Manners

Let me take a moment to present you with three children, all beautifully trained in the very important area of social norms/manners:

Child #1: I was having a pleasant little conversation with dear little Z when he suddenly jabbed his finger into my left breast* and sputtered, "WHAT is THAT?"
"That is my boob, little punk."
His other finger was then stuck into my right breast, and Z shook his head some, and said, "What is THAT?"
"That is my other boob, son."
He nodded, as if he understood, and said, "Two boobs, mama? Two BIG boobs?"
I guess he hasn't had the pleasure of noticing my left OR right boob, because the things have been shrunk to almost nothingness for most of his lifetime; only to kindly return with this pregnancy; only to give my dear son something to rudely point out (and at) in mid-conversation.

*Do women actually have a left and right breast, or is that portion of the body always referred to in plural, as in "He poked at my breasts"? hahahaaha!

Child #2:
At church with a most proper man who prefers to be called Mr. Goldwell.*
B: (Pointing), "Who are YOU?" (What is it with the finger-poking and pointing?!)
MG: "You can call me Mr. Goldwell." (no smiles)
B: "How 'bout poop?"
MG: "You are B, aren't you?"
B: "Yes, and you are poop!"
Me: "B, we don't say that. That isn't nice to say to people."
B: "Why, mama?"
And I just had to pull him quickly away, because B knows very well that they say poop all the time, about everything at home. And we haven't seen it as a big deal. Poop head. Poop butt. Poop plate. Poop everything. It's a boy thing, right? Don't boys just love to talk about poop and farts? Or just my boys?
Talking about poop (or inserting the word poop into every unrelated conversation) is one of those things, like wrestling, that is fine at home....until it is carried outside of our front door. One should never call Mr. G "Poop", nor should one kick-box the floral-covered bottom of the elderly pianist while she is practicing for the Sunday morning service. (I guess I should be glad it wasn't during the Sunday morning service!)

Child #3:
This child is so obsessed with doing things as they are supposed to be done. She wants to be a good girl. She wants to follow the rules. She wants to make her bed, and she wants to pick up her toys before leaving her room.
So, what is S's ultimate insult? Apparently, it is this:
(Cough, cough.) "Z, I am MAD at you. I am mad! I coughed on you! And I didn't even cover my mouth!"
Oh! The outrage! A cough! With no cover! How will Z ever forgive you!? How could he ever feel good about himself agan!? A cough. With no cover! Oh my!

Easter Eve

I ruined SIX of K's favorite shirts. You know, the shirts he wears, unless they are dirty. His 2nd-choice shirts were all still in his closet. His favorite shirts were in the washer.
I took them out, and piled them on the floor (so I could take them upstairs to hang-dry them).
My next load of wash was a white wash. I poured the bleach into the washer, one of my kids bumped my arm, and the rest of the bleach spilled all over K's pile of favorite, clean (and now very bleached) clothes. When K and I worked at a group home together, K did the wash sometimes. It seemed every time he did the wash, something dark would get bleach on it. I don't know how. He didn't either, so we agreed that I would do the wash. Today, K said, "If I can't do the wash, and you can't do the wash, who does the wash now? B?" And I'm thinking that might be our best option.

We colored Easter eggs today. Before we colored them, B climbed on the table and spilled one of the bowls of paint. I had him go wash his hands. He went down to K's office to sulk, and stapled himself in the palm.
We were about to color the eggs, when Z knocked the entire dozen eggs to the floor and cracked every one of them.
We colored cracked Easter eggs. It didn't matter, in the end, because the shells only stayed on for less than an hour. Each of our kids ate all three of their eggs, and someone must've eaten mine. I couldn't find it later, when I finally had time to eat it.
After coloring eggs, B jumped down from his stool, and knocked my trash can over, spilling all of the egg shells (the ones I meticulously placed in bowls, so they wouldn't end up on the floor and table), coffee grounds, bits of stale biscuit from last night's dinner, and cold lumps of oatmeal. He slowly looked up to see my reaction. I laughed, because what could I say? How about, "B, I just ruined SIX of Papa's shirts. You got egg shells on my floor. I've got nothin'!"