Try to Argue with 4 Year Old Logic…


My 4 year old twins are hysterical. The stuff they come up with makes me laugh so hard, it hurts. One reason I became a teacher for the elementary grades is because the younger students are (mostly) innocent and look at the world from a different perspective. The way they try to make sense of things is so beautiful and they often have a logic that would make Mr. Spock (R.I.P.!) crack a smile.

Last night, the kids went to bed a little late. The husband and I were pretty tired and just ready for them to sleep. Andy has a cold and REFUSES to use tissues (gag) and his eyeballs were the size of basketballs. He NEEDED to sleep. We told them they needed to be quiet. No talking. Just go to sleep.

We weren’t downstairs for more than 3.5 minutes when we heard thumping, and giggling, and loud talking. The Twinion Conspirators are at it again.

“Wuke, I am you fodder!”

“Noooooooo, don’t cut my hand off, fodder! AHHHHHHH!”

“I have to! It was in da movie.”


I race upstairs, and open the door. They do that thing that must be instinctual for little kids where they flop down on the bed and instantly play dead, like I didn’t see them just jumping around like loons.

“Boys, didn’t we say you needed to be quiet? Tyler, Andy is sick, he needs rest. You are so loud, we can’t even hear the TV!”

Andy won’t stop giggling, probably from the Zyrtec and Nighttime Dr. Cocoa medicine combo.

Tyler looks at me, dead serious: “Mommy, you said we couldn’t talk, but our toys need to, so that’s why we’re talking so wowd. They need to play, not us!”

I’m dumbfounded and impressed. He was right, we didn’t say the toys couldn’t talk.

“Um, ok, well can Luke and Darth Vader keep it down?”

More Andy giggles.

Tyler sighs a deep, why-do-I-put-up-with-her? sigh and says: “We will try, my princess mommy. Dark Vader IS evil you know, and wikes to get us in trouble.”

I wish I were a celebrity so camera crews could follow these two around and capture all of these moments. Then I would make a documentary and show it to every girlfriend.

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Sweet Dreams are Made of…Something I Have No Access to!

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I have always had funky dreams. In color. Bright vivid color.

I had a recurring Freddie Krueger dream from the ages of 15 to about 35 where he was chasing me up an oil rig (which RIGHT there tells you something is wrong, because I’m afraid of standing on a step ladder with only 2 steps), and right when he’s about to grab me with his shiny metal knife fingers, I turn to him and say: “I love you, Freddie” and he disappears until the next time I have the dream.

I’m sure a dreamologist would have a field day with me, but I would be afraid they would commit me to a hospital of no return if I shared too much.

The other night, I wasn’t feeling great, took a few Motrin and went to bed. I started talking in my haze again, which just delights the husband. So much, I’m pretty sure he puts down whatever he’s reading and stares at me, silently giggling while I spout off about whatever.

So that night, I was POSITIVE that our plecostomus, (nicknamed Plucky) was making “NUM NUM” noises while licking the algae from the tank. He likes to do it full on stuck to the front of the aquarium so you can see his tongue thing moving all over. The tank is about 10 feet from the bed, and I started giggling like a loon in my sleep because he was so into the lickage. I wake myself up half-way from my laughing and I hear Jeff say (in an “aww, that’s my crazy ass wife” tone”: “Whatcha laughing at sweetie?” I tell him, then fall back to sleep.

The Pluckster in his "King of the Tank" pose (ignore the poop)

The Pluckster in his “King of the Tank” pose (ignore the poop)

I had a total of 426.5 dreams that night, and the following were the highlights:

1. Gary Coleman and I were playing chicken in a pool with Will Smith and Philip Seymour Hoffman (Arnold was on MY shoulders).

2. I was attacked by the rhesus monkey from the movie “Outbreak” but since I had 13 bananas in my pocket I distracted him and ran away.

3. We won 18 billion dollars in the Powerball and when I was waving the ticket and screaming: “OH YEAH, WE’RE RICH BITCHES!” a gust of wind took the ticket and two days later some 19 year old frat boy claimed the money.

4. I was a featured clarinet soloist for a John Williams movie, and right when I went to play the reed broke into my lip and I had to get it removed at the hospital.  I was not asked back.

5. I sat down on an oatmeal pie and was stuck to my couch for 2 hours and had to call the police to unstick me.

6. I flew to Scotland with my mom and took her to dinner. We forgot our wallets and they threw us into Loch Ness for not paying.

The rest of my dreams are just too crazy to write down.

I Gave Birth to a Clown…


Not the disturbing “IT” clown, or the creepy “Poltergeist” puppet clown that have both individually scarred me for life, but a regular old, fun-loving actual clown. A 4.5 year old clown with no way of controlling his random spaz movements, or about 99.999% of what comes out of his mouth.

And I love it.

Our twins are definitely representative of my husband and I. Andy is loud, a ham, thrives on attention and making people laugh, is creative, quirky, and breaks almost everything he touches.

Like me.

Tyler, on the other hand, is a serious little monkey. He needs to know how everything works, and likes to pull things apart, then put them back together, then pull them apart, then put them back together, ad nauseam. He is quietly funny, likes to be alone in a room of people, and likes to imagine.

Like my husband.

Of course when either one of them is acting like a jerkhead, we like to say the child got that from the other parent. Who doesn’t do that?

So, the clown, my Ando Bonando:Andy the Clown

He likes to break into random dancing like Elaine on Seinfeld, and there’s nothing he won’t dance to. He does the “worm” standing up, then falls onto the floor, does a handstandand just stays like that for a few minutes. I call it Abstract Breakdancing. He bursts into Imagine Dragon’s “Radioactive” while banging on the piano, and loves the beginning of Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance”.  He likes to talk to adults, and he says the most awesome things.

Today, he was talking about his teacher, Ms. Stacey.

Andy: I think Ms. Stacey is engaged. ( I didn’t think he knew that word)

Me: No, she’s married, honey.

Andy: (eyes wide) To the MUFFIN MAN????

Me: (likes to go with it) The one on Drury Lane?

Andy: Well, there is only one muffin man, mom

’tis true, I know of no other muffin man.

He’s also very blunt, crude, and kinda gross.

We were at the McDonald’s play area the other day, and he and Tyler were playing with a little girl they just met. (They call girls “girdle”)

Andy says LOUDLY:

“I smell farts. I can taste them in my mouth! Hey, girdle, are you farting???”

I died for a minute.

He is in love with “Shrek the Musical” and screams at anyone that will look at him: “WHAT ARE YOU DOIN’ IN MY SWAMP?!”

He wants toys and costumes that don’t exist and if he had his way, he’d be wearing a Doctor Doom costume and carrying around a 4 foot Buzz Lightyear toy that will clean his room for him.

I hope he’s always this carefree, although not too much in school.

I don’t want to have a permanent chair in the principal’s office.

Feel the Power of the Elf on the Shelf!

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I did something kinda bad last night.

I made my kids cry, and deep inside, where my cockles are, it gave me a HUGE happy.

They were being ROTTEN, and I WANTED them to cry.

(Ok, in their defense, I didn’t try to redirect them, or pay attention to them, or feed them, but STILL, acting like the end of Rise of the Planet of the Apes, is no bueno.)

So, the Elf on the Shelf, named Shredder, has a lot of power in my house. At least for a minute or two. Telling the kids that Shredder is going to tell on them helps keep them in check for about 56.8 seconds.

We ONLY move the Elf at night after the kids go to bed, on days they are being punkasses bad listeners. THAT way, they know they need to try harder.

Last night, I was on my last nerve, and that was even my last reserve nerve, of which I had about 5,000 stored up in my nerve reserve holder. I was about to lose my mind. I was trying to wrap presents, and they had to wrestle RIGHT THERE.

I was trying to eat dinner and they were wrestling RIGHT THERE.

I was trying to Pee, for crying out loud, and they were wrestling RIGHT THERE!!!

So, when they weren’t looking, I grabbed the Elf off the shelf and hid it in my underwear drawer, ’cause that’s how I roll.

I walked into the family room and said loudly: “Oh, NO. THAT’s NOT GOOD!”

The kids came running, and I pointed to the empty space on the shelf.

I said: “Oh, Wow, guys, Shredder was so irritated that he left WHILE YOU WERE STILL AWAKE to tell SANTA you’ve been bad!”

Instant wailing.

Like at an Italian funeral. ( I can say that, as those are my people).

“I DON’T WANT SANTA TO BE MAD!” one wails.

“I’M NOT GONNA GET ANY PRESENTS!” the other wails.

They were so loud, I shut the pocket doors to the family room, and sat in the living room with my equally irritated husband and we giggled.


The Elf has power. Not like Grayskull power, but that little creepy thing is a wielder of something helpful here and there.

Santa Gets Too Much Credit

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As I’m looking through the 4,678,325 presents I’ve hoarded for my kids since June, I’m wondering why in the heck is Santa going to get all the credit? What has he done, really?

Santa is fun, of course, and jolly. Oh, and he likes cookies, but who doesn’t like cookies, really?

Speaking of cookies: I’m still trying to perfect no-bake cookies, they are either a delicious soupy mess, or rocks… I took some to my Community Band party the other night, and they looked like 10 year old chocolate geodes compared to the others’ beautiful glistening chocolate goodness piles. So embarrassing. 

Anyway, SANTA. Santa, and the Elf on the Shelf that the kids named Shredder (Ninja Turtle fans, not office supplies) are what keeps the kids behaving slightly better than normal in December.  We only move the elf if the kids are being naughty this year, that way we don’t get suspicious 4 year old glares when Shredder is in the same spot from one night to the next.

Shouldn’t the kids behave for ME and their daddy? Why does SANTA get all the good behavior? He wasn’t on Amazon shopping at 4 am, walking through crowded malls, or making spreadsheets for grandmas and grandpas…oh no, he just gets to be jolly and have a million TV shows focused on him.

Where’s MY show? I can eat cookies, too.

The good thing about Santa, I will admit, is that if the kids ask for something ridiculous I can blame Santa for not getting it. “Sorry, kids, guess Santa didn’t have $20,000 to buy you that elephant you wanted!”

Once they are older and know the truth, all bets are off.

I dread the time telling the kids there is no Santa, though. Twin A is so into it, he wants to keep out our 5 foot singing Santa out all year round, and talks about Santa from April to December.

I remember when the Teen was 7 or 8 and asked if Santa was real because stupid little Matt Frye down the street, who was a JERK, told him. I said, no, he wasn’t real, and the Teen was upset, but took it well, and said he thought it was probably not true.

I cried, though. I was SO sad! I remember my Mom crying when I found out and I thought she was nuts! I called her and apologized for laughing at her.

Then I mentioned to the Teen that the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny weren’t real either, and he gave me the Look of all Looks.

“WHAT?! They aren’t real either???”

I said: “Wait a second, an old man delivering presents on a sleigh seemed kinda crazy to you, but a fairy that collects TEETH and a BUNNY that delivers CHOCOLATE seemed LIKELY????!!!”

Teen  (crying): MY WHOLE LIFE HAS BEEN A LIE! (runs away, won’t speak to me for an hour)



Things My Kids Misinterpret # 2 – 8

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So I asked Twin A for giggles where babies come from.

A: Well, they come from beds. And sometimes dorks.

(He’s not wrong).


Teen Who was playing “Gangnam Style” the other day, and now Twin A will randomly burst into: “OTA Gunner Stah!” and do the Ota Gunner Stah dance.


Twin B: Mommy, my cup is dirty, can you put it inna worshang masheem?


I have a popcorn masheem, er, machine in my kitchen. The kids cannot say “popcorn”, it’s always: “pawcones”, which is what Mr. Who calls it now, too.

——————-Pawcone Masheem

Back in the day, the kids pronounce the “ed” at the words, saying “it” which was neverendingly hysterical, such as: “I poopit”, “That stinkit”,  which is another thing that Mr. Who says now.


Currently, they add “t” to words that end in “n”, and we cannot figure out why, for example: “I’m gonna wint!” or “Look at that mant”.


It’s funnier, too when they correct each other, incorrectly.

B: It’s Capin Amerita!

A: It’s not Amerita, it’s Mare-ca.

B: That’s what I said!

I Might Be the Real-Life Sarah Connor…(without the muscles)


I think my youngest (by 20 seconds) child is from the future. Bear with me here, it will become clear.

He has been extremely irritating today, and I KNOW it’s on purpose. He wants to break me. He wants to see me crack.

Today my oldest gave him a doll action figure of Captain Jack Sparrow, not as cute as The Depp, but he will do.

Twin B asked me about 5,708 times today what the name of the doll action figure was. It went something like this:

Twin: What’s he’s name? (spelling is correct)

Me: Captain Jack Sparrow

Twin: (waves toy in his hand) This guy?

Me: Yes, that guy is Captain Jack Sparrow.

Twin: Ohhh, ok. It’s Jack Bruce Wayne.

Me: Um, no, it’s Jack Sparrow.

Twin: (waves toy in hand) This guy?

Me: YES, that guy, right there, IN YOUR HAND, is Captain Jack Sparrow.

3 minutes go by

Twin: What’s he’s name?

Round 2

10 minutes later Round 3

By Round 456, I started telling him the doll’s action figure’s name was Captain Bumblebee Bubblehead (which is HILARIOUS to hear people say) it occurred to me that he is an evil genius, a mastermind, if you will.

I am obviously going to do something seriously important soon, something WORLD CHANGING, and he was sent here, from the future, to break me. He may not be the Terminator, but he’s definitely the Terrorizer.

I hear him talking to himself at night, and it’s often a strange babble. I’m positive he’s communicating with his cronies from the future telling them all the things he did to me that day to make me crazy.

Mr. Who, guffawed at that suggestion, and assured me that my child is just a 4 year old child that likes to torture his mom, you know, like most 4 year olds.

Good theory, Mr. Who, but we will see who’s guffawing when I save the world.

If he’s lucky I will make him a minion.

Older Entries


The Good Things Black People Do, Give and Receive All Over The World

Humanity Death Watch

The Future Is Funny


I Have No Filter!

Dear Crazy Kids,

(A note from Mom)

Greg Gotti

The writings of an American somebody


prattles on the pathos of parenting

Jenny Kanevsky


Pick Any Two

Because moms can do anything, but not everything.

Love Marriage Worms

and other absurdities

Storytime with John

Pull up and listen...I've got a funny one for ya...

From diapers and tutus to meetings and boardrooms

Trying to keep my sanity one blog post at a time

Perpetually Irritated

Barely Containing My Inner Indignance

Sparkly Shoes and Sweat Drops

Motherhood, Mental Health, Moving Your Body

Overthinking my teaching

The mathematics I encounter in classrooms

established 1975

stories to read while pooping

"I don't know so well what I think until I see what I say; then I have to say it again." -Flannery O'Connor

Journeys of the Fabulist

Adventures With Family. (Making it up as I go along.)

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