Monkey Wrangling, Chapter One

Ok, first, let it be known that my very dear friend M!ke is NOT the reason for this blog. See, he recently started blogging here (check him out at http://www.theviewsofmike.blogspot.com/) and one of his first posts is a list of VERY funny things he has overheard at his current workplace. It's a Sorority Fly-on-the-Wall kind of thing. Great stuff. Still, I've ben planning to start putting my own list of funnies down for quite some time now, and after an exchange yesterday between myself and one of my elder son's friends, I decided I'd waited long enough. I suppose that's my own attempt to briefly (HAHAHAHA) say that, while M!ke's records have perhaps inspired me to move forward with something I've been pondering for a long time, I'm not being a copycat;)

I know that parenting and being in the presence of children are notoriously entertaining, often shockingly so, thus the old adage, "Kids say the darndest things." In my house though, not only do the kids spew forth hilarity with alarming frequency, but so do we, the parents and adults. I have been noticing, over the past years, that our responses to the monkeyshines are often bizarre and guffaw-worthy, and I've often thought we should write some of them down. So, here is the beginning of what I hope will tickle some funny bones, and maybe also help anyone who doubts their sanity as a result of this Parenting Hysteria to feel a little more normal. Enjoy.


I. THE VERY USEFUL FLY SWATTER (Or, The Grossest Thing My Littler Son Has Done. Yet.)

Today my crew spent nearly the entire day in our upstairs, which consist of one enormous room, formerly a loft of some sort, but enclosed by the prevoius owner because she reportedly feared for her children's safety. Apparently, they had "discovered" shortly after moving into this house that the then-open area above the living room might make for some very interesting couch-jumps. Good times!

Anyway, the room is kind of an architectural orphan now, and we've used it for storage, as it is up and away from the part of the house where we spend most of our time. Having just returned from Madrid and its many museums and artistic history however, my husband has been bitten by the Art Bug, and is anxious to get a work area together where he and the boys (and me too, should I ever feel like trying the Visual Art thing) might create at will. Thus, all day long, the pitter-patter-KERTHUNK of monkey feet greeted me from above, and Dad made much progress toward making the area usable.

Among the many boxes of miscellany and forgotten-but-not-yet-discarded whatnots, my younger child found a white plastic "spapper." Actually, it's a flyswatter, and was one of those freebie junk items I get at Real Estate conferences. This one is emblazoned on one end with a green logo of a mortgage company whose name escapes me. Go figure. No matter, because one little monkey was most delighted with his new treasure, and promptly set about the business of "spapping" everything and everyone in sight. Until, that is, Dad grew tired of intervening (and probably of being the subject of a spapping or two himself), and impounded my darling's bit of booty. The toddler equivalent of tearing of clothing and gnashing of teeth ensued, but the spapper was out of service for the day. Except, somehow, it found its way onto our kitchen table in all the melee, where it remained, unnoticed by all.

Roughly two hours passed without significant incident, and I called the crew down for dinner. And there we gathered, the four of us, my gorgeous babes, handsome knight, and I, their Queen, for a royal dinner of frozen ravioli and canned green beans. Blissfully we dined, basking in the glow of each other's presence, we parents gazing fondly upon our lovely offspring with a sheen in our eyes.

And then, the roof caved in. I spied, much to my horror and disgust, the Little One, eating a bit of ravioli off of, you guessed it, the "spapper." Apparently, in his book at least, it is a multi-use tool, good for shoveling food into his grinning maw AND for putting a smackdown on his elder brother. Chances are very good that the item in question has never actually been used for its intended purpose, but no one is really certain, so the possibility exists, however remote, that the thing my child was using to move food into his mouth did, indeed, have upon it the remnants of some long ago dispatched insect. Or insects.

Ordinarily (and I say that as though this kind of thing is a common occurence in my home, which is frighteningly close to the truth, I'm afraid), I'd have snatched the spapper, in all likelihood flinging marinara sauce in a colorful red arc that would later be licked up by our Belgian Malinois, and my boy would collapse in tears and wails and I'd scoop him up, explaining that it was simply not safe for him to eat with that item. Today though, was no ordinary day, nor was this an ordinary utensil.

Instead of actually doing anything, I turned my head away from my child, shielding my periphery with my hand, and looked with revulsion into my husband's unsuspecting face. Seeing that I'd gone rather green, he followed the weak finger that I was by then using to indicate his younger progeny, and upon seeing what had gotten me so nauseated, looked simultaneously ready to vomit and throttle me for having not put a stop to the scene that was unfolding there beside me. The thing is though, I couldn't! Had I tried to so much as give voice to what it was I was thinking, had I so much as said, "STOP!" to my son at that point, I honestly believe I'd instead have hurled right there on the table. The best I could do, despite the possibility that my son was at that very moment ingesting microscopic leavings of squished insect bodies, was turn away and try not to puke. Hmmm, Mother of the Year Award?

Thankfully, their dad grabbed the Utensil of Doom away from the little one, but not before it was used to deliver at least one largish mouthful of ravioli to our child's piehole. Our boy wasn't thrilled to have the cherished and multi-faceted tool taken from him, but neither did he fall to pieces right there. Instead, he simply used his fingers, those on his non-dominant hand, I guess to keep things interesting, to pinch and then stuff more ravioli into his mouth. Thus far, he hasn't developed any new or frightening symptoms, so we seem to have escaped any of the life-threatening conditions that fly-bits ingestion might cause. I'll update if this changes, but I kind of doubt it will. I truly wish I could tell myself, with confidence, that this was finally the absolute most repulsive thing one of my children would ever do, but I know better.

Until next time, Happy Dining!