While I was getting Monkey Man ready for bed tonight, hubby decided to indulge his chocolate craving that is likened to that of a pre-menstrual woman’s. Salivating and shaking, he opened the pantry to find some brownie mix that, lucky for him, I just happened to score in a nice grab bag gift this past weekend. Because he couldn’t wait to eat the actual cooked brownie (but really, who can?) he licked the bowl before going upstairs to say goodnight to Monkey Man.
And this is what our incredibly sweet, incredibly honest child said to hubby:
“Please lay with me, but I’m gonna roll over because your breath smells like chocolate, and I don’t like it. Sometimes I don’t like your stinky breath…but I really like you, Daddy.”
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
Wish I Wrote This!
Just in case you have children and didn't already know about their psychosis...
New Study Reveals Most Children Unrepentant Sociopaths
New Study Reveals Most Children Unrepentant Sociopaths
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Letter to Santa 2009
Last year, Monkey Man was almost 4 as we headed into Christmas. Last year, Monkey Man had concrete ideas of what he wanted for Christmas - he listed about 4 very specific toys. This year, I assumed that as Monkey Man got older, he would continue to know exactly what his heart yearned for during this season of receiving, err, I mean, giving. When will I learn?
As Monkey Man likes to do to me everyday, he surprised me with his wishes. I thought it would get easier as he gets older. When he was a baby, 1, 2 years-old, we just bought him what we thought he'd like (read: what WE wanted him to have!). Now, as he turns 4 and three-quarters (yes, we are at that stage, fractional ages with days counted until he turns 5) he has made it significantly more difficult. Or maybe it's easier. He wants EVERYTHING.
He sits with the Toys R Us and Target Wish Books before him drooling like Mommy does with a J. Crew catalog. "I want that. And that. Put a check next to that. Let's tell Santa I want that, oooo, and that, too." And that's just what I say while perusing J. Crew. Monkey Man doesn't care if the toy is for infants, toddlers, or 30 year-olds. He wants it.
I explained to Monkey Man that once we wrote our letter to Santa, we would have to stick to the list. Because Santa only goes by the list. Santa is not making mental notes and making 4 more trips to the toy store because that friggin' commercial on Nick just sucked him into yet another ridiculous toy that is not for someone his age. Monkey Man said okay (i.e. yes'd Mommy to death just to shut me up and move the letter writing process along) and here we have our Letter to Santa 2009. This letter is Monkey Man's exact words as dutifully scribed by Yours Truly.
Dear Santa,
I have a knock knock joke for you.
Knock Knock
Who's There?
Banana.
Banana Who?
Banana that almost bumped into the orange!
Can I please have a Ninja Turtle Wii game? And I want Astro Boy Wii, please, Santa. And I want the Woody game from Target, please, Santa.
I would also like:
- A big Star Wars Lego ship that comes with guys, a blue light saber, and it's huge!
- Spongebob Operation game
- A paint easel
- Crayola lightbrush
- Lego City
- Checkers game
- Leapster Star Wars Reading
Thank You Santa for bringing all these toys to me.
Merry Christmas,
Love, Monkey Man
This letter was written on November 25, 2009. Monkey Man has since added 63 more toys to this list.
As Monkey Man likes to do to me everyday, he surprised me with his wishes. I thought it would get easier as he gets older. When he was a baby, 1, 2 years-old, we just bought him what we thought he'd like (read: what WE wanted him to have!). Now, as he turns 4 and three-quarters (yes, we are at that stage, fractional ages with days counted until he turns 5) he has made it significantly more difficult. Or maybe it's easier. He wants EVERYTHING.
He sits with the Toys R Us and Target Wish Books before him drooling like Mommy does with a J. Crew catalog. "I want that. And that. Put a check next to that. Let's tell Santa I want that, oooo, and that, too." And that's just what I say while perusing J. Crew. Monkey Man doesn't care if the toy is for infants, toddlers, or 30 year-olds. He wants it.
I explained to Monkey Man that once we wrote our letter to Santa, we would have to stick to the list. Because Santa only goes by the list. Santa is not making mental notes and making 4 more trips to the toy store because that friggin' commercial on Nick just sucked him into yet another ridiculous toy that is not for someone his age. Monkey Man said okay (i.e. yes'd Mommy to death just to shut me up and move the letter writing process along) and here we have our Letter to Santa 2009. This letter is Monkey Man's exact words as dutifully scribed by Yours Truly.
Dear Santa,
I have a knock knock joke for you.
Knock Knock
Who's There?
Banana.
Banana Who?
Banana that almost bumped into the orange!
Can I please have a Ninja Turtle Wii game? And I want Astro Boy Wii, please, Santa. And I want the Woody game from Target, please, Santa.
I would also like:
- A big Star Wars Lego ship that comes with guys, a blue light saber, and it's huge!
- Spongebob Operation game
- A paint easel
- Crayola lightbrush
- Lego City
- Checkers game
- Leapster Star Wars Reading
Thank You Santa for bringing all these toys to me.
Merry Christmas,
Love, Monkey Man
This letter was written on November 25, 2009. Monkey Man has since added 63 more toys to this list.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Because I Said So!
“MOMMM! I just jumped from the top stair!” Monkey Man yelled to me this morning from the family room.
“I asked you not to jump from that step,” I replied ever so sweetly, although we’ve gone over this rule 12,000 times. We have about 3 steps that go from the kitchen to the family room and he is insistent on jumping from the top step. Since he was like 2 years-old.
“Why can’t I jump from that step?” he asked, ever so inquisitively, as if this conversation had never taken place, like he had never heard of this rule or the answer that would follow.
“Because I love you and I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Translation: Because I really don’t feel like spending my Sunday in the emergency room. Because the $100 co-pay could be better spent in the following ways: feeding you, clothing you, or going towards the thousands of dollars I'll need to pay for my time in some mental health facility for repeating the same 10 phrases 22 times per day.
That's why.
“I asked you not to jump from that step,” I replied ever so sweetly, although we’ve gone over this rule 12,000 times. We have about 3 steps that go from the kitchen to the family room and he is insistent on jumping from the top step. Since he was like 2 years-old.
“Why can’t I jump from that step?” he asked, ever so inquisitively, as if this conversation had never taken place, like he had never heard of this rule or the answer that would follow.
“Because I love you and I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Translation: Because I really don’t feel like spending my Sunday in the emergency room. Because the $100 co-pay could be better spent in the following ways: feeding you, clothing you, or going towards the thousands of dollars I'll need to pay for my time in some mental health facility for repeating the same 10 phrases 22 times per day.
That's why.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
MEMO
TO: Monkey Man
FROM: Your Mother
DATE: October 23, 2009
RE: Your Sleeping Habits
As per this past week’s wake-up schedule, I am ordering you to sleep later. We’ve had several discussions about your readiness to take on the day at 5:30, and after ignoring my 5 requests, I’m making demands. You are not a 4 week-old with a tiny belly unable to hold more than 3 hours worth of food. You are 4.7 years-old and completely capable of waiting until the sun rises to start screaming at me that, “I want waffles. No, I want oatmeal. No, no, waffles. I want to play the Wii. I want to put on my Luke Skywalker costume.”
You wonder why your mother is a cranky bitch in the morning? It’s because mornings and I already don’t get along very nicely, and then we add in your very cute, but constant chatter. I don’t enjoy the simple sound of your father’s breathing in the morning, let alone questions like, “Do you think a tiger or a shark would hurt worser? Who’s older, you or daddy? Is a spaceship faster than a car? Do I have swimming class the day after tomorrow or the day after the day after tomorrow?” It’s just exhausting.
You will be 13 in just 8 ½ years. I am fully expecting on the day you enter your tumultuous teen years, you will sleep until noon. I dream about that day, the day when I, too, can actually enjoy a Saturday morning in bed. Without some Disney or PBS show on in an attempt to keep you quiet. I will not be that mom who yells at you to rise and shine and start your day. Nope, no worries there, Monkey Man. I will be in the next room in sweet, Saturday morning slumber, enjoying every minute getting back the sleep you’ve stolen from me since that precious day you were born.
FROM: Your Mother
DATE: October 23, 2009
RE: Your Sleeping Habits
As per this past week’s wake-up schedule, I am ordering you to sleep later. We’ve had several discussions about your readiness to take on the day at 5:30, and after ignoring my 5 requests, I’m making demands. You are not a 4 week-old with a tiny belly unable to hold more than 3 hours worth of food. You are 4.7 years-old and completely capable of waiting until the sun rises to start screaming at me that, “I want waffles. No, I want oatmeal. No, no, waffles. I want to play the Wii. I want to put on my Luke Skywalker costume.”
You wonder why your mother is a cranky bitch in the morning? It’s because mornings and I already don’t get along very nicely, and then we add in your very cute, but constant chatter. I don’t enjoy the simple sound of your father’s breathing in the morning, let alone questions like, “Do you think a tiger or a shark would hurt worser? Who’s older, you or daddy? Is a spaceship faster than a car? Do I have swimming class the day after tomorrow or the day after the day after tomorrow?” It’s just exhausting.
You will be 13 in just 8 ½ years. I am fully expecting on the day you enter your tumultuous teen years, you will sleep until noon. I dream about that day, the day when I, too, can actually enjoy a Saturday morning in bed. Without some Disney or PBS show on in an attempt to keep you quiet. I will not be that mom who yells at you to rise and shine and start your day. Nope, no worries there, Monkey Man. I will be in the next room in sweet, Saturday morning slumber, enjoying every minute getting back the sleep you’ve stolen from me since that precious day you were born.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
They're Not Called Bunny's Best Friend for a Reason
A few weeks ago, hubby almost mowed over three baby bunnies that were in a nest burrowed into our backyard. He came into the house telling me about his find and that he’d almost taken their lives on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Upon hearing the lawnmower, one of the bunnies jumped out of the hole and made itself known. “Yo, buddy! What the frig? We’re like 5 days old. Cut the freakin’ mower already,” the bunny seemed to say. This bunny was clearly born in NJ.
Hubby reassured me that the bunnies were all fine and we took Monkey Man out into the yard for a real-life lesson in bunnies living in our backyard. Whatever that means. How the hell do you take care of wild bunnies?
We stayed out in the backyard for a while with the bunnies, as the three siblings curled into one another. Even though we had no clue what to do for them, we enjoyed sharing the time with Monkey Man and letting him experience a little piece of nature in sub-plot suburbia. Each time we visited over the next 2 days, we never let our dog, Walt, out with us so that we did not draw his attention to their nest.
On Monday, I arrived home from work to a frantic Monkey Man yelling to me from the backyard. He was in the yard with hubby’s parents and Walt. Hubby’s parents and Walt, all huddled near the nest.
“MOMMMMMMYYYY! Walt’s eating the bunny! He’s got one in his mouth!”
I started screaming at Walt to drop the bunny. No yelling in the world would make Walt drop that poor, sweet rabbit. That bunny was to Walt what the chocolate variety is to me on Easter morning. Ain’t no letting go of the bunny. He practically swallowed him whole. As I stood far away gagging and convulsing (I can’t even see road kill on the street, I begin to shake and I even close my eyes while driving the car) my father-in-law proceeded to tell me in front of Monkey Man that Walt ate all of the bunnies.
Now, Monkey Man was only clued in to the assault and murder of one bunny. I “shushed” my FIL so as to protect Monkey Man from the evil, heinous crimes of his dog. Wasn’t it enough that he already knew that Walt chewed the life out of one? Did he really have to know that the dog was a serial killer and his M.O. was clearly cute, infantile rabbits with velveteen fur?
“Mommy, there are no more bunnies in the nest,” Monkey Man stated matter-of-fact, blue eyes wide waiting for me to give him an explanation.
I delivered. My brilliant reply, so as to protect my child from the harsh realities of life and the cruelty of his wild dog that sleeps in our house, was “The other two hopped away. They got scared and got the hell out of Dodge before Cujo here could enjoy them for dessert.”
Really, Walt. Enough with the life lessons.
Hubby reassured me that the bunnies were all fine and we took Monkey Man out into the yard for a real-life lesson in bunnies living in our backyard. Whatever that means. How the hell do you take care of wild bunnies?
We stayed out in the backyard for a while with the bunnies, as the three siblings curled into one another. Even though we had no clue what to do for them, we enjoyed sharing the time with Monkey Man and letting him experience a little piece of nature in sub-plot suburbia. Each time we visited over the next 2 days, we never let our dog, Walt, out with us so that we did not draw his attention to their nest.
On Monday, I arrived home from work to a frantic Monkey Man yelling to me from the backyard. He was in the yard with hubby’s parents and Walt. Hubby’s parents and Walt, all huddled near the nest.
“MOMMMMMMYYYY! Walt’s eating the bunny! He’s got one in his mouth!”
I started screaming at Walt to drop the bunny. No yelling in the world would make Walt drop that poor, sweet rabbit. That bunny was to Walt what the chocolate variety is to me on Easter morning. Ain’t no letting go of the bunny. He practically swallowed him whole. As I stood far away gagging and convulsing (I can’t even see road kill on the street, I begin to shake and I even close my eyes while driving the car) my father-in-law proceeded to tell me in front of Monkey Man that Walt ate all of the bunnies.
Now, Monkey Man was only clued in to the assault and murder of one bunny. I “shushed” my FIL so as to protect Monkey Man from the evil, heinous crimes of his dog. Wasn’t it enough that he already knew that Walt chewed the life out of one? Did he really have to know that the dog was a serial killer and his M.O. was clearly cute, infantile rabbits with velveteen fur?
“Mommy, there are no more bunnies in the nest,” Monkey Man stated matter-of-fact, blue eyes wide waiting for me to give him an explanation.
I delivered. My brilliant reply, so as to protect my child from the harsh realities of life and the cruelty of his wild dog that sleeps in our house, was “The other two hopped away. They got scared and got the hell out of Dodge before Cujo here could enjoy them for dessert.”
Really, Walt. Enough with the life lessons.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Heaven Forbid!
Monkey Man: "Why can't we get a cat?"
Me: "Because I'm very allergic to them. We will never have a cat in this house."
Monkey Man: "Can I get a cat when you go to Heaven and I'm with daddy?"
Okay, let me stop here. Before you think there is something wrong and I'm sick, I am not. If I didn't have 9 bajillion conversations with Monkey Man already about Heaven, this statement might have caused me panic. Like, seriously kid, do you know something I don't? Do you have some creepy, clairvoyant bizarre kid in a horror movie thing going on? Because I totally love that in a horror movie, but not sitting next to me on my couch. Monkey Man has asked us a lot about Heaven since his great grandma passed away last November, so I knew where this was coming from. So my simple answer was:
"Yes, you can get one when you're with daddy." It'll be one less thing I'll have to deal with.
Me: "Because I'm very allergic to them. We will never have a cat in this house."
Monkey Man: "Can I get a cat when you go to Heaven and I'm with daddy?"
Okay, let me stop here. Before you think there is something wrong and I'm sick, I am not. If I didn't have 9 bajillion conversations with Monkey Man already about Heaven, this statement might have caused me panic. Like, seriously kid, do you know something I don't? Do you have some creepy, clairvoyant bizarre kid in a horror movie thing going on? Because I totally love that in a horror movie, but not sitting next to me on my couch. Monkey Man has asked us a lot about Heaven since his great grandma passed away last November, so I knew where this was coming from. So my simple answer was:
"Yes, you can get one when you're with daddy." It'll be one less thing I'll have to deal with.
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