Luck for me, this isn't a chronological auto-biography, it's my blog. I decided to take today and tell a couple potentially embarrassing stories, that ought to make you laugh. No, they don't embarrass me, not one bit. These are the kind of stories you keep for your kid's wedding toasts.
I used the exact wording my kids did. It's funnier that way; I also included background for the story in italics.
Growing a “Moose-tash”:
Instructions from my youngest, on how to grow a moustache to rival my Dad's.
My Dad has a moustache. He's worn it my entire life, except when he was in the Army. I call it a Yosemite Sam 'stache, it's big and red and, well, let's just say my Dad's got an epic 'stache! I lived with my Dad at the time, and my youngest was just about three years old. I was getting him into the bath tub, and handed him the wash cloth.
“Wash your face,” I told the little boy, covered in bubbles.
I saw he was wiping his upper lip like my Dad does, down, and out, to comb the hairs, and keep food out of them. “What're you doing, Boogie?” (Yes, at the time, I did call him Boogie.)
“Washing my face, for the moose-tash to grow,” he said, in that little kid lisp.
I have to hear this, I thought. “Uh huh, so, tell me how to grow a moose-tash. Could I grow one?” I sat down on the lid of the toilet and waited with bated breath.
First, you go to the seed store, [where's that? I asked. “Where you get cookies, and grass seeds for Papa.” I shrugged at that one!]
Then you get Purple and Pink moose-tash seeds. [So it's a pretty moose-tash for me.]
Then you put the seeds on your lee-ip, [He pointed to his upper lip, showing me how he would paste those seeds].
Then you put water on it, and then you go to sleep! [“I have to water my lip?” I asked. “Yup, water it in the sink.”]
When you wake up, you will have a pretty pink and purple moose-tash!
I thought about it, and thought about it. It took a little bit but I figured out why he thought you watered your facial hair to make it grow. My Dad shaves his face at night, after his shower; he's very sensitive skin, (I inherited it from him!) and so shaves at night to reduce irritation. For quite awhile my son would tell me that all I needed to do was water my face, and I'd have a beautiful moustache just like my Dad's. Later, he thought my Love was watering his face daily, too (my Love wears a goatee and moustache).
Can't find the hand lotion:
My youngest was about two or three months old. My ex was in the Sand Box, sent there right after the baby was born. I'll talk about the disaster of our marriage later. I had friends over to my house for a night of role playing. Yes, D&D type pencil and paper, dice everywhere role playing! I was getting the older two into bed, and had just fed the baby. One friend was sitting nearer the hallway than I, and everyone else was near the door, or out on the balcony, smoking and chatting. We weren't ready to start and no one was in any hurry.
“Mummy,” I heard a plaintive little voice, “My hands are hurty.” Knowing my girl was fresh out of the tub, I told her she needed some hand lotion. It was getting on spring in Texas, and season changes have always dried out that poor girl's skin.
“Grab it off the stand by my bed,” I told her, patting the baby's back.
“I can't find it,” I hear calling back and a little rummaging. Oh well, there was only an alarm clock and a telephone right there by the lotion, so she couldn't break anything.
A few minutes later she comes out with the most quizzical look on her face. She was rubbing her hands together, dry washing if you will, trying to get the lotion to rub in, “Mummy, it doesn't smell good. It's not nice like the other one.”
I looked at my friend. I could feel the confusion cross my face, and watched it mirror his. What in the world was she talking about? The St. Ives lotion was sitting right there, next to the telephone! It was a purple bottle, for fuck's sake! My right eyebrow crept up and I told her, “Bring it to me.”
[Crash, crumple, Fuck, what the hell was she doing in there?!] Then she came out carrying a small, kid-sized bottle. It was pale, almost white, with a blue squeeze top. She brought it out to me, holding it in front of her like a tailsman. Kids do that, when they bring you something, it's the damned Holy Fucking Grail of Awesome Shit, That They are Bringing You!
My friend and I realised what she held at the same time. His face flushed in embarrassment for me. I wasn't embarrassed, I was more horrified! Where in the hell had that come from!? He held out his arms in the universal, “Gimme that baby” motion as I stood up, and in one swift swoop I passed off the baby and scooped up my five year old daughter.
I plucked the mini-travel sized bottle of K-Y out of her hands, and stuck it into my pocket. “Let's find that lotion,” I said. “This one's no good, it must have gone off.”
“Where's Em gone?” I heard another friend ask.
“Oh, she's tucking in the kids,” my friend choked out, trying not to laugh. There were, and are very few rules in my house, but one pertained specifically to the kids (besides mine, several of my friends also had kiddos):
Yes, laugh at the stupid shit kids do, just not in front of them. Leave the room if you have to, but don't make them feel bad. Being laughed at when you're little, and don't get the joke is horrible.
I washed my girl's hands and got her some real hand lotion. “Much better,” she said, sniffing the lavender appreciatively. Then I tucked her and her big brother in, and went back to my room. Right there, in front of the telephone was where I had kept the lotion. This little K-Y, well, I had no idea where she got it from. I threw it into my underpants drawer, and went back out to the living room.
My friend handed me the now-sleeping baby, and watched as I laid the boy down in the bassinet in the hall. I was nursing him, so I dragged the little rolling-cot around so I'd hear him.
Then, my friend and I walked through the kitchen to the far patio, walked out the sliding doors and proceeded to laugh until we cried. Her little face when the K-Y didn't smell like flowers so perfectly illustrated confusion!
“Where did that come from?” he finally gasped out.
“It took me a few, but I think it was in the package they sent me home from hospital with. It had different kinds of condoms in it, as well as A&D [ointment], pamper-me lotions, stuff like that. I think I just threw the little basket by the bed there next to the stand. It was tipped over, I must have kicked it or something,” I finally got out.
Poor girl, I intend to tell her, when she is old enough to know what K-Y is.
The Baby Factory:
My youngest is fairly precocious. Part of it is natural, as all three of my kids are very smart, and part of it is due to the age spread between him and his older brother and sister (seven and five years, respectively). When your siblings are that much older than you, you pick things up differently than your peers.
He was sitting at the dining room table, eating lunch. My Love and I were making Rice Krispie treats in the microwave, and talking about various things. As was my wont, I turned to my son as started asking “What colour is that?” All my kids liked that sort of thing when they were little, and my youngest, who was four, was learning colours, numbers and some letters. I also asked him silly questions thrown in the middle, merely to make the boy giggle. [I admit it, I'm a sucker for hearing my kids laugh.]
“Well, what colour are my eyes?” I asked him, then dramatically closed my eyes.
“Blue,” Boogie (he was still Boogie then) laughed.
“What colour are your eyes?”
“Blue!” he poked himself in the eye, pointing to them, as kids will do. Then he stood up on the chair to watch as I stirred the Krispies into the melted marshmallows.
“And what colour are his eyes?” I pointed at my Love's eyes.
“Ummm,” my boy peered at my Love, trying to determine the colour. “Brown, green. I don't know!”
I explained hazel and how some people like my Love and my Dad have more greenish-gold eyes and some have more brownish-gold eyes. Then I asked, “Where did you get your eyes?” [His eyes are the exact same colour as mine, and he knew it.]
“From the factory!” my son said triumphantly.
“The factory?” my Love snickered a little.
“Yes! Babies are at the baby factory,” he announced.
“So, tell me what else is at the baby factory,” I said to my son, nodding to my Love, “You've gotta hear this”. I'd heard this story before, even though I tried many times to explain my son did not come from a factory full of machines; I had not explained exactly how he got here, however. I buttered up my hands and started pressing the marshmallow covered Krispies into the pan.
“Well, you go to the store, and you tell them you want a brother or a sister,” he started. Holding his hands like a professor who was going over the same information for the thousandth time, exasperation thick in his voice, he said, in his best 'Mum, you know this bit already' voice, “And then they call the factory.”
“Ok,” I said, nodding for him to go on.
“And they make the eyes, blue or orange or green or red, and they put them in the baby, and then you pick out the hair, red or brown or yellow, and they give it to the baby. And then, you tell the name, and they tell it to the baby,” my son continued his lecture on the origin of man. I just smiled and nodded for him to continue. My Love's eyes got bigger and bigger as he held in the howls of laughter I could see bubbling up.
“Well, then you to to hop-spital and pick up the baby, and you tell it what you named it, and if it is a boy or grill,” my son said. [Yes, he said “grill”, he couldn't say the word girl until earlier this year.] Turning to me he asked in his cute little kid voice, “Can I have a baby brother or a sister?”
“No,” I said, simply. “The baby factory is closed.”
Grinning from ear to ear, he said, “But it is open in the night!”
I don't know where that came from, nor could I ask, as my Love and I both turned purple from held in laughter. I looked down at the table trying to swallow the giggles, and would have succeeded if I had not looked at my Love, doing the same thing.
The second our eyes met we lost it and laughed until we cried; my sides hurt from laughing, and it took me almost fifteen minutes to pull myself together. Tears pouring down my face I tried to ask “Where in the world did that come from?!” but my son was laughing too, although he didn't know why.
I intend to toast his wedding with an Ode to the Baby Factory, and their night hours.