney.
Ringo: That's because of his family and the divorce, and how he's treated by his parents. He only whines when he's told NO because he's not used to hearing it. Everyone always tells him yes.
Me: Well, there is Bill. He would bug the crap out of you...
Ringo: You'd never have tolerated his behavior. He'd not be like that in our family...
Me: OK, fine. What about Dom. Can you imagine having Dom as your brother?
Ringo: Mom, please. Can you imagine what he'd be like if YOU were his Mom? He'd be nothing like that. Besides, he doesn't really have a Dad and I think that's most of his problem. If he was in our family, he'd not be who he is.
Me: So basically what you're telling me is that if *I* was any of these kids' Mom, they'd be better people?
Ringo: Yeah. Basically...
So there you go. I have a teenager who thinks I'm a good Mom. That's cool.
And... all names of all kids have been changed. I never use real names. It wouldn't be nice.
This very well may be, the funniest dang post I've read in a long long time.
Go HERE to Eric's. If you read him, you may have read this. If you don't read him, and you need a laugh, you need to click on over.
First, it is obvious to me now why he calls his mother, "My Sainted Mother".
Second, three boys is NOTHING compared to One Eric.
Third... I'd have had a stroke!
Sidenote to my Dad: Dad... go read it. It has the makings of something that will make you laugh... boy stuff, Deep South, and stuff you just flat can't make up.
We were in the asexual Mom-mobile this afternoon, coming home from various music lessons. On the radio was an upbeat Irish sounding tune and when glancing at the radio, I noticed the name of the band was "Flogging Molly".
"What a great name for a band!" I said to my eldest boy... and the following conversation ensued to the best of my recollection.
Ringo: Yeah, they're a great band. They're going to be playing at SunFest you know?
I hate SunFest. I hate the crowds, the problem with parking, the crowds, the heat, the crowds.
Me: No way. Really?
Me: Hunh. I may have to go... You know, I could come up with a band name equally good for you. How about Punching Sean?
Ringo: No... please.
Me: Punt Puppies.
Bones: What is a punt puppy?
Explanation as to what a punt puppy is, ensued.
Me: You could call it... Punting Bones!
Me: Wait! I have it! Whipping Walter.
Remember this post..., I pronounce the WH when saying words such as what, when, where, and whip. It makes Ringo bat crap crazy.
Ringo: NO! NO! You did it again. Whhhhipping Walter. NO. It's WIP. WIP!
Me: It's a GREAT name and you know it!
Ringo: NO! You'd make everyone pronounce it like you do and it would make me nuts! I'd NEVER let you buy a CD! Never.
The fight continues over the pronunciation of words and I'm still bent as hell on coming up with a name for his band, even if Whhhipping Walter was a joke.
For your enjoyment... Flogging Molly. Gotta love a Drunk Irishman on a skateboard...
Happy St. Patrick's Day!
I'm putting this out there, because *I* personally find it so dang amusing. We keep laughing at work.
I have never laid eyes upon most of the guys I work with at Company X. They're up in the Great White North and I'm down here in FL and via phone and email is how we communicate.
Our assistant, whose cube is across from me, and I play this game of 'What do you think he looks like?"
It all started a couple years ago when some guys in IT at Company X, not only googled my name to see what I look like, but readily admitted it.
I hung up the phone and said, "Ev, they frickin' looked me up!"
Ev: Wait. They googled you?
Ev: And... they ADMITTED it?
Me: YES! Dopey IT guys. They didn't even think to be embarrassed in the least!
And so it started that she and I play this game. It is based PURELY on voice. We have absolutely nothing else to go on. Our curiosity is such, if we meet someone from Company X, we'll ask them with great animation and curiosity, "SO! What does Joe Bag of Doughnuts look like?"
I've noticed that most of the guys, if they have an animated voice, I make about 5'10" and lean. If they're whiny, I put them as schlumpy. It's just the trend I'm seeing.
And that brings us to today's conversation. I strongly suspect only those of you who work in the aersospace business are going to find this funny.
What the hell.
Background: I'm doing augmentor duct work for one of the lead engineers at Company X. Each lead engineer has a different section of the aircraft. This conversation is written out exactly as *I* heard it, not as it was meant.
Ev: I got this email from Malik.
Me: I'm working that big panic job for him. It's high priority. I'm going insane.
Ev: What do you think he looks like?
Me: Mmmm... 5'8" to 5'10". Dark hair, lean. 30ish. Middle Eastern looking. Dark. No glasses.
Ev: Wow. You've been far more generous in your mind than I was in mine.
Male voice of a co-worker I didn't know was at her cube: Turbine?
Me, peeking around the corner: No. Augmentor Ducts.
Male: *pause* *Ev has bent around the corner and is laughing* NOoo... *swirling his hand around his head* TurBAN.
Me: OH! Turban! No. No turban.
And at that, everyone in the office busted out laughing and it's become the big joke now.
We're geeky. It amuses me.
My eldest son mow's our lawn with a John Deere riding lawn mower. We live on an acre and it takes him about an hour and a half. He's getting better and better, but it's still a big mower and he's still 5'2 and 115 pounds.
A few weeks ago he was out mowing in the back and he got close to our screened in patio. I watched as he came up along side it to get the grass next to the small paver walkeway that abutts it, when I saw he got stuck. I stood in our kitchen, the slider to the porch was open, and watched as he tried to maneuver out of his jam.
He threw it in reverse, hit the gas, and *LURCH* it snagged backwards and I watched his body jolt.
I raised my eyebrows and continued to watch as he put it in idle and sat there looking at something, intense expression on his face combined with horror.
I slowly walked out the sliding door to see what had happened, to see him look up at me.
Me? I was amused and questioning what exactly had been done.
To him? I was probably a figure hulking in the doorway.
He sat there with a deer in the headlights look as I stepped out and said, "What happened?"
Ringo: I got stuck in the grass, put it in reverse and it bounced back.
Ringo: I hit the cement post here and... I tore the screen in the bottom corner.
I walked over to look and sure enough, the corner had ripped out.
Me: How bad is the cement post?
Ringo: Other than the big tire mark that is screaming that I hit it? It's fine.
Me: Hunh. We need to get this fixed.
Ringo: You're not going to tell Dad?
Me: Hell no. Do you think for a minute I want to hear him carry on? Phht. No. This is your Boy Scout project for your Family Life badge where you have to do something with a family member. You and I are going to fix the screen and he'll be none the wiser.
Ringo: Do you know how to fix it?
Me: No clue.
Ringo: *big pause* Maybe you could ask the guys you work with. They seem to know everything about stuff like this...
Me: Yup. I'll ask them and we'll figure it out. Don't sweat it.
Flash forward to today in the car.
Ringo: Mom. We have to fix the screen.
Me: I know. The guys at work told me what I need to do and I found it on the internet. I'm just waiting for your Dad to go out of town... Has he noticed?
Ringo: Not really. But let's just say he's starting to wonder why the porch is getting so dirty and where all the crap is starting to come from.
I just found out that my husband has a class on Saturday. Guess what Ringo and I will be doing???
I'm back from a physically and mentally taxing trip. I didn't plan on it being a fun trip, and it really wasn't.
The food was not so good. It was hit or miss and I'm not sure who planned the menus, but I need to find out so I can tell them, raw asparagus truly does suck. I said to the women at my table, upon the first 'crunch', as I absolutely could not believe, they were REALLY serving us raw aspargus, "I have never had it right out of the ground before!"
I had a roommate. Typically I go to these meetings and do my own thing. I need the down time from my family, but times are tight and so I offered up the other bed to a girlfriend of mine.
She snores. I had no clue.
Fortunately, I was so beat every night, I didn't care.
And I stood in front of 300 women at a meeting, and went against the establishment, spoke against something I thought was wrong. I turned the tide and all but 13 women sided with me come voting time.
People stopped me later and said it took a tremendous amount of guts to do what I did and I told them, "I have a moral compass I have to live by. I have to look at myself in the morning. This went against it, so I had to speak up."
But deep inside my soul, I wonder now, "Why would these people not speak up for what is right?" I made some serious enemies... but do you think I care?
I did what was right.
I worry for this country at times. This end of this Country will be "Death by Lemming".
Mark my words.
I'm not on this weekend as I'm out of town. I do have things to blog about, but just not the time... I mean, look at the timestamp. I just finished packing.
I have some ugly business to handle this weekend in an organization I'm in, and I strongly suspect I'm on the losing side. I'm up for the fight, but... we'll see.
As for the Variety Show that was tonight, let me just say that Bones is absolutely one of the funniest kids around and it was confirmed tonight. I was laughing so hard at times I was crying, people behind me were laughing, by the end, Bones would get on stage and people would break out in laughter with his just standing there.
That is truly all it took. Bones gets on the stage and Bwhahahahahaha!
I had many many people say to me, "I want to take him home..." to which I replied, "No you don't."
And it's not that I don't love my son. Good Lord knows I love him with all my heart and as with the other two, I would die for him.
But Bones is a lot of work. There are nights I go to bed so thoroughly exhausted I want to cry. God Love Him. He tries, but sometimes... it is just tough being in Bones' skin.
Fortunately, he doesn't seem to realize it. Which is hysterical in itself.
Anyway, as funny as he is, with his swagger, his self assurance, his high energy, his facial expressions, it is exhausting, but fortunately, there are far more blessings to Bones being Bones.
I am sitting here laughing remembering some of the things he did and his song Getalong Cindy. What a frickin' riot. One minute he had the swagger, moving his hair, looking tough and controlled and mischievous, and the next minute he was standing there looking like a frickin' choir boy singing high as he could, with the most angelic expression that made everyone laugh.
An older woman behind me said, "Is that your son?" I answered yes and she said, "He's going somewhere. I'm telling you now, watch that boy."
My goal is to keep the places he'll go as a positive! Only good places!!!
Mr. T's first Jazz solo went very well! He needs to play louder, but I was proud, this his 2nd year playing.
Ringo helped keep the 6th grade rock band on tempo. He came back for the show just to help them out. Young bass players are tough to find and he fills their billet, he plays bass and he can keep them together with his additional years of experience.
There was loads of talent, some amazing singers... some girls with voices so sweet, on pitch, that it melted my heart. The boys seem to have some excellent comedic timing. It was good to laugh so much.
I bought the CD. I'll laugh again.
So I'm off for now.
It's kind of crazy here. The school variety show is tomorrow night and there have been rehearsals etc.
Ringo has been asked to play bass for a middle school 'rock' band. They're playing the song Fifteen by Taylor Swift. He is always game to play for anyone, but when he realized that's what they'd be playing, with a girl singing it, he said to me when we got into the car, "Mom, could you hear my soul screaming deep down inside when I realized what I had to play?"
But they sound pretty good considering they've only practiced four times.
Mr. T plays in the school Jazz Band and has a Trombone solo, his first Jazz solo. He's nervous, but I saw him practice today and if he just plays louder, he'll be fine. The trombone is a tough instrument to play.
And Bones is... all over the road. He's one of two 5th graders emceeing and he is doing his monologue and he's singing a country tune called "Getalong Cindy Cindy".
Yes, I'm buying the CD, why do you ask? I kind of feel like it's my own personal variety show.
Meanwhile, I have been asked how this sex talk has been going with Bones. He said to me the other day, when I told him we're not done yet, said with great exasperation, "MOM! I don't understand WHY you are making ME go. All the other Moms are making their kids go because they don't want to tell them this stuff, but YOU have no problem with it. So why do *I* have to go?"
And so TGOO sent me this absolutely hysterical but absolutely NOT SAFE FOR WORK and NOT SAFE WITH CHILDREN LOOKING OVER YOUR SHOULDER video that I have to pass on to you.
Good Lord. You can't make this stuff up. Only the French...
TN suggested jokingly that perhaps THIS is the video Bones really needs to see! Think his teachers would be offended if I said they should show this clip during 'the big talk'?
Right. I thought so.
Two weeks ago, I drove home with the boys to find our garbage had been strewn over the course of 4 acres.
My husband had put a plastic garbage bag, as the can was full, out by the curb and something had torn into it, distributing garbage across our front yard, across the street to the neighbor's front yard, next door to their side and front yard, across the cul de sac street to the main road and into the front yards of all those folks as well.
Paper, shellfish shells, banana peels, apple cores, nasty meat trays... actually in looking at our garbage you could tell that we do eat rather healthy.
Healthy or not, it was still strewn all over and was screaming, 'They're white trash!'
I was aghast when I drove up.
My kids eyes bugged as they realized we all had a big job ahead of us. Armed with plastic grocery bags and rubber gloves, we made our way into the yard to pick up the carnage. My husband pulled in shortly thereafter and assisted... the entire job took about 30 minutes.
I sent Bones across the cul de sac to the main drag to pick up paper that had blown over and Ringo to the next acre over to watch over Bones as he picked up his share. T went to the neighbor's yard and I saved the nastiest and most intense mess, at the foot of the driveway with ground up grapes and egg shells... for me.
I was pissed. Who in the hell had let out their dog? Was it a pack of dogs? Why in the hell did this pack of dogs drag paper across the street... down the street? What the hell?
We picked up, I told my husband never again were plastic bags to go to the curb, and that was that.
We all forgot about it.
Flash forward to last week when my husband happened to see one of our neighbors at my husband's place of business. She started laughing hysterically and essentially said to him, "OH Bill and I were driving by and we saw your yard! We could not quit laughing! I'm so sorry... but you had to see it. No less than 20 vultures had come into your yard, your yard was black with vultures and they were swooping from the sky, picking up garbage, tossing it, dropping it all over and the horror of it all made us laugh."
For those of you not in the know, these vultures are the size of a medium sized dog. They are big and fat and look like they could carry away a small child. We have found out recently that farmers are paying folks to shoot them as a flock will kill cattle.
And she said she wished she'd had a camera, and honestly, I wish she had too. I picked up the mess, but I'd surely like to have seen the 30-40 50 pound vultures hopping all over my yard, dropping garbage over 4 acres.
Or maybe... not.
Side note: Can you name the movie quote in the title of this post?
There is stuff rolling around in my head, it's just kind of crazy here and when I go to put type to screen, my mind draws a blank as to what I was laughing about just hours earlier.
Some sort of blog dementia, I think.
So more tomorrow as I'm going to carry a 3x5 card with me to jot notes on to remind myself what I want to write.
On a side note, work related, I stumbled upon a phrase that I think will get me far.
There are times that folks I work with at Company X will not listen to me. I have yet to figure out whether it is because they are so full of themselves, because I am a subcontractor or I'm a female. I strongly suspect all three in the case of one or two people. I know the last one definitely comes into play, but I've learned to deal with it over the past 22 years.
Last week I gave some advice on a touchy matter. The guy on the other end of the phone had his own ideas, something I strongly disagreed with.
He would not listen to me. It didn't matter what I said or how I laid out the facts, he wanted it his way.
And so finally I took a deep breath and said, "I understand where you are coming from, but I refuse to present that to the US Air Force because if I do, I will get flogged because of the fallacy of your argument XYZ, however YOU can feel free to present it to them and I'll just listen. I may even bring popcorn."
I'm keeping that little nugget in my sack of tricks to use as a last resort. I'm not sure why I never saw that sooner. Hunh.
Well, the day has arrived that some of you have been waiting for... today I had The Talk with Bones. Probably all of you remember when I had to have The Talk with Ringo and Mr. T (can't find his in the archives), and 5th grade seems to be the age in this home, in particular as 5th grade is the year the kids have the puberty talk at school.
At least that was the catalyst for Mr. T's talk and now for Bones.
I received an email this afternoon from his teacher explaining that permission slips would be going home. My first thought was appropriately, 'F***!'. My email in response to his teacher ended with 'Gah!'.
I felt certain that his religion teacher, the recipient of said response, would not have laughed, cracked a smile nor found any humor whatsoever in a 'F***!' response. But, let's face it... we're talking Bones here, and there is NOTHING for me to look forward to with this conversation.
Whereas I thought he'd be like Mr. T and be all about the million questions with great drama and horror, instead I found a kid who absolutely... well... I'll tell the story.
My husband goes on good weather Friday nights to a local carshow and shows his car. (Two weeks ago he called me and said that a couple teenagers said to him, 'That's pretty cool, an old guy like you owning a car like this!' My husband was 2 days past turning 50. We laughed... although I suspect I laughed harder.) When asked if Bones wanted to go, he gave a most definite "NO". He had some video game beckoning.
And so as dinner dishes were cleared, Bones handed me a permission slip and the following conversation ensued to the best of my recollection:
Bones: I have this stupid class they want me to take.
Me: Right. I heard about that. Bring it here and I'll sign it for you.
Mr. T: Oh I remember that class. They tell you how your weenie is going to get all big and hairy and your ball sack will fall and there's this picture with hair coming out and it's kind of funny.
Bones: *blink* Wait! I know all that! I don't need to attend this class! NO! I'm not going.
Me (seeing yet again the wonderment of older brothers and wanting to smack Mr. T in the head)*giving T the EVIL eye*: Yes, you're going. But hey, if you cause problems in there, cut up and carry on, you're getting a detention and then you have to answer to me. I'll ground you into next week.
Bones: I DON'T WANT TO GO!
Bones: YOU'RE SETTING ME UP! I CAN'T DO THIS!
Me: Wait. You're telling me you can't keep your mouth shut from joking and laughing for an hour? An entire hour, you can't keep to yourself.
Bones, crocodile tears are falling down his cheeks:
Me: ONE HOUR. And don't tell me we are going to cry over this. Settle down.
Bones: Besides, I don't think I like the teacher who is going to teach it.
Me: I don't care if you don't like her. Listen. It's science. And you can't sit with Frankie, Mikey or Peter. You'll get in trouble. Sit alone or sit with someone else that you don't cut up with.
Bones: I hate this.
Me: Sit down. We have to talk. There are things you don't know.
At which point, Mr. T's eyes got REAL big and he said, "OK, see ya..." and he slipped through the door into the rec room.
Bones: I know everything.
Me: How in the world do you know everything? Do you know how babies get into women's stomachs?
Bones: Yes. I watch George Lopez at night.
My husband passing through: Great. He doesn't want to hear it from his teacher. He wants to hear it from George Lopez.
Me, my brain is reeling as I've watched George Lopez, I think he's a riot, and I'm not seeing George Lopez giving any talks on knockin' knees: George Lopez. How long have you known this?
Bones, blinking out the tears: I don't know. A couple months.
Me, seriously horrified that he knows this information and I was clueless as he never once asked anything and he always asks SOMETHING: OK then. I just wanted to make sure you really knew because sometimes kids talk about things happening and it's not true.
Bones: Like what?
Me: I mean you know that men and women are built so that one part goes inside another.
Bones: Do we REALLY have to talk about this?
Me: Yes. I just wanted to make sure.
Bones: Yes. I know about it.
Me, still stunned: OK. Because some kids think that Moms get pregnant through kissing.
Bones: Well... that's because they do!
Me: No. You think the parts that go into each other are the tongue or something? They kiss and she gets pregnant?
Bones: Yeah, she gets his spit in her mouth and she gets pregnant.
Me, deep breath: Umm. No... Look. Men and women are built differently. *explaining the anatomical difference in men and women builds*... and they fit together like a puzzle piece. They are built to fit together like two puzzle pieces.
Me: Like a socket and a plug...
Bones: Dad! I'm going to that car show with you!!!
And ZIP! he was GONE, had his shoes, socks and hoody and ran out the door.
My husband walked in to see what was up and I said, "He bolted. He's going with you. I never made it past socket and plug..."
My husband was grinning as Bones ran past him in a blur.
I can't wait to tell him about women's cycles and how their body changes. I'm beside myself excited... Good Grief. I need to sit down with him again and take it from an animal perspective.
I think he's damaged...
Today is Ringo's 15th birthday. When I started blogging... he was 9, going into 4th grade. Now he's getting his learner's permit to drive... probably next week. (It's all blog fodder, right?!)
It's so funny, reflecting on who he was and where he is going. The where he is going is a bit hazy, but it's interesting watching the path he's taken.
I was doing a comparison mentally today between he and Mr. T, not in a bad way, but in their differences and wondering if there is a correlation to their personalities.
Ringo, although extraordinarily mature in 'getting' what is going on around him, a good grasp on laughing at the absurdities others don't readily see, is my slowest to grow, the slowest to mature. He started to shave his upper lip this year, got hairy legs last year, and really hit a bit of a growth spurt this past summer, taking him to 5'2", which has him concerned he won't hit his Dad's height of 5'6". (We aren't big people, in girth or stature.) But with that as well, he's been slow to be driven to make the A's, slow to grasp the concept that making the grade will get you into the school of choice later.
I think he's a late bloomer... in every aspect, although when you speak to him, his soul seems old. Does that make sense? He has a very adult mind and adult approach to things... mostly. (We'll get to that in a minute.) But he just feels like a late bloomer in other ways.
Meanwhile, his brother two years his junior, already needs to shave his upper lip, the legs are getting hairy crazy, and he hit some insane growth spurt where he's already nearly caught up with his older brother. Always driven, T completely 'gets' the grade thing. He'a ahead of the curve on a lot of things and always has been. In kindergarten he played with the girls because he found the boys too immature. By 2nd grade, he finally gravitated to the boys, but because of this early relationship with the girls, he is able to move amongst both groups.
So I do wonder if there is a growth/maturity correlation in our family. Look at me, trying to do some sort of funky math analysis on my kids and why they are who they are.
But it has made me think.
Ringo picks his college of choice by... snow. He wants to go where it snows. T picks his school of choice (Georgia Tech) because he thinks it's one of the best as he wants to study engineering.
The other day, Ringo said to me, 'Mom, what's the name of that school that Son#4 talks about? Uncle M (Son#4's dad) went there."
Me: Boston College. Why?
Ringo: Maybe I want to go there. It snows in Boston.
Me: *cough* Dude. *cough* Even if you get accepted with your straight B grades, you won't get any scholarship money and I can't afford to send you there!
Holy crap. This the kid who said to me, "Mom, this is the last time I'm going to private Catholic school. After high school, no more private Catholic schools for me."
I guess nobody ever bothered to tell him that BC was a Jesuit school.
But back to the late bloomer thing. Most kids get into music in about 5th grade, finding some sort of musical niche, I believe. With him, it was end of 7th, and by 8th grade, something clicked and he became all music all the time. Double bass, electric bass, drum... he's constantly drumming, listening, thinking music.
Yet he doesn't want to make it a career. He wants to just love doing it on the side. (The best of all the worlds.)
His whole goal for what he wants to do for a living? Just as he chooses his college based on snow, he is currently basing what he wants to do for a living on what kind of car he could buy.
This is classic conversation:
Ringo: Mom, does 'xyz profession' make enough money to be able to buy a Ferrari?
Me: *blink* Umm... well you could if you stayed single and lived in a one room apartment and ate rice krispies for dinner for 5 years and save most of your paycheck.
Ringo: Yeah, that's not for me.
We're picking our profession on... Ferrari potential?
And as aghast as I was at first... for that first second... I realized it's a boy thing.
Fast cars are cool... fast women will not be so cool. I may have to post a sign in my house that says 'No Hos Allowed'.
Which brings me to the fact that he really has a lot of friends who are girls, but doesn't date. (He's mentally stuck on his height.) I even have folks call and ask if my son can go with them to dinner, which leads me to the funny story on Friday.
Ringo was asked to go to dinner with a friend of his (a girl he's known since kindergarten) and her family. (Side note: when speaking of her and her family to my folks, they are 'The Murdering Campbells'. I am thinking of putting The Massacre of Glencoe on his phone for her ringtone. I think it would be lost on everyone but us, however. Our own little inside family joke... well, inside the family and this blog.)
Anyway, great people, really, they are driving through their neighborhood to get to the restaurant when a minivan pulls out very very slowly... slow like seriously old people drive.
Mrs. Murdering Campbell (I do love her) said, "Oh. Those poor people. They look lost."
My son looked out the window, sighed, and said, "No, they aren't lost. That's my grandfather and his buddy, Joe."
Heh. We keep laughing. In a horrified and twisted way. (Pop's buddy drives just as bad as he did before his license got pulled.)
So today my son turns 15. I think he'll learn how to drive looking out for old people hazards on the road.
His birthday dinner request? London broil with twice baked potatoes, and a chocolate ganache bombe, which is a cake cooked in a jelly roll pan, then cut into slices so it lines a bowl, filled with layers of different chocolate mousses, and then flipped over and covered with a chocolate ganache.
And so to Ringo, on his 15th birthday, I say, “Happy Birthday my 1st son. Should all the children be so blessed to be as loved as you are… for if they were, I suspect the problems of this world would be so very different… We love you so.”
P.S. I'd rather he base his college of choice on the weather and not a flippin' girl!
I saved my eldest boys' a$$ in math tonight. Absolutely saved him. He has a big math project due and he screwed up in a HUGE way and I completely pulled his a$$ out of the fire. I told him earlier this evening, "You owe me BIG..."
I replied, "NO. You owe me. You have no idea how lucky you are that I'm so good with manipulating numbers and finding answers. My great analytical brain. Kids should be so lucky. YOU OWE ME."
I continued through the house, arms waving, my husband looking on, "Really. You are not appreciative enough. You know... there should be a shrine to me. You should build a shrine. You should be giving me small gifts at my shrine... like small pieces of chocolate that I will look at, but not eat."
And when I finished, I noticed that my husband and son were just staring at me. My son was still grinning. My husband looked a bit more shocked.
I stood there and said, "Really."
My husband, knowing there were really many wrong answers said, "Hey, you're right. They aren't appreciative enough. Really."