• Who We Are

  • Schedule

    Mondays ~
    Tuesdays ~ Snarky
    Wednesdays ~ Dreamer
    Thursdays ~ Naughty
    Fridays ~ Dreary
    Saturdays ~
    Sundays ~

    Whenever ~ Smokey, Mighty, Eerie and Wicked

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  • Kinetic’s Tweets

  • Dreamer’s Tweets

  • Wicked’s Tweets

  • Eerie’s Tweets

  • Mighty’s Tweets

Why listening to your kids on the drive home is fun…

Like many other moms out there, I am the owner of a multi person mover, aka minivan.  Dont’ throw rocks at me yet, I’m not into soccer and neither are my kids!  Anyway, I do take turns with my best friend Ang, and do kid runs.   I have discovered that the conversations they hold within the confines of the multi person mover is quite entertaining, and always enlightening.

For example, last week I was bringing home two 9 1/2- year-olds, 1 8-year-old and 1 7-year-old.  They range in grades from 2nd to 5th grade.  The conversation started out with my youngest (the 8 yr. old) who’s in fourth grade.  I was duly informed that my youngest is now a member of the “Jason Club”.

“Jason Club?” I asked, trying hard to suppress the twitching of my lips.  “Any Jason in particular?”

“Okay mom, maybe not Jason club, maybe we can be the Boys club.”  Disdain from an 8-year-old, how refreshing.

“Hmm, I’m not sure that’s such a great name either.”

“MOOOOOMMM, that’s not the point.”

“Okay then, what is the point?”

“I’m a bodyguard.”  A slight pause as if he was waiting for some heavenly chorus to emerge at his pronouncement.

Many images run through my mind, and I of course do the whole mom routine.  “Bodyguard? Baby, you better not be picking on any one, or starting any fights with this bodyguard gig you’ve got going on.  I’m pretty sure Jason can take care of himself.”

A really big sigh, and from the corner of my eye I catch a not so subtle eye roll.  “Mom, puleeze I’m not picking on anyone.  ‘Sides it’s not the other kids I’m protecting Jason from.”

My turn to pause.  “Really? Then who do you protect Jason from?”

With absolute pride and seriousness, he replies, “From the goblins, trolls, and sprites.”  As I sit there at the traffic light, I fight back the tear starting to emerge.  I lose track of the conversation for a minute as I marvel in the fact that my beautiful son has a wonderous imagination, which gives me the warm and tingley’s.  When I tune back in, he’s very serious about his job duties and its requirements.

“…so that’s why I have to wear green and my camo shorts, okay?”

I shoot a glance over to see him watching me, dark eyes sparkling, and a smile from ear to ear.  “Run that by me one more time, love.”

“I have to wear green and camo because that way I can sneak up on the sprites and take them out before they can warn the goblins.”

Blood thirsty little bugger I’ve raised, wonder where he gets it from.  “So sprites aren’t nice, I’m assuming?”

But before he can answer, the peanut gallery behind me consisting of one older brother, a 9 1/2 yr. old best friend and the little sister who’s just part of the gang, pipes up.

“There are no such things as sprites.”  This from the best friend. Ah, the sound of reason and the majority.  How will my imaginative child face this one down?

“Yeah, I know.  I’m the one keeping them under control. So, of course you’re not going to see them.”  The ‘duh’ was implied by tone.

Then a very highly philosophical argument ensued, with phrases such as “they’re not real” was rebutted with “yes they are” and the return volley of “no they aren’t”.  As stimulating as that conversation was, I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Look, guys.  If he wants to believe they’re real, let it go.  If you want to believe they don’t exist, so be it.  Here’s the deal guys.  Everyone is allowed to believe what they want.”

“Yeah that’s why we live in America.” was helpfully provided by oldest.   Silence reigns for about thirty seconds, then the peanut gallery starts in on the merits of spaghetti with and without meat in the sauce.

Meanwhile, my youngest leans over and whispers, “Mom, I know it’s not real, but you know what?”

“What?” I keep my voice low so not to detract from the debate on spaghetti behind us.

“It’s a lot of fun to believe it is.”

Oh yes, son, it really is!

Wicked

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