S#!t My Kids Said

I have about 5 unfinished blogs calling my name (rude moviegoer experiences, a funny story about one of my fertility treatments, my tips from our trip to Disney, a blog on privacy – wait don’t nod off until you read it at least!) but today I’m just going to share with you a little something I’ve named “Shit my Kids Said”.   I know, a very original title.  I think that that Linkletter dude probably would have liked my title better if he could have used it back then.  It’s Saturday and you need something cute and funny, and quite frankly, I need to not have to think about what I’m writing, so it works out well for all of us, I hope.

I was going to wait until I was drinking and blogging one night to tell you this story, but I’ve gotten brave in my old age.  Here’s the setup:  Baby Girl and I were at MGM Grand in Vegas when she was 3 years old.  In the ladies’ room.   Where they have approximately 50 stalls for women, and STILL had a lineup of women waiting for one.  Sassypants and I get our stall, and she does her business.  I pull down my pants for my turn, and at the TOP of her lungs Baby Girls shouts “MOMMY!  YOU DON’T HAVE ANY FUR ON YOUR GINEY ANYMORE!!”.   Note to self – send advance warning memo to kid next time I get waxed, or perhaps get waxed more regularly…

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When Captain Sassypants first started swimming lessons, she used to come out of the pool DYING for a drink, so I would pack a sippy cup of juice with ice for her.   At the ripe old age of 3, she sucks back from the sippy cup full of pineapple juice and says in her stage voice (WHY do they always use THAT voice when they’re saying something embarassing???) to the change room packed with moms:

“MUMMY!  Is there HUNKAHOL in this drink?”

(Thankfully most of the moms smiled and minded their own business and one mom sympathetically told me about her daughter’s JK teacher who was asking the class to identify the letter “T” and prompted them by asking “What’s a drink that your mom might have for breakfast?” and HER daughter shouted out “BEER!”, so I didn’t feel so bad…)

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A few years ago, the subject of homosexuality had come up with my stepson, so we had explained to him what it was and our acceptance and appreciation of ALL people.  A few weeks later, my husband was telling us a story he had heard on the radio about a “worst date”.  Seems a young couple had gone skiing on a first date but the ski runs got closed halfway through their day due to blizzard weather.  The traffic leaving the resort was heavy and slow and the girl really had to use the bathroom, so the boy offered to pull over and let her “go” on the side of the road.  After an extended period of time alone in the car, the boy was concerned and got out to check on the girl.  Seems the poor girl had leaned against the car to do her business and had frozen her own tush to the bumper!  As if this wasn’t awful enough for her, the 2 of them finally agreed that the only way to separate her backside from the bumper without painful skin ripping was for the boy to urinate on the point of fixture, which he did.

Upon hearing the end of this story, my stepson quipped from the back seat:

“It’s a good thing that girl wasn’t out on a date with another GIRL!”

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When we brought Baby Girl home, it was the end of October and Christmas was big on our minds.  Wanting to at least provide the foundation of Christianity to her, we repeated the story of “Baby Jesus” many times so that she would understand the origins of Christmas.   One day, wanting to demonstrate to my parents (who are quite big on Baby Jesus) that I was in fact at least teaching her a little about the bible, I asked Captain Sassypants to tell Nanny whose birthday we celebrate at Christmas time.  With no hesitation and a big grin on her face she told my mom:  “Baby Cheetas!”.

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One day, about a year after we adopted Baby Girl in South Africa, I pulled an orange from the fridge for her breakfast and noticed a “South Africa” sticker on it.   Excited, I said to Captain Sassypants:  “Do you know where this orange came from, sweetie-pie?”.   Confused by my stupidity, she said to me:

“Fwom da fwidge?”.

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Before we adopted Baby Girl, a car ride conversation with my stepson somehow turned to how babies are made.  My stepson had a curiosity about the subject, as we had been advising him regularly in preparation that it was our intention to have a baby and make him a big brother.  He asked the big questions, and we answered them honestly.  Upon hearing the answers, specifically the answer about what men and women do to make a baby, he responded with unmasked disgust in his voice:

“And you guys are actually going to DO that????”

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One day during dinner, I became more and more irritated by the eating noises Huzbo was making.  Finally, I snapped at him “Could you please stop eating like a barn animal?”.  Not missing a beat, Baby Girl piped in:



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