Exactly 2 weeks before his 7th birthday, my youngest FINALLY lost his 1st tooth!  He’s been desperate, and I mean desperate, for this to happen for about a year. 

Late bloomer?  Perhaps.  But blissfully happy and cute as can be?  Absolutely.

This morning I went into my boy’s rooms, as I do every morning.  Although they both have a clock radio to wake them up, they still need a little prodding when the “get up already” time approaches.  And if I’m being honest, they are particularly sweet when they are still sleepy and cuddled up in their beds.  Crabby?  Perhaps.  Smelly?  Sometimes.  But always sweet.

So I head into The Youngest’s room first where he’s sprawled out horizontally across the bottom bunk of his fab new bed.  I whisper a few sweet nothings into his ear . . . “c’mon baby – time to get up.  Did you have a good sleep?  It’s a nice sunny day out there – you can wear shorts today (words that usually excite him).”  Then I rub my hand across his warm soft back.  And I stroke his chubby little cheek with my finger (say what you like – he’ll always be my baby, even if he is about to turn 7).

Then I glance over at his night table.  And I see this . . .

(it’s a piece of tissue, that’s been separated into 1 ply, with strange markings on it)

What the?!?!

“ummm – Baby, what’s this???” I calmly ask as my mind races to imagine all kinds of scenarios that inevitably all contain the word poo or butt.

“it’s a burned tissue”

“hmmm – how did it get burned?” I ask.  Somewhat relieved that it has nothing to do with poo or butts, but afraid to hear the answer nonetheless.

“I held it on to my lamp’s light bulb last night”

OMG!  I immediately launch into a lecture about how trying to burn things, particularly when you’re alone and inside the house, is never a good idea.  About how it could have caught on fire.  About how he could have burned his fingers, or his body, or his new bunk bed (I like to hit them where it really hurts).  About how he should NEVER do that again because it’s very dangerous.

All the while he’s looking at me with those big wide eyes.  I’m still not sure he bought any of it.

Do yourself a favour – don’t have boys.

Ever had a kid set your house on fire?  Should I equip all rooms with fire extinguishers immediately?  Should I remove all flammable items from his room when I get home from work?

The short one in the middle is of no relation.

And sometimes I wonder about the one on the right . . .

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an undeniable urge for a Shamrock Shake.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

Got any Irish plans for the day?

My Youngest is “full of character” to say the least.  So when he wanted to grow his hair long, I obliged his need to be somewhat different from all the other 6 year old boys.  Even though my first instinct was to resist.  Because I like short hair.  A lot.  But you must understand – it is in no way “long”.  It’s just more like “shaggy”.  The back is still at collar length, but the bangs do tend to graze his eyes.  Whatever.  It’s just hair.  Right?  At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

Until today.  When he went to his Auntie Cath’s house.

She looked after both my boys for years until they were school aged, and it’s always a good time for them when they get to go spend the day with her, their cousins, and all the other kiddies she does home daycare for.

So when she begged him to lay down in her lap so she could cuddle and sing to him like in the old days – he obliged her.  And while running her fingers through his shaggy soft locks, she couldn’t help but notice that clumps were coming out.

“What the heck?!  Your hair is coming out!” she exclaimed.

“Oh, sometimes it does that when it gets long” he sheepishly replied.

But she knew immediately that there was something rotten in Calcutta.  And it was then, under some firm Auntie interrogation techniques (aka – his older brother ratted him out), that she was able to reveal the truth.

Turns out that the Youngest, and a 3 year old friend, had taken the scissors to his hair.  Yep.  The hair that he fought me to grow shaggy.

So guess who’s in trouble for lying about what happened to his hair?

Guess who’s going to get the “of ALL the times of the year to be lying . . . 4 days before Christmas is not it!” lecture?

Guess who’s going to the barber tomorrow for a repair job?

Guess who might actually be sporting a buzz cut for the holidays as his punishment?

Little Edward Scissorhands.  That’s who.

My Youngest

The Beaver

Is it just me?

Wondering what to get my boys for Christmas this year?  Let me make it easy for you.  All they need, these children that have everything, would appear to be a balloon.  Not just any balloon.  No.  It’s best if it’s just one of those regular balloons, that’s a few days old, and was found in the school yard.

Why?

Because apparently it provides HOURS and HOURS of entertainment.  Entertainment that no video game could possibly compete with.  Entertainment that simply can not be bought.  This is rare, priceless entertainment we’re talking about.

• Such a balloon can be used as a soccer ball – and kicked about the house or used to practice fancy soccer foot moves.

• Such a balloon can also be used as a volleyball – and be the object of endless games of “keep ups”.  It could also find itself in a staring role on a video of certain children playing their 95th game of Keep Ups, that may or may not make it onto YouTube.

• Such a balloon can also be used as one big centered boob beneath a t-shirt.  Because young boys find that sort of thing hilariously funny.

• Such a balloon can also be used to amuse other people’s children during a weekend sleep-over.  Apparently balloon entertainment is not only addicting, it’s contagious!

We’re on Day 4 now of “Balloon Fun” and it seems to be just as intoxicating as it was on Day 1.  So do yourself a favour.  If you have any 6 or 9 year old boys on your list this year, buy them a bag of balloons.  Apparently it’s all they need.