Strange Things Heard In Frumpville Lately

Our son Jericho insisted that I blog about the following:

These very words sprang forth from someone's mouth last Saturday morning around 10 am or so, directed at Jericho:

"Get dressed, take out the trash and GET YOUR BROTHER A PICKLE!"

And was met with uproarious laughter on Jericho's part.

We won't, ahem, mention any names, but will say in that persons defense that Jericho had been told a number of times to get his brother a pickle and hadn't yet done it.

When someone is busily chopping potatoes and peppers for a big country-style, Saturday morning breakfast, all while trying to keep the eggs from burning, mixing juice, and trying to get to the ringing phone... and can't get a pickle for the little boy herthemselves and said boy is hungry and keeps asking (for unknown reasons) for a pickle, and so the parent asks big brother to do it for them...they'd better hop to it!

:: :: :: ::

In preparing for our move, among other items on a long list of 'to-do's' we've been spackling all the holes left in the walls from nails for pictures and other decorations in the home we've been renting.

I've been going through things with a fine tooth comb and cleaning like mad.

The first Christmas we were in this house, I'd hung some large twist-in hooks on a wide archway above the kitchen counter/bar that separates the kitchen from the dining area to accomodate some lighted Christmas garland I'd hung there, and left the hooks up year round.

At the end of a particularly long day of packing and scrubbing, Jericho was asked to climb up on the counter and dab some of the spackle into the holes on the underside of the archway, then wipe off the excess with a wet rag.

He got up there and took an inordinate amount of time to do the task, rolling the stuff into a ball and pushing it into the holes.

So long that he couldn't remember what he'd been told to do with the rag.

"Wipe the excess away" his parent repeated.

A minute later, after sufficiently filling the last hole, he asked again, "What was I supposed to do with the rag again?"

His parent's ire was growing. "Wipe the excess away!"

And because the task had been taking so long the parent snapped and added, "And while you're up there...wash that soup off the ceiling!"

At which point Jericho began laughing so hard he nearly fell off the counter.

"Man, you come up with some doozies" he said to his parent after finally regaining his composure.

Lesson learned from that soup on the ceiling?

Never ask a child to rinse off the dishes without first explaining how the strength of the stream of water issuing forth from the faucet will, with direct proportion dictate the strength of the water that will burst forth from the sprayer.

Because said child will spray it full bore into a crock-put with leftover minestrone, a tidal wave will ensue splashing tomatoey soup clear up to the ceiling and every wall within a 10 foot radius making a huge mess to have to clean up later.

Not that I, ahem, would know anything about how all that happened, but, you know, I've, uh, heard about it.

:: :: :: ::

It was "pick on mom" night recently in the Frump household.

Not intentionally, mind you, but rather one of those odd happenstances where several things are said one right after another in a short period of time that leave you feeling a little...well, picked on.

It probably doesn't help that I have very observant children.

They don't miss a thing.

The other evening, after having been packing and hefting boxes around all day long with facial masque on (to clear up the horrible stress-related breakout that I'd been afflicted with) I passed a mirror which reminded me it was on my face and finally got a chance to wash it off.

I meandered into the dinner table sans makeup.

"Mommy, you have owieths all over yo faith!" Judah said the moment he saw me, looking very concerned. As in, "Do you need a band-aid?" concerned.

Hmmph. "How nice of you to draw everyone's attention to it," I muttered as I dished up everyone's bowls of stew, suddenly feeling grumpy in addition to frumpy.

Later that same evening, Judah was backtalking me after being told not to do something. I got after him severely for it. "...And don't talk to your mama that way again, do you understand me?" I stated firmly.

"Yesth sthir, mama."

Sir?!

(Real confidence booster, that.)

He wasn't through with his observations however.

Still later, while dusting the tops of my kitchen cabinets, I must have had a distasteful expression on my face from the dust falling down from the ledge and Judah looked up, "Mama? Are you da montoe?" (It's not the first time he's asked me this particular question, either. *sigh*)

So all in one night I was hideous, manly and monsterish.

Thanks a lot, kid.

Late that night while trying to relax sore muscles on a heating pad lying in my bed reading, Judah came in to snuggle for a bit before daddy carried him to bed.

Just as he was dozing off, I turned towards him and saw that drowsy, almost-asleep adorably innocent look on his face and kissed him. "Love you sweetie boy" I said softly.

My words startled him awake just long enough to murmur, "Yeow bootifo, mama" before giving in to the heaviness of his eyelids.

And all was forgiven in that heartbeat.