Today’s post is a writing challenge. This is how it works: participating bloggers picked 4 – 6 words or short phrases for someone else to craft into a post. All words must be used at least once and all the posts will be unique as each writer has received their own set of words. That’s the challenge, here’s a fun twist; no one who’s participating knows who got their words and in what direction the writer will take them. Until now. At the end of this post you’ll find links to the other blogs featuring this challenge. Check them all out, see what words they got and how they used them.
I’m using: Sassafras, Elliptical, Lip, Orange, and Tie. They are highlighted AND underlined for you to see.
They were submitted by: http://berghamchronicles.blogspot.com/
My kids are crazy. Yeah, yeah, yeah…..So are yours. I know. They ALL are. A week with mine, though, especially during the school year, and you’ll wanna jump off the nearest three story building. Seriously. The crazy becomes CRAY-ZEEEE whenever my kids are involved. The psych ward won’t even take them, or me for that matter, because the crazy is THAT bad. I’ve been trying for years to run away from this crazy train called parenting with no success.
First off, my youngest child has developed an early case of The Potty Mouth. She would rather forego the typical silliness of common children’s phrases such as: sassafras, butter nuts, and booger face, in lieu of much more colorful adult phrases she has no business knowing, like: ass face, shithead, Deez Nuts, and dammit to hell. They are used in appropriate context, too: Daddy, do you know what I think about that?…Deez Nuts! You shitheads messed up my dollhouse! *Something isn’t working for her* Dammit to hell, do it! You’re an assface, stop looking at me! Sometimes, I really want to give her props when I know I should be correcting her, but her choice of words are so unbelievably, perfectly fitting of the situation at hand, I usually find myself laughing so hard, my worn out bladder tinkles along, too. I can’t help it! The piss or the laughter. Thankfully, at almost four, she is more than aware of right from wrong and knows very well those are adult words only. Despite being used in context, she only uses them when we’re in the privacy of our own home. She also will tell you what the right words to have used are, if you ask. She is merely exerting her own version of comical relief, because she just loves being the star focus of everyone’s attention, and I find myself thinking: “If this damn shithead kid of mine wasn’t so damn fucking cute, I’d have sold her ass to the Gypsies by now!” Oh, fuck. I guess that totally explains everything. Now, doesn’t it? Like mother, like daughter, you say? Well, then. I say, Assface.
Alright. On the other hand of the diabolical mouthed preschooler, I’ve got this 7½, and don’t you dare forget that half, year old, second grade daughter who’s mouth isn’t nearly as colorful or cute; just completely, and utterly angrivating. It is her prerogative in life to correct everyone’s speech or the context thereof. No little white lies, overlooked detail, or mixed up order of recall can get past her. She will interrupt you just to say you used the wrong word or pronunciation. With sass, nonetheless. Her voice has literally become part of the daily background noise in our household, because she never stops talking. It is easy for her, since there’s five other humans, plus five pets, to talk at incessantly. This girl has even been known to give her teachers lip over whatever it was she felt strongly about in the moment- like, being asked too many stupid questions, she wasn’t being a chatterbox, she shouldn’t have to keep her shoes on at her desk, or my personal favorite, she will color on the teacher’s face with markers if the teacher doesn’t leave her alone about coloring on her hands and arms. Nothing but sass from this one! Just remember, you’re always under interrogation with this one and everything will be just fine…just don’t forget a single word of what you said, because she certainly will. Until the end of time. Mom, why did you tell me that drawing on myself would poison me all those times when my markers are really NON-TOXIC! That means they AREN’T poisonous and YOU LIED TO ME!
My oldest child, now….well…ugh, he’s marching to the beat of his very own drum. Okay, not quite exactly his own, since I’m nine hundred ninety nine gazillion percent damn near positive the kid is an identical replica of his uncle. My brother. Only my kid isn’t yet jaded like he is. Anywho, the twerp has entered middle school and run off with the extra inch of responsibility rope he was granted. His dad traded in the idea of buying the new elliptical trainer he’s been wanting for awhile now to get the cellphone for the kid’s birthday at the beginning of the school year. Something he’s been asking us for all damn summer. So, what did he go and do with all the stolen rope after he received his so badly wanted cellphone which he swore up and down he was responsible enough for!? He decided he was too grown to do his school work, because it took up too much of his time, and he just stopped doing it all together. The kid is smart, proven by the fact he passed any tests thus far, and he’s not bored by the work by his placement testing scores. He’s simply too busy living life to be bothered with work of any kind that isn’t for Minecraft. It wasn’t any fault of the cellphone gift, it just happened to work out consequently like that; I know he still would have done this no work thing had he gotten a different gift, because he barely touches that so badly desired gift- his dad had texted him every day with NO response. He would’ve not done his work regardless of the gift. His service is suspended until the end of time and he’s under my lock and key until I see he’s learned accountability over his school work. If he doesn’t tread lightly, I might just tie him to the school flag pole by his boxers to show him how much growing he still has left to go before he can consider himself grown enough to decide what work is worth his time and effort or not. Just because I’m the mom and I can. I did my time.
Last, but never the least, on this crazy train my children rode in upon at birth, is my second born son. He’s one those silent but crazy types. You just never know when it’s coming. Or how. Like the SBD’s my husband uses to clear out the room on his football weekends. He’s an introverted class clown; though he hates being around large groups of people, the boy thrives on making others laugh at him. A shy jokester….who ever would’ve thought it was possible? I sure didn’t. When he isn’t locked in his room alone, wearing his favorite orange sweatshirt, Camo snow pants, and neon blue and orange Adidas basketball shoes, and playing Destiny on the PlayStation, he is jumping off of the house roof, flinging himself around like a possessed ParkCore guy, and playing ridiculous pranks on his two little sisters. (Doing his homework, too! Unlike his Irish twin above.) When I’m having a no-good, horrible day, he may not want to hug me or snuggle and he may not be able to say something sweet or gentle to ease my burdens, but he will say something snarky and totally off-the-wall to bring me to tears with laughter. We ALL know laughter is much better medicine for the Blues than a hug, anyways. His mild case of ADD allows him to use his antsy restlessness compassionately, which makes me feel super proud of him! Not many kids are able to take a stigmatized diagnosis and give it a positive purpose in their lives: this is the kinda crazy we all can learn from.
Put this combo of craziness into a pot and give it a stir….And that’s my life with these crazy kids. They are the monkeys to my circus and they complete me in ways I never could’ve imagined before I had each one of them. They are also the conductors of the crazy train we’re riding to insanity and beyond….which sometimes makes that three-story building look mighty tempting!
But, if this Mom ever does jump ship, those whacky, loveable, snarky, smarty-pants, too-grown-for-their-britches conductors of mine wouldn’t have their compass anymore. The compass they will need, that they must have, if they are ever to find their way down the tracks of life this train is on…and that trumps the need to escape the depths of insanity of being Mom, always.
Links to the other “Use Your Words” posts:
Baking In A Tornado
By: Kristina Hammer, aka, The Angrivated Mom