Filed under: kids
My youngest son has inspires requires a sense of humour. That’s right — requires. In order to survive, I have developed a new sense of humour in my own defense. For example:
My kind, kind son pushed me out of his bed and onto the floor. As I was falling, (just to teach him a lesson) I gasped out with my (cough, cough) dying breaths, “Call 911 – -” and I got back, “But, Mom, I don’t know the number!” Then he jumped on me and started shoving me in the chest, trying to revive me. Ouch!
The next time I played dead, he started shouting, “C3P-O! C3P-O!” meaning of course – duh!- CPR. I avoided getting bruised boobs, just in time… whew!
At supper tonight, when asked about his school’s Remembrance Day ceremony, the little darling sweetly turns to his older brother and says, “I saw you once in the gym, but then Mrs. D wanted to talk to me in the hallway. She put a uniform on me and had me march with the soldiers.”
“Oh?” I butt in, worried that I have missed some honour graciously and impromptively bestowed upon my child, “Did you know ahead of time? Did you win a Remembrance Day drawing contest?”
“No, it’s because my shirt was the reddest.” I had found out last minute this morning that the students were to wear red for the service. I had panicked, checked the closets and then done a wonderful sales job on a corduroy button up shirt and a Flames jersey for my older son. The little guy had already picked a shirt with a red centre panel and a skull with wings coming out of the sides. It had taken a lot of convincing that the bright red, cover-up shirt would be his best bet. He left his skull shirt on underneath, but we both (eventually) agreed that it probably wasn’t the most sensitive choice for the veterans to see.
“Did you get to lay a wreath?”
“Yes,” concerned,”but I’m still not sure what it was.”
“Oh,” I am ever helpful, “that’s the circle with the leaves and poppies on it, with the sash.”
“Ah,” still hesitant, “yes, that’s what I did. I wore the sash.”
“Across your chest?”
“Yes, but it was only for my own class. Nobody else got to see it.”
Doubt dawns, “Well, it is a good thing you have parent teacher interviews tomorrow night. Mrs. D can show me the pictures and explain to me who the wreath was for.”
Pause. Backtracking…
“Well, actually, that’s just what I was hoping would happen…”
I guess I must have misheard him.
Later, freshly out of his second bath, we are experimenting with a new skin cream. I want to patch test it. He suggests his face. I chose his left leg, but it spreads farther than I thought it would and ends up on most of his left side. To avoid his imminent bed time, he starts to pose. He’s been watching little girls dance at school and manages a few rather dramatic tableaus. I am uncomfortable. I ask him if he is sniffing his armpits. He scratches one, and sniffs.
And as I sit here thinking about some of the other things he did today, I find myself unable to write it down. It’s too weird, worse than the posing naked. Phone me, if you want additional reassurance that you don’t have the most disturbing children on the block. Kids, eh? (insert nervous laugh here)
