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Gentlemen, Choose Your Weapons . . . Spoons or Flowers? |
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When box springs fail, check out the kid brother! Santa's not going to be very popular at my house this year -- bargain basement clearance sale toys just don't do it once a kid can watch TV. Lament with me. What happens when you lock a Mom up in a house for days with two kids who "dunno" and "didn't do it"? Well . . . it's just not pretty! One Mom's solution. Petrified food in a bedroom can't be a good thing. Getting kids to clean their room is a dirty job, but someone has to do it! Let Mrs. Clean show you how. I don't know why we do it . . . it's like hitting yourself over the head over and over and over -- and we call it the "family vacation." Come relax with me. My children simply have no appreciation of my singing talent, or my dancing either for that matter. Sashay on over here and I'll tell you my sad story. A child pushing a shopping cart is more deadly than a nuclear bomb in the possession of a third-world terrorist! Read carefully!Introducing kids to culture is just tutu interesting . . . come join me at the barre Every mother on earth has wondered
at some time or other where "the other sock" is. Well I know -- learn about the old sock
graveyard here. My son's math teacher understands things like how the math supplies can be short a dried lima bean. Now be honest . . . how do you feel about that music teacher who keeps sending your kid home to "practice, practice, practice" on a recorder? She is NOT my favorite person . . . my ears are killing me! Sometimes Valentines come in forms that don't look anything like we'd expect . . . but they're just as sweet. Read "I Want to Be With You, Mom!" |
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© 2000-2002 Carole Moore |
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His face is painted green and black. He says it's so he'll blend in with the scenery. If that's the case, he should be slathered in shades of pink and yellow, because the underbrush he's crawling through is really an azalea bush in full bloom, surrounded by rows of pansies. |
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"Hey, Mom," My son calls from his hiding place in a clump of cast iron plants. "The soldiers are getting hungry. Can you fix
us some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?" The other half of his force -- his best friend Ryan, also eight -- emerges hot and sweaty from the "underbrush". "And some milk," Ryan adds. The two little boys
look remarkably fierce in their small versions of Marine uniforms. They issue dire warnings to my daughter and other neighborhood girls, not to "mess with the soldiers." Those who do, they say darkly, "Disappear, never to be
reappeared." Appearances are deceiving. They talk of blood and mayhem, bombs and tanks, raids on the enemy. But these soldiers call wounds "boo-boos" and argue over who's the leader. Both want to be the Sgt. Major because
Ryan's Dad is a retired Marine of that rank. The loser has to be the colonel. And when they're not playing soldier, they're playing with what seems like a river of plastic action figures. These action figures are armed to
the teeth and rain down death and destruction on every conceivable enemy. These boys use the word, "kill" more often than Rambo. They plan missions in which no village, no person, no thing is left standing. They annihilate
whole worlds with the touch of a finger and a subtle dash of imagination. They are killers, gunslinging rebels without a cause. Every stick is a sword, every twig a dagger. Each rock's a bomb, their fingers are guns, they
command armies of blood-thirsty barbarians who attack all who move without motive or thought. All this despite my attempt to raise my son without the influence of violence. Yes, I actually believed at one time I
could bring up my boy child without toy guns and the accoutrements of war. I thought that by denying him these things I would make him a more peaceful individual. It didn't work out that way. Fingers, plastic spoons,
sticks, PVC, plastic coat hangers and bones become guns. No matter how much I dislike the violent games of childhood, he gravitates there. At one time, he had no toy guns except for a little tiny cowboy pistol that went with
his stick horse, cowboy hat and holster, but still he insisted on playing games of war. It's a battle I simply cannot win. Not too long ago I took pleasure in observing my son with his arms full of big red blossoms
he'd pulled from a bush in our yard. Picking flowers -- could there be a more peaceful pastime? I stepped outside. "Those are pretty flowers, honey," I told him. "Thanks, Mom," he said. "But they're not flowers.
They're hand grenades." I guess you can take toy guns away from little boys, but you just can't alter the nature of the beast -- no matter how many flowers you stick in their arms. |
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Ever wonder how you'd react in a challenging "Mommy" situation? Wonder no more! Take The Mommy Test and find out what you're made of! It's a good thing there's no such thing as a "Truth in Parenting" law! Telling your children the truth can be downright hazardous as you'll see in Having children definitely changes your life. You go from never speaking of things like potty training to actually applauding it! Let me tell you . . . There's no better feeling for a parent than being there to assist their children with homework . . . yea, right. Trust me . . . The Smart Money's Still On the Kid!
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Home -- About the Humor Writer -- Getting Older . . . Not Better -- Potpourri Encounters of the Kid Kind -- Life With A Man The Perils of Eileen -- The New Adventures of Eileen
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My Serious Side -- |
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