Fear No Weevil
I like to think I'm a pretty brave mom. I was a tomboy, and somehow this computed in my mind to conquering all shenanigans the hooligans dished out with ease and style. Total fallacy folks. My kids fear absolutely nothing, it appears. And conversely since having them I have a whole new crop of parental type fears. Some that are even more crippling then my fear of clowns...
One recently acquired fear is reaching into kid pockets. This should seem obvious to everyone. Ever since my kids discovered these little treasure havens they have been jamming them full of increasingly bizarre objects. My kids used to just catch me unaware with the innocent "Mom, can you hold this for me?" That lasted until after the first live millipede, at which point I started demanding to see what was being thrust at me. Enter the pockets.
Several weeks ago a smell started emitting from our washing machine. A bad smell. The smell of belt death. Sure, it was working, but the laundry coming out reeked of burning rubber. The fact that nobody questioned this smell coming from my kids raised concerns all it's own, but I digress. Eventually a small, broken screw was regurgitated from the depths of the washer, and I stared at it in horror. It didn't match anything visible on any of the parts of the washer I could reach. That could only mean it was real washing machine guts, right? Like something internal that a professional might have to be summoned to fix...and as I stared at the screw in my hand Gavin walked by, grabbed it and said "Oh good, you found it! Thanks Mom!" Turns out he had found a broken screw and in his fascination shoved it in a pocket. It had been wedged in the rubber lining of the tub for a few loads before coming loose, and the machine was fine. Sigh of relief.
Sigh of relief followed by the sigh of resignation. This meant I really would have to start thoroughly checking pockets. Pockets that are often sticky, sometimes fuzzy, and always something dogs sniff hungrily. And pockets that have recently been a hiding place for the bugs I refuse to let the boys carry into the house. That's right, millipedes, caterpillars, roly poly's, you name it. Because aside from stinging flying bugs, these boys will catch ANYTHING. After Gabe's pocket full of caterpillars were liberated we had a serious talk about not hiding bugs in our pockets. And they really took it to heart. What angels!
Tonight as we got ready to leave daycare I noticed Gavin trying to catch grasshoppers. I turned to put Gabe in the car and when I looked back Gavin was walking toward me very slowly, very deliberately, and with a very sweet smile. "What's in your pockets?" I demanded. "Nothing" he assured me. And he was right. After a couple of probing questions I found it. The live grasshopper he had managed to cup UNDER HIS TOES in the sandal. Long sigh, coupled with the newfound knowledge that full searches were becoming necessary before we even started elementary school.
I can't wait for kindergarten.
One recently acquired fear is reaching into kid pockets. This should seem obvious to everyone. Ever since my kids discovered these little treasure havens they have been jamming them full of increasingly bizarre objects. My kids used to just catch me unaware with the innocent "Mom, can you hold this for me?" That lasted until after the first live millipede, at which point I started demanding to see what was being thrust at me. Enter the pockets.
Several weeks ago a smell started emitting from our washing machine. A bad smell. The smell of belt death. Sure, it was working, but the laundry coming out reeked of burning rubber. The fact that nobody questioned this smell coming from my kids raised concerns all it's own, but I digress. Eventually a small, broken screw was regurgitated from the depths of the washer, and I stared at it in horror. It didn't match anything visible on any of the parts of the washer I could reach. That could only mean it was real washing machine guts, right? Like something internal that a professional might have to be summoned to fix...and as I stared at the screw in my hand Gavin walked by, grabbed it and said "Oh good, you found it! Thanks Mom!" Turns out he had found a broken screw and in his fascination shoved it in a pocket. It had been wedged in the rubber lining of the tub for a few loads before coming loose, and the machine was fine. Sigh of relief.
Sigh of relief followed by the sigh of resignation. This meant I really would have to start thoroughly checking pockets. Pockets that are often sticky, sometimes fuzzy, and always something dogs sniff hungrily. And pockets that have recently been a hiding place for the bugs I refuse to let the boys carry into the house. That's right, millipedes, caterpillars, roly poly's, you name it. Because aside from stinging flying bugs, these boys will catch ANYTHING. After Gabe's pocket full of caterpillars were liberated we had a serious talk about not hiding bugs in our pockets. And they really took it to heart. What angels!
Tonight as we got ready to leave daycare I noticed Gavin trying to catch grasshoppers. I turned to put Gabe in the car and when I looked back Gavin was walking toward me very slowly, very deliberately, and with a very sweet smile. "What's in your pockets?" I demanded. "Nothing" he assured me. And he was right. After a couple of probing questions I found it. The live grasshopper he had managed to cup UNDER HIS TOES in the sandal. Long sigh, coupled with the newfound knowledge that full searches were becoming necessary before we even started elementary school.
I can't wait for kindergarten.
Oh my. Yes, I will NEVER have kids. Instead I live vicariously through your blog. This is joy (to read).
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