I was washing dishes when I looked over my shoulder to see my son tiptoeing across the kitchen floor, being careful to step into the middle of each tile while completely avoiding the grout.
I asked, “What are you doing, buddy?”
He replied, “I’m being careful not to step on any cracks, because I don’t want to beat my mommy’s butt.”
My 11 year old daughter and I were discussing the insane amount of dog hair our vacuum picks up when I told her that after our puppy dies, her dad and I will likely never get another dog.
“But, you have to get another dog!”, she cried.
I asked, “Why do you care? By the time Daisy gets old, you and your brother will probably have moved out of the house.”
Then she replied, “Because when we come home from Hollywood or New York to visit, we’ll want to have a dog to play with.”
My mom is known for being ever-so-slightly off on her pronunciation of certain words. Home Depot isn’t pronounced, “Home DEEP-oh” but, “Home DEP-oh”. “Nickolodeon” is “Nickolode-UM”. And once, when someone was talking about the song “Back in Black”, Mom started singing, “I want my baby back, baby back, baby back…”. You know, the Chili’s song.
It turns out that my seven year old son takes after his grandmother. Most noticeably, when he calls his AquaDoodle a “croc-a-doodle” or when he says, “I love you as big as the whole, wide wheeled“.
But yesterday, he was more than just a little off. As my husband was eating popcorn my son looked into the bottom of the bowl and saw the leftover kernels, then he looked at his dad and asked, “Are you going to eat those pimples?”
For as long as I can remember, my husband, our two kids and I have gathered around our dining room table for a traditional dinner on Christmas Eve. First, we attend church, then come home and I put a ham in the oven.
The only problem with this arrangement, is that the children’s Mass, in which my kids often participate, is at 6:00 PM…which means we don’t get home until after 7:00. I don’t like to leave the oven on when we’re not home, so Christmas Eve dinner is always a very late one.
This year I tried something new. I pulled out my gigantic, electric roaster and threw the ham inside before we left for church. That way we came home to a fully cooked ham.
Actually, it was a little too fully cooked.
And as we sat around the table aglow with candlelight and set with my mother’s Christmas china, my daughter didn’t let it go unnoticed when she said, “You know, I like dry meat. It’s easier to cut.”
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