The Oscar nominees were announced yesterday, and I’m shocked that he was overlooked again this year for his gripping, evocative, and perfectly nuanced performance in “I hurt my leg and can’t possibly go to school.”
The Small Man in Training came downstairs in his underwear tonight and asked if he could pour olive oil in them to see if they’d slide off. Although I admit I was secretly intrigued by how this experiment would have played out, I reluctantly said no.
On the bright side, if there’s a science project coming up in second grade, we’re all set…
These days, SFM (small future man) and I argue about everything. I clearly missed something in one of those parenting books written by people with no kids, because seven year old boys know EVERYTHING, and adults are simply hapless morons that have been put on this earth to drive them around to various after school activities that they’ll never do as adults.
I’m pretty sure that if I said, “SFM, of course you can eat an entire bag of marshmallows and watch your iPad for the next 24 hours straight, burp and fart all you want, and wave your Halloween nunchucks around in the house”, he’d still find something to argue about.
Or, “SFM, of course you don’t have to feed the pets AGAIN, you did it yesterday. They can forage for crushed up pretzels and fossilized chicken under the couch cushions and drink out of the toilets. You take it easy, re-organize your Pokemon cards again, and when you’re done we’ll hop onto Amazon and buy more!”
Or, “SFM, that was the most awesome, long, drawn out burp I’ve ever heard in my whole life – I’m so proud – no more homework for you ever! Who cares if you can’t read or spell, you want to be a mime when you grow up anyways, and the money we save on your college education can buy tons of Pokemon cards!”
Or, “SFM, no worries, you don’t need to take a shower every night – California’s still conserving water and as you get older you’ll meet lots of girls who want to date stinky guys who can’t read or spell.”
Or, “SFM, bedtime schmedtime. Stay up as long as you want, but please wake me up in the morning so I can call school and tell them we’re going to Legoland instead of first grade. We’ll buy every Ninjago set they have in stock and then head to Target to see if they have any more Legos to add to our 7,000,000 piece collection that you’ve shoved under the couch. Plus, the dog can eat them too!”
He’d still find something to argue about. Guaranteed. Because I know nothing. Duh…
That moment every mother dreams of…hearing that her son wants to be a Mime when he grows up. Because a clown would just be weird.
It was a proud moment when I picked up SB (small boy) from his last day of school today. After we finished loading the car full of ABC books, artwork, sprouted seeds and billions of teeny tiny plastic beads that are apparently crucial for summer craft fun and games (which amount to me prying them from the dog’s mouth), we began the drive home.
The last day of school!! Camp, barbecues, fireworks – all that good stuff that sounds SO great until you’re a week into it and realize there’s eight more weeks to go…
But back to the car ride home. I asked SB what he wanted to do this summer, and he said, “I want to invent a superhero who eats spaghetti and then shoots it out his butt so he can tie up bad guys”.
I’m going to go stick my head in the dogs mouth now. Eight more weeks.
By now I think it’s safe to say that we have enough Legos to start building our own theme park -roughly 900 at last count. All packaged in small boxes of 72 pieces, with incomprehensible instructions. What they should really say is. “The person with the largest and clumsiest fingers MUST assemble the most animals/windmills/spaceships, without blurting out profanity laced tirades in front of your child”.
To ensure a good time is had by all, wait until said child has a fit when someone’s teeny tiny head falls under the couch for the 37th time, calm him down, pull a few Legos out of the dogs mouth and then perform a lively interpretive dance when you step on all 900 pieces trying to tidy up.
Makes me long for the good old days of crayon wall art.
We’ve entered the age of Mutant Ninja Turtles, weird Rat Sensei’s, and weapons. After spending the last six months explaining that weapons are not good, that they hurt people, etc., I’m now just trying to get SB (Small Boy) to not make swords with Legos and shove them down his underwear so that he can fight the cat. This is harder than you might think..
Every night, SB (Small Boy) and I have a lively debate about getting into the tub and what time he goes to sleep. I’m pretty sure we’re the only ones who do this…
This evening’s argument included me yelling this gem: “If you want to get in my bed tonight, you need to take off your underwear RIGHT NOW!!”
I just spent five minutes arguing with SB about why we can’t barbecue spaghetti. And to ensure how ridiculous we are, he was wearing my snorkeling mask during the debate…