When MD was little, I would write down nearly every conversation we had. How could I not, considering the hysterical things he sometimes said. For instance, one evening, he came home and said that he couldn’t wait to go outside with his telescope and look at the beautiful constipations in the sky.
Or when he came home from school declaring, “Mom! Fried Oprah is my new favorite food! Will you make it for me?”
There was also that time he shoved several small rocks in his nose at daycare. When he told me about it later on that night, he had the cutest most worried look on his face. “Why did you put rocks up your nose sweetheart?” I asked. “Because I wanted to poop out gravel.”
You see where this is going, right?
A few weeks ago, MD, Bill and myself were laying about in the living room. MD had walked into the kitchen, only to return with the video camera going on my phone. He stated we were going to have a “de-bute.” A what? I asked, holding in a snicker. “A de-bute.”
Oh, I see. You mean DEBATE.
I think he comes by this honestly. I mean, just today I posted on Facebook a little quip about my key fab at work. Do you see what’s wrong there? Apparently it’s a key fob. No one is letting this one go either. Hear me out though- key fab. Long A. Faaaaaaab. If it was an O, would it not be pronounced, Fooooooob? Also, I realize I’m about to catch some serious schooling for my lack of correct grammar. Come at me. I’m too lazy to Google that shit or ask Kyle (who actually has a copy of his junior high grammar book on his desk).
I pronounce words differently, what can I say. Also, in case you’re wondering, I cannot say electricity. I can spell it and I know how it’s pronounced, but when I try to say it?
The other night MD was sitting at the kitchen table doing his homework. It was getting late in the evening and I could tell he was getting frustrated. He snapped at me when I told him to quit staring at the light bulb and finish up his math, “Well, if I wasn’t the last one to be picked up today, I could have had more time to…”
I cut him off right there, because I’ve been to this conversational rodeo more than once you guys.
“Fine. How about I quit my job and join every Mom function/pot luck/volunteer/Helpy McHelperson project your teachers throw at me? Then I can pick you up first in the car line too. You know what? I gave BIRTH to you. Out of my VAGINA. I can’t even begin to tell you how long that took to recover from. I buy you food! I cook said food! I let you stay up all night long on weekends, because hello! It’s the weekend! And how many other Mom’s KNOCK on their son’s bedroom doors and actually WAIT for a response before opening? Go ask your buddies at school. So you know what? Just calm your tits bro.”
Without breaking face, my son look at me and says, “I can’t calm my tits because I don’t have any.“
“Yes you do!” I said, hands on my hips.
“I have nipples!” he says back.
“FINE. Calm your MIPPLES then.”
I was actually still in frustrated Mom mode when I said that, but after I thought about the word I just created in my mind, how could I keep my poker face? I couldn’t.
We both erupted into laughter.
I gave him a hug.
He hugged me back.
Life is good you guys, mipples and all.