It’s Wiener Sausage Time!

whatevermomsays

Warning: if you are offended by certain words, you probably shouldn’t read this.

I preface this post with a warning because I have seen the looks of shock on the faces of elderly ladies (and moms and dads whose children NEVER embarrass them.) I, however, am neither elderly (yet) nor unembarrassed.

In fact, lately my son – who will be three in November – has been embarrassing me on a regular basis.

You see, he has become obsessed with (to put it gently) his “manliness.”

Not only does he want to get in the shower with his dad, he wants his hair cut short like his dad’s. He wants to wear shoes like his dad’s. He wants to wear underwear like his dad’s (unfortunately, this always ends up messily since he is not yet potty-trained) and he recently decided that in lieu of his organic lavender scented baby wash, he…

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Hey! I’m a Good Mom!

I don’t know about you, but I clean up a lot of messes.

A LOT.

As a matter of fact, usually I don’t get finished cleaning one mess before my kids are well on their way to finishing up another one (or four.)

Usually I don’t feel like any of this hard work (like chiseling dried Cocoa Puffs off the side of a cereal bowl or picking Nerds out from between the cracks in the hardwood floor with a toothpick) is appreciated.

Today, though… TODAY I thought I was finally vindicated! Finally! Someone noticed! Someone cared!

Jedidiah, who is 2 (he’ll be three in November, but I’m not comfortable with saying “he’s almost three” yet), spilled his watered-down, yet still incredibly sticky orange juice (with an obviously defective lid on it) this morning.

Did it go into his breakfast plate? Nope. Did it go onto the table in a nice round puddle? Nope. Did it go straight onto the floor? Nope.

As anyone with a “leaf” in their kitchen table knows, the ONLY appropriate place for a spill to go is right down into the crack where the leaf divides the table into sections. From this location, the spill is able to seep slowly into the mysterious netherworld of gears and crumb-infested table-parts that exists underneath the table-top. Then, once it’s good and disgusting, it proceeds to cascade from the crack onto the chair underneath (yes, there is always a chair wherever the stuff chooses to come out) and then finally onto the floor below in a series of foul, crumby splatters.

It’s a beautiful thing to behold, if you happen to be an ant or a salesman of multi-purpose cleaners.

Anyway, back to my vindication.

As I stood there trying to clean up the spill without bending over (I have chronic back pain, so I tend to avoid leaning over whenever possible) I heard my sweet little boy’s sweet little voice say, “You a good mom.”

What!? Be still, my melting heart. He loves me! He sees how hard I work to be a good mom!

I said, “Oh, thank you, my sweet boy. That is so nice to say – that I’m a good mom.”

“No, Mom,” he said, “You a good MOP.”

Vindication cancelled. On to the next mess.

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It’s Wiener Sausage Time!

Warning: if you are offended by certain words, you probably shouldn’t read this.

I preface this post with a warning because I have seen the looks of shock on the faces of elderly ladies (and moms and dads whose children NEVER embarrass them.) I, however, am neither elderly (yet) nor unembarrassed.

In fact, lately my son – who will be three in November – has been embarrassing me on a regular basis.

You see, he has become obsessed with (to put it gently) his “manliness.”

Not only does he want to get in the shower with his dad, he wants his hair cut short like his dad’s. He wants to wear shoes like his dad’s. He wants to wear underwear like his dad’s (unfortunately, this always ends up messily since he is not yet potty-trained) and he recently decided that in lieu of his organic lavender scented baby wash, he will only consent to bathing if he is allowed to use what he calls “Man Soap.”

It’s somewhat disconcerting to have a 2-year-old who smells like AXE Excite snuggle you in the rocking chair.

Anyway, I digress. Back to the “manly parts.”

At our house, we have never danced around the fact that girls and boys are different and that they have different parts. My kids know the scientific names for their body parts and sometimes they use those names.

Last time we visited my grandmother, who is in her 80s, Jedidiah streaked through the living room after his bath yelling “My penis! My penis! Oh-oh-oh-oh! MY PEEE-NISSS!” His poor great-grandmother nearly fainted dead away and could only throw up her hands and pray, “Lord, help us all!” as I chased him down and wrangled a diaper onto his bare butt.

A few months ago, my oldest daughter was playing with her little brother in the car. They were giving each other high-5s, playing patty-cake, and that sort of thing. Then he wanted to hold her hand. When she looked down at his hand in hers, she said, “Oh, Jeddy-boo, you have the cutest little fingers! They are so cute and squishy! They look just like little teeny wiener-sausages!” (She had read this term in a Junie B. Jones book earlier this year.)

Well. Let’s just say that THAT particular term has since burned itself into Jedidiah’s vocabulary. He has taken the words “wiener sausage” and turned them into his own personal mantra.

I’ve tried to play it down and act like it doesn’t bother me. I’ve told the girls not to say it and to not pay attention to him when he says it; I’m hoping he’ll get bored and forget about it.

It’s been months. And people, I CAN’T STOP LAUGHING AT HIM.

Several weeks ago, I was making dinner and he ran into the kitchen after stripping off all his clothes (he is anti-pants.) He threw his arms in the air, popped his little hips forward, and yelled, “It’s wiener sausage time!”

It STILL cracks me up. I just don’t know how to deal with this. And I NEED to, because now, it’s become more than a noun around here. It’s also a verb: “I go outside, Mom? I go ride my bike and WIENER SAUSAGE!?” It’s a song: “Wiener sausage, little star, wiener sausage, what you are!” It’s a kid-friendly curse word. Can’t get his shoes on? “Oh, wiener sausage!” Mad at his sister? “Wiener Sausage on YOU!”

It’s even a word to yell in the grocery store check out lane for NO REASON AT ALL other than to mortify his mother and amuse the seven other people in line.

Do you know how hard it is not to laugh at this? He does it at the most random times and in the most unlikely of places. I’m just waiting for the day he hollers it out during prayer at church.

I’ve even found myself thinking it in place of my own go-to words (like poop, crap, fiddlesticks, etc. Hey, you gotta be careful when you have kids repeating what you say all day long.)

A friend of mine who has twin boys (older than Jed) warned me a long time ago that all little boys are obsessed with their “manly parts.” She laughed when I told her about the grocery store situation… turns out that her guys taught an “anatomy lesson” to their Sunday School class. Then she said that it doesn’t get any better as they get older.

What? It doesn’t?! Wiener sausage!

As my grandma said, Lord help us all.

The Beach: Not Disappointing.

We just got home from our first ever family vacation. REAL vacation, that is. Sure, we’ve traveled a lot, but we’ve always stayed with family and I don’t think that really counts.

This time, we stayed in an actual beach house with the actual ocean right in our front yard.

Talk about a real vacation.

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Um… has anyone seen Josie?

The weather was perfect. The location was perfect. The crowds were non-existent.

Once we got there I realized that I had somehow forgotten how to relax. I guess that comes from being on constant red-alert (you know, for crying, screaming, accidents, peeing in the bed, etc.) for the past nine years or so.

I remembered about three days in, thank goodness. The warmth of the sun and the sound of the waves worked some seaside magic and I actually fell asleep on the beach with a book in my hand.

That just does NOT happen.

My children counted down the days until this trip for over a year. Once we finally got there, they weren’t disappointed (well, except for one small incident involving a door, a certain 9-year-old, a yanked-off toenail, lots of blood and a visit to Urgent Care. But that’s another story).

Some of the non-disappointing things were:

Chasing fiddler crabs across the beach with flashlights after dark

Digging for buried treasures in the sand

Burying each other in the sand (but not me – I have an irrational fear of sink-holes)

Making sand castles with extra deep moats and flags made from a “mermaid’s purse”

Holding hands and jumping waves

Boogie-boarding (but not with me – I have an irrational fear of sharks)

Getting swept out to sea with Dad and spending the next two hours swimming back to shore

Making footprints in the sand

Petting sting rays

Watching sandpipers and sanderlings run from the surf so they won’t get their little birdie feet wet

Listening to Jed yell, “Hey! A big chair! Over dere!” when he’d see giant customer-luring Adirondack chairs sitting in front of businesses

Being on the lookout for wild ponies

Being on the lookout for pony statues, which were everywhere (we were close to Corolla, NC, where a herd of wild ponies lives)

Breathing in the smell of the ocean

Flying kites out on the beach

Watching Jed go “shishing” with his Daddy

Watching the brilliant sunrises and the pink and orange sunsets

Para-sailing 900 feet up in the air (but not me – I have an irrational fear of heights)

Seeing flocks of pteranadon-looking pelicans skimming over the water

Looking for dolphins (and looking out for sharks)

Finding seashells, shark teeth, and horseshoe crab skeletons

Watching the (bajillion) stars come out and fill up the entire sky

Each time I go to the ocean it feels like I’ve been away too long – it’s almost like it’s a part of me. I think my kids felt the same way.

I can tell because they’ve already started their countdown to our NEXT trip to the beach.

Phases of a Road Trip

There’s nothing quite like a road trip with your kids.

The intense anticipation phase:

“How many more days till we leave?”
“Can I start packing? It’s okay, I just won’t use my toothbrush again until then.”
“Listen to the countdown poem I made – Pack a bag, a shovel and pail, the beach trip is coming, only 29 days to set sail!”

The packing phase:

“Exactly how many toys are TOO many for my activity bag? 11? 16? 47? I can still zip the bag shut if I sit on it, so that’s not too many, right? Right?”
“Can I take all of these pillows and 7 blankets? It gets really cold in the car.” “But I NEED this winter hat AND these snow boots. You never know when there might be a freak snowstorm at the beach! In the summer!”

The driving phase:

“It stinks in here. I definitely smell a stink. All right, who tooted? Strike a skunk match!” (In our family, we always have matches in the car for lighting and blowing out. The smoke extinguishes any “unsavory” smells that might be wafting through the vehicle. They have been deemed “skunk matches,” since we always bring them out when we smell a skunk.)
“Look at those clouds! That one looks like an Indian smoke signal!”
“Look at that chicken truck! Oh, poor chickens. They don’t know they’re on the way to meet their doom. They probably think they are going on vacation.”
“Wook at dat twactor! Dat guy, he is workin’ and dwivin’ dat twactor! I see him!”
“The Sea Ray! We saw a sea ray and we aren’t even to the beach yet!” (After passing a broken-down fair ride bound from one county fair to another.)
“What’s a Wawa?” (A chain of convenience stores that we came across in southern Virginia.) “I REALLY have to go to the bathroom, Dad, can I go wee-wee at the Wawa?”
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“Wook! A gawage sale! Over dere! We go to dere?”
“Look at all the mist rising up from that pond!”
“Look at all the windmills on that hill!”
“We are going in a tunnel UNDER the WATER. UNDER the WATER, do you hear me?”
“What’s dat? A am-ba-lunce? I hear it! Da fire works! And da fire twucks!”
“What’s the ETA?”

The arrival phase:

“Hey, look, it’s the ocean!”
“Yeah, but I can’t find my shoes!”
“And I cut the bottom of my foot!”
“Well, I knocked my toenail off!”
“I skin! My knee! Wook! My knee! Hurts!”
“Where are my clothes? I can’t find my clothes!”
“Hey, look, it’s a pelican!”

And finally, once we are all settled in and hitting the sand, at LAST…
The triumphant yelling phase:

“We are at the BEACH! THIS IS THE BEST DAY THAT WE’VE EVER HAD!”