Noodle Boy is a nickname my son had when he was a tiny guy and I started this blog. His nickname changes all the time. (Don't worry, we keep his real name the same.) He is completely awesome. Read on and see for yourself!

Friday, June 24, 2011

BUSTED.

Sometimes, Mommy needs a break.

So I like to sneak away to the ice cream store after Jon goes to bed once in a while. It's exciting! I can drive fast, with the music really loud and not have to worry about whether or not the F-word is in the lyrics. I love ice cream nights.

Well, I loved ice cream nights. Back before I got caught.

Lately Jon has been wandering around the house after bedtime looking for me. Usually I'm in the shower or out in the family room watching TV. But Monday I opted for ice cream over watching "Unique Eats" on Cooking Channel and Jon saw me leave! If he stands up in his bed and balances just right he can see the garage door out his window, (if he doesn't balance just right he ends up ass over tea kettle on the floor) and he saw me sail right through it with my purse in hand.

His dad tried to convince him that I was taking a very long shower.

He heard me pull back into the garage and was peeking out his window at me, eating my very delicious ice cream treat in the unmistakable cup with the tall spoon and straw sticking out of it. (For all my homies who know where to get the good stuff-it was an Oreo Krunch shake WOOT!)
I was wrapped up in vanilla-Oreo deliciousness and had no idea I had been spotted.

Dave was waiting by the door, pensive.

"I think he knows you were gone."

"How could he know?! What did you say?!" I felt like I had just gotten busted coming back in the house after sneaking out after curfew.

"I told him you were in the shower, but he didn't believe me. He came out here SIX TIMES. I think you better go in there."

I'm not sure why we were handling the matter of my going to get ice cream with such seriousness, but we were both very tense about the whole thing.

"I'm not going in there! Nothing says 'Hey, I've been gone!' like waltzing into your kid's room in the middle of the night. It's fine, he's asleep." Didn't I wish.

Then the unmistakable sound of Jon-feet came pounding across the house.

"Quick! Hide my ice cream! He's coming!" I tossed the goods and met Jon at the family room door.

"Mommy! I missed you!"

"What are you doing up, Booper? You're supposed to be asleep."

"I need another kiss. Will you come tuck me in?"

"You bet, let's roll." I turned and gave Dave the *whew* look over my shoulder. I thought we'd pulled it off. I was so wrong.

"Mommy, why is your hair not wet?" Jon asked on way to his room. "Dad said you were in the shower."

"Oh. I used the blow dryer in Katie's room so it wouldn't be wet when went to bed," I lied, "hop in there."

"Are you wearing you daytime clothes to bed? That's not your jammies."

"Well I forgot to take my jammies to the bathroom when I took a shower so I had to put my clothes back on." Geez, Columbo you don't miss a thing.

"Oh. Can I have a kiss?" Thank God, it was almost over.

"Mwah! Goodnight, babe."

"Mom? What's that sweet smell on your face? Smells like chocolate." I have to tell more lies! And my ice cream is melting!

"It's chapstick. I have chocolate chapstick in my purse." Yes, hi, is this Hell? Great, reservation for 1 please.

"Oh. Mom? I think I saw you go get some Mario (Jon's word for Oreo) ice cream after I goed to bed."

HE KNEW THE WHOLE TIME AND HE WAS MESSING WITH ME! I'M A BIG FAT ICE CREAM SNEAKING BAD MOM WHO LIES ABOUT CHOCOLATE CHAPSTICK AND HAIR DRYERS! AND HE KNOWS IT!

"Yes, honey, I went and got some ice cream." It felt good to confess. I braced myself for the water works, sure that he was going to be devastated by my betrayal.

"Oh. Can we go get Mario ice cream tomorrow after supper?" That's it? No tears? No shaming of the terrible mother?

"Yes! We will go get you some Mario ice cream after supper."

"Okay, good night."

And that was it. That was the end of my late night ice cream fun. Some how the magic had been lost in my web of deceit.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

Serial Killer

Every night we watch a replay of the five and six o'clock news on channel 8.2 while we eat supper. And every night the same commercials are played at the same time. Which is kind of weird, but my OCD loves the predictability. Jon thinks commercials are just really short shows.

First there's a commercial for the show "The Closer."
Then there's a commercial for the News Channel 8 Storm Chasers.

And then there's the commercial for the show "Criminal Minds." You know, the one with the pictures of two human brains side by side? One is the brain of a kindergarten teacher and one is of a serial killer? Yeah, that one is Jon's favorite.

There's something very creepy about hearing your three year old say "serial killer." And he says it in the same menacing voice as the announcer guy, a very sinister sounding "serial killer." OK, I know he doesn't know what a serial killer is and most days I'm pretty sure he won't grow up to be a sociopath, but it's still a little unsettling.

"Mom! My serial killer show is on!"

Maybe we'll switch to PBS at night...

Saturday, June 4, 2011

Jon sweats like no other kid I have ever seen. His head is sweaty, his armpits are sweaty, the backs of his knees are sweaty, it's gross.

And his FEET! His feet are the worst! He has pickle feet! When he takes off his socks and shoes and gets those big white clammy stinkers out it's just awful. His older sister had pickle feet when she was little too, I used to make her put her socks and shoes in the trunk and rinse her feet off before she got in the car after soccer practice. Fortunately the elder pickle footed child has outgrown her grossness and smells lovely most of the time. I think we have a long road ahead of us with the younger set of pickle feet, though.

So apparently, the sweaty grossness of his feet has started making his little toes peel.

"Oh no, Mom, my skin comed off my toes," he told me. "Look at these. This skin is peewing off of them. Why's it doing that?" Somehow he can get his foot two inches away from his face for inspection.

"I think your sweaty little feet are getting too hot in your shoes and it's making your skin peel a little. Or maybe it's athlete's foot." Now the offending pickle foot is two inches away from my face for inspection. Yuck.

"What's a af-lete?"

"Somebody who does sports, like a football player, or a swimmer, or a hockey player is an athlete. Get that stinky thing out of my face."

"Oh, sorry. Why do their toes come off? Do they not like toes?"

"Athlete's have toes, honey. Athlete's foot is kind of like a rash where your skin gets peely on your feet. Your toes are not going to peel all the way off."

"Banana peels come all the way off."

"Yes. They do. But your toes won't."

"OK, good. Can I have a banana?"

"Yes."

"Is it going to hurt when my toes come off?"

"Jon. Your toes aren't going to peel off."

"Oh right, just bananas."

"Right."

"HEY DAD," he yelled into the next room, "I GOT SPORTS ON MY TOES. BUT THEY WON'T COME OFF, SO DON'T WORRY. JUST BANANAS DO THAT."

"Well that's good, Honey," was his dad's reply.

What else could he say to something like that?