A boy:s mind....

"Mom, do you think that Jesus farted?" he asked.

I spun around to see if he had been struck dead on my kitchen floor.

"Well, when  Jesus lived on the earth, his body was imperfect. He had to eat. He had to sleep. And yes he even had to go to the bathroon. He he didn't he would explode," I explained.

"Hmmmm. That's so weird to think about," he said, with a smile on his face.

I agree. Such a weird thing to think about.

Only in a boy's mind.

Happy Halloween!!

Show some restraint!!!

We have "No Touch" zones in our house.

I don't mean places in our house that you can't touch....although that is a good idea. Not that they would be respected in my house, but still. But that's not what I am talking about. You see, we have taught all our kids that there are places on their bodies that people should not touch. We are very clear on this subject.

Thank goodness for that!
Last Saturday, my 13 year old son informed me that his teacher had slapped his rear end. What!! Say that again!! Slowly. Start over, please.

"I was leaning over to pick up my backpack and someone slapped my butt. I stood up and turned to see that is was my teacher. I said, 'What the heck!' Then she smiled and said, 'I'm sorry. It was right in front of me. I couldn't resist.'"

Ummmm, excuse me! Why couldn't you! Are you 13 years old or an adult? Are you not a trained educator of children? Do you not watch the news??? What is wrong with this lady? There are some lines that you don't cross. Actually, there are some lines that you should never approach. Apparently she doesn't think there are any lines.

This teacher....has been bothering me this whole year. She is the art teacher. She sometimes will have pictures of naked people up, which I understand is "art" but I am not sure that's the kind of art you want to be displaying in your 8th grade art class.

She has also allowed crude, inappropriate behaviour to happen in her class several times.Like the time she had the whole class draw a picture of a male student with a broomstick between his legs. Not bad in and of itself except that the boy proceeded to masturbate the stick. Now the class was no longer drawing a broomstick, rather his erected male part. She simply laughed and told the kids to draw.

You can bet I was in the office on Monday morning. At best it was sexual harassment. Grossly irresponsible. Incredibly unacceptable. Needless to say, he is no longer in her class and the school is dealing with her.

"No touch" zones are not to be messed with.

Ever!

He's a killer!!!!

He is trying to kill my children.

I am not sure why, because my kids are AWESOME!

But for whatever reason, my husband is trying to kill them. Poison them to be exact. How do I know this? Because he told me so.

Not in those exact words, of course.

I was sitting at work and I get this message, "Hey. Is it okay to eat pink chicken?"

So I asked him, "Pink? Umm, generally speaking you should avoid pink chicken. How long did you cook it?" A little pink in chicken is okay, right, as long as it is the cooked kind of pink.

"Well," he says, "I didn't thaw it. I just put in on a cooked it for about 7 minutes."

I half expected to come home to tummy aching, toilet hugging, yellowish-green faced children. It's a good thing that most of my children were in rebellious moods and had refused the raw chicken. My oldest, however, consumed more than he normally does.

"This chicken is soooo good," he had said. Apparently he likes raw chicken. That or he craves a wretched death. By some miracle, he also didn't get sick.

My daughter, who had only had a sliver, woke up with an achy stomach, and a pretty bad headache. Poor thing. But even she was lucky. It could have been worse.

Much worse....

...a slow and painful death.

He's the raw chicken child killer.

A fieldtrip...yay.....

I lied. Kind of.

The letter said, "If you would like to attend, sign your name here."

I signed my name. But that didn't mean that I necesarily wanted to attend. Not entirely true.

You see, my second grader is going on a fieldtrip in November. And I, personally, don't like going on fieldtrips. Oh, I used to...like them...when I was a second grader. It meant getting out of school... getting out of homework... going someplace new. That's fun.

But ever since I turned 18, fieldtrips are....well.....more like work. 

For a working mother of 5 children, an elementary school fieldtrip means:

...finding a babysitter for my 4 year old
...getting a background check so that I can get the state's permission to hang out with my child...
... being responsible for 5 other children.
...forgetting my "To-Do" list for the day.

Slightly less than fun?

That being said, I do love my second grader. And he begged me to go on the fieldtrip. So I signed the paper, half-heartedly. I did it partially because I knew I was not going to be the "chosen" one.

You see, all parents who want to go (or lie about the wanting), have to sign the paper. Then the names are put in a jar and the lottery begins. Only 4 parent's were allowed to go this time. Four. For the whole second grade. My name was not being picked.

PLUS we were late getting out paper in. "Surely they have already picked the chaperones and I am just signing this so that my son sees me trying my best to go on that trip."

Surely nothing.

My name got picked.

Oh, lucky day!!

(ps. my work computer doesn't like blogger. I can't change the color and size of the word from here....sigh.)
(ppss. Sorry I have been MIA. I only blog when at work and my work schedule changed to a time almost impossible to blog. But I hope that I am back for good.)

Home Sweet Home

There's no place like home, wouldn't you agree?

I haven't been home in almost two years. Well, kinda.

You see, my parents are on a mission for my church and have been gone since October 2011. So though I have been to the house that I lived in for 18+ years of my life, it hasn't felt like home.

Don't get me wrong. I love my sister, who is currently living in my parents' house. She is a great hostess, makes good food, and has adorable children. But she isn't Mom and Dad.

I am homesick....for them.

So, you can imagince how excited I am to see them. September can't get here soon enough.

Because without Mom, home is nothing like home.

PS Do you think my kids will feel the same way about my home when they grow up???

The WC

The term "water-closet" was an early term for an interior or exterior room with a toilet.

We call ours a bathroom.

I use the term "we" loosely because apparently my boys think that they have a water closet in their very own bedroom. An on-suite, if you will.

They, along with several of their cousins, have been "using" their closet.

I couldn't figure out where the urine smell was coming from. I cleaned the mattresses. I cleaned the sheets. I washed the clothes. And yet the smell remained.

Finally, last week as I was complaining about not being able to figure out where the smell was coming from, Briggy says, matter-of-factly, "It's probably because we went pee in the closet."

You think?

I won't tell you that Camden came in this morning saying, "Mommy. Did you know that Briggy just went pee in our vent."

Slapping forehead! Sigh.....

Boys and their pee.

Bet you can't....

...do this...

This is an online puzzle.

There is a missing piece to this online puzzle. 

Apparently I can lose them here too.

Can you?