I’ll Hug Him, and Squeeze Him, and Call Him Barry

First, a little bit of a housekeeping issue…

It has come to my attention that there is a possibility that certain ex-family members may be reading family blogs in a stalkerish sort of way. Interesting theory, what with a custody hearing coming up and all. I don’t know that I believe that the aforementioned ex-family members are clever enough to spy on the blogs. Nasty enough, certainly, but clever enough?

If they are reading (which would mean they are trying to find nasty things to use in a custody battle), I certainly have a few things that I would love to say to them. But I won’t, because I DO know who a lot of my other readers are. And I wouldn’t want you to have to cover your eyes and hum the National Anthem while the less charitable part of my brain came spewing out.

I will say this much, though–that burn sounds darn photogenic.

Moving on…

I have mentioned before that I am convinced that toads don’t gossip. This is the only explanation for the fact that my boys catch so many of them. Today, they came running in the house, all excited because they had caught a baby toad (technically called a toadlet–I still don’t know what that makes a tadpole). N~ offered to open his hands and show me. I asked that he not give it the opportunity to get loose in my house.

Awhile later, I see them gingerly carrying around this tiny little thing (maybe two centimeters long) in half of a plastic Easter egg. When it tried to hop off, they would say, “No, Barry, come back here.” I told them to, for goodness sake, just let the poor thing go.

They told me that Barry had lost his mom and dad, and they were going to help him find them.

Not long after that, I told the kids to come in for nap/quiet time. They were panicked. They didn’t want Barry to hop away. I had to drag them in. Especially after I had the audacity to release Barry from his half-eggshell prison.

Quiet time is over. I hope that I gave Barry enough of a head start.


I get these annoying little bumps on the back of my arms. It is an inherited thing (thanks, Mom!). N~ refers to them as pimples. He has, on more than one occasion now, told me, “You have a pimple. You need to pimp it out.”

Bwa ha ha ha ha!

That mental picture is great. A bunch of men with saggin’ jeans, sideways ball caps, and gold teeth giving the zit tiny little rhinestone-studded leather seating. Popping it, of course, would result in a broadcast of some wicked bass.


As long as I’m giving you insight into the deranged images my kids put into my head, I may as well share this one, too. C~ asked me, the other day, to put on Finding Nemo. He did so by repeatedly saying, “Mommy, I watch Emo.”

I couldn’t get past the idea of a forlorn looking clown fish, complete with heavy black eyeliner and a spiky dog collar, writing poetry and lamenting the state of the environment.


That’s all I’ve got for now. Time to go back to the land of mommyhood and my desperate wish for a little personal space.


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