No Filter, Just Like Their Momma!
Has anyone noticed from reading this blog that I suffer an extreme and severe lack of having any sort of speech filter whatsoever? I mean I will literally say just about anything on my mind, and I’m afraid that I’ve passed that trait down onto my children. I mean sure, they are just kids, and only time will tell if they grow out of their childhood freedom of speech and turn into “normal,” adults, but at this point I’m leaning towards the distinct possibility that they might be just a little bit more… like me.
So in the meantime, this is what it sounds like when you cram three people with no speech filters into one family.
Tonight I asked The Boy Child to pick his clothes up from the floor and put them in the washing machine. Instead of simply doing what I asked him to do (because that would have been too easy), he said “why do you always tell me what to do?”
A bit startled that he has yet to learn the hierarchy of this family, I looked at him and said “because I’m in charge.”
Peering at me, he lifted his little hand until it was directly in front of his face, and pointed his finger at me. Squinting his eyes as if he were questioning my answer, he said “why do you always say that to me?”
“Because I am your mother, this is my house, and that makes me the boss” I shot back (internally reeling as I realized how old I’ve gotten).
Clearly offended at my answer he threw his hands up in the air as if he were posed to catch a ball and then said “well I thought we were friends. You need to be nicer to me.”
He then turned around, started to walk away, stopped, turned to face me, squinted his eyes and pointed at me again, and said “Santa is watching you ya know.”
Although The Girl Child seems to be a fairly bright child, there are moments when I can’t help but remember that she is in fact, only 7 years old. While walking on the track at the gym with her one evening, she made reference to a friend we have that is losing his hair.
“Mom,” she said, clearly deep in thought. “Maybe he should wear a hat or something when he runs on the track, just like you put your hair in a ponytail. That way all his hair would stop blowing off.”
Running too fast, the new cause of male pattern baldness.
This has less to do with literal speech and more to do with the freedom of personal expression, but this little lady has been sneaking up on me all week, each time looking just as frighteningly creative as the time before.
As we were walking past a caution sign in the mall that was placed on a slightly damp floor, The Boy Child kicked it as hard as he could.
Upon questioning him as to why he would do that, he assured me that “you are supposed to kick the sign, that’s why the picture has a guy kicking it.”
Because that makes sense.
You know how sometimes you will see someone and you can just tell that they put a little extra effort into their attire for the day? Maybe their is done up a bit more or their make-up has an extra sparkle to it, and you want to let them know that you’ve noticed how especially snazzy they are looking that day?
Well I need to teach my daughter the importance of how you word things because as I was getting ready for a date she came up to me, looked me up and down, and said “huh. You look much better than you usually do.”
The Boy Child has a very unusual way of expressing how much he loves you. By ‘”unusual” I mean totally adorable in the fact that he makes up numbers that he thinks are REALLY big and will adequately express the ENORMOUS amount of love he has for you. A typical “how much do you love me?” question is usually met with an answer from him that sounds something like “I love you 50 10 300 7 6 3!”
Tonight after quite the rough day and a few too many time-outs, I snuggled him into bed, kissed him on the head, and asked my usual “how much do you love me?” question.
He answered “I love you zero and a half.”
“You love me zero!” I exclaimed, and without batting an eye and in a tone so monotone you would have thought he had been possessed by Ben Stein or an automated machine, he replied “and a half.”
That’s right, my own kid loves me zero AND A HALF, which apparently is slightly better than “I don’t love you at all.”
While I was making dinner, The Boy Child brought a book to me and asked me to read it. Upon inspection, I realized that the cover was missing. When I asked him why he had ripped the cover off, he looked at me like I was an idiot and answered in a tone that clarified I should already know what the answer is, “I didn’t like that page.”
There is no ending for the post tonight. I just went to go move the clothes from the washing machine to the dryer, and I realized that a pull-up went through the washing machine, which I now have to clean and therefore have no time to finish this post.
Seriously, look at this. There is gel on EVERYTHING.
Send help and have an AMAZING week!!