After years of begging & pleading, my husband managed to grow in a bit of something that resembled a goatee. He’s not a hairy man, so this was not an easy or quickly accomplished feat. I was in heaven.
We took a few days off for vacation. We didn’t go anywhere. We just had plans to picnic and get some things done around the house. Little did I know, that my husband’s plans included facial alteration. He came downstairs one morning, clean shaven. I was aghast. For the past 5 years he’s had this goatee, and suddenly, in the blink of an eye, it was gone. I stared, mouth agape. I gave him my “angry eyes”.
“What?!?”
“Oh, you know what you did. I’m not happy.” Funny how one can decide they have a say into another person’s grooming, but I did. Apparently, I was not the only one in the house who had also made this decision…
My two-year-old toddled out of her room [now, to give you some background on this little one, she’s my sunshine. Literally. She’s fair skinned, tow-headed and has bright blue eyes and this hilarious and happy disposition. She speaks her mind and goes after what she wants – it also helps that she is a beast, standing near as tall as her four-year-old brother, and weighing in at five pounds more.] She took one look at her Daddy and scrunched up her face. Oh, this was going to be good!
“Where is your goatee, Daddy? Is it in the kitchen? [lmao, no idea where that came from, but apparently, she believes all good things reside in the kitchen…smart kid] YOU GO GET IT BACK! RIGHT. NOW.” And with that, she pointed in the direction of the kitchen and stared at her father with her harshest face.
He looked at me, and gave me this face as if to say I had put her up to that. I snickered, “Guess you’re going to have to grow it back…” I walked from the room, trying to hide my laughter.
About a week later, the goatee was back (it was still a work in progress, but the hint of it was there). My daughter finally noticed, “Daddy, your goatee! [he scooped her up and she rubbed her fingers on it] It’s back! Did you find it in the kitchen?” She nodded her head as if to reaffirm to herself that this was a perfectly acceptable place to lose, then find, a goatee. If this truly is the case, I really hope I don’t stumble upon any lost ones in the dark. That could be disastrous…
Friday, October 7, 2011
Friday, September 30, 2011
Just a Stone's Throw...
Today I pulled into my driveway to see my nanny still there. This I expected. What I did not expect was to find my husband home before me. Oh, AND the nanny still there. She greeted me at my car parked haphazardly on the front lawn (yeah, our neighbors love how ghetto we are). “Hey, I know I’ve said if one of our parents shows up unannounced check with me before leaving – but thank God you stayed here until I got home…I don’t trust that guy (pointing at my husband) with my kids,” I joked.
Here is the part where she informed me that my brilliant son shoved a pebble up his nose. Really?!? Oh, my God. I did the first thing any self-respecting parent would do considering no one was screaming or bleeding: I laughed. And laughed. She explains it wasn’t big and that BJ was waiting for the Doctor’s office to call him back with instructions on what to do next (I make a snide comment about him being too young to know how to make an impressive enough ‘Snot Rocket’ to launch said pebble). My son was sitting next to him, happy as a clam, on our brick stairs. I looked at him and asked if he was ok. He pondered this for a moment…
“Mommy, why did the chicken cross the road?”
At this point, I had to turn around. I looked our nanny square in the face and inquired of her, “to get another rock?!?” As she tells me that is EXACTLY what she was thinking, we burst into hysterics.
At this point, I tell my son he’ll always have a future in law enforcement as; according to my parents, my now cop brother was notorious for shoving various sundries up his nose as a child. Oddly, it’s his birthday today. I’ll remember to tell him how my son paid his birthday homage when I call him later on. For now, I need to think about dinner. I look over at my husband holding our phone and gazing at it with severe disdain, and my son bobbing his head away to the music that rock must have been playing in his head. I swear, it’s a disease. I just can’t help myself…
“So, for dinner, am I making the pearl onions with peas, popcorn chicken who crossed the road, and some tapioca?” The nanny and I lose it again. My son replies that my condescending make-believe dinner sounds “fun” while my husband throws rocks at me with his eyes…er, daggers. I meant daggers. I walk into my house still laughing at my sick sense of humor, oh, and at my pepple pusher. $5 more that I owe to that damned therapy jar.
Here is the part where she informed me that my brilliant son shoved a pebble up his nose. Really?!? Oh, my God. I did the first thing any self-respecting parent would do considering no one was screaming or bleeding: I laughed. And laughed. She explains it wasn’t big and that BJ was waiting for the Doctor’s office to call him back with instructions on what to do next (I make a snide comment about him being too young to know how to make an impressive enough ‘Snot Rocket’ to launch said pebble). My son was sitting next to him, happy as a clam, on our brick stairs. I looked at him and asked if he was ok. He pondered this for a moment…
“Mommy, why did the chicken cross the road?”
At this point, I had to turn around. I looked our nanny square in the face and inquired of her, “to get another rock?!?” As she tells me that is EXACTLY what she was thinking, we burst into hysterics.
At this point, I tell my son he’ll always have a future in law enforcement as; according to my parents, my now cop brother was notorious for shoving various sundries up his nose as a child. Oddly, it’s his birthday today. I’ll remember to tell him how my son paid his birthday homage when I call him later on. For now, I need to think about dinner. I look over at my husband holding our phone and gazing at it with severe disdain, and my son bobbing his head away to the music that rock must have been playing in his head. I swear, it’s a disease. I just can’t help myself…
“So, for dinner, am I making the pearl onions with peas, popcorn chicken who crossed the road, and some tapioca?” The nanny and I lose it again. My son replies that my condescending make-believe dinner sounds “fun” while my husband throws rocks at me with his eyes…er, daggers. I meant daggers. I walk into my house still laughing at my sick sense of humor, oh, and at my pepple pusher. $5 more that I owe to that damned therapy jar.
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