I didn't realize I was alive during the Civil War?

Well, it's that time again. Time for another fantabulous story about the halfling. It's a rare occasion that someone other than myself is privy to his humorous zingers, so it is especially nice when a friend (real or imaginary) is there to bear witness.

We were enjoying a heart healthy meal at McDonald's the other day, and were preparing to leave the impeccably clean Play Place to go home. The halfling, being ever the sport about leaving, was stalling.

Stalling is an art form, and he is a master artist.

If you haven't learned to properly stall by the time you can walk, you never will. Only the best and brightest children learn how to stall so that it appears they are not stalling at all. Only a wise Mother knows what the hell is really going on.

Like, for example, this scenario:

Mom: "It's time for bed, I'll tuck you in!"
Child: "I really like cuddling with you."
Mom:"OK, you can watch one more TV show."

The kid is obviously stalling. Sure, an optimist type mother likes to think that her child really likes cuddling with her. But the smart Mom knows that the little shit just wants to watch another TV show.

I am a smart Mom.

But, I am sure you already knew that.

Normally, the task of putting on shoes and socks takes about 1-2 minutes. The "expert staller" child can drag this process out for up to 10 minutes. Maybe more, if he's really good.

Now, I am not sure why the "putting on of shoes" task was chosen this bright, sunny day to prolong the playing experience at McDonald's.... Hiding at the top of the McDonald's Play Place and refusing to come down would have been much more effective. God knows I am not crawling my fat ass up there to drag him down. I'll be more than happy to order me a McFlurry and wait until the little freak gets hungry, has to pee, or tires of the cramped, smelly walls of that plastic wonderland. And I am not against enlisting another child to go up there and drag his ass down.

Today, the halfling decided that taking 3o minutes to put his shoes on was the best route to stay at McDonald's to play.

I was tired and annoyed. I was ready to leave.

While I was waiting for the "expert staller" to finish the shoe and sock charade, my friend Jessica and I were talking about the 1980's. I can't remember what brought up the subject, but it piqued the halfling's interest.

He asked when I was born.

I told him I was born in 1977.

And he rolled his eyes and gawked. Then he said this:

"Ugh, was that like during the Civil War?"

Why yes! Yes it was!

Little Fucker.

I made him walk barefoot to the car for that one.

I feel so *stupid*

So, we all decided to go eat Japanese food last night for a belated birthday dinner celebrating yours truly. If you've read any of my blog, you might have guessed that I love all things Japanese. Well, I love Bento Boxes and Japanese food...what fat girl doesn't?!

Except Sushi

I'd rather eat the raw flesh from my arm than put the raw flesh of a sea animal down my throat....yeah, yeah...it's a "delicacy" or whatever.

I get it, I get it.... I think the Japanese created it because it was easier than cooking with fire and pots and pans. Maybe they were out of logs for the fire? Maybe it had been raining? Maybe they didn't want to dirty up a nice clean kitchen....I know I've avoided cooking for that very reason many times. Maybe the gas company turned off their gas for not paying the bill?

I'd rather eat Kraft Macaroni and Cheese from a box, you know, WHERE FOOD IS SUPPOSED TO COME FROM. I don't know about you, but I like my food full of preservatives and chemicals...that is how God intended it to be ingested.

Anyway, the fourthling was intrigued by the swinging of knives and the fire pit for...oh, about 30 seconds....and then the nuclear meltdown began. He wanted his food like 20 minutes ago. I, of course, being the stellar Mom that I am, began scrambling to find anything to stuff into his mouth to stop the crying. Being ever prepared, I found absolutely no food in his diaper bag, but I did find 2 Matchbox Cars and a sock. Sock? Mouth? Tempting. But, no.

The Waitress came to our "grill" and started asking what we wanted to drink. I pleaded with her and the conversation went as follows:

Waitress: "What would you like to drink?"

Me: "I'll have a gallon jug of your Mt. Fuji Mai Tai." I continued, "Do you have any crackers or anything I can give this child that doesn't belong to me that is screaming at the top of his lungs?"

Waitress: (Laughing nervously) "No, we stopped ordering crackers months ago. Sorry!"

Me: (Getting desperate now) "You don't have anything? Bread, Noodles? Nothing? I'll take anything, seriously!"

Waitress: "No, I'm sorry...we don't have anything. Well, we have rice crackers, but they are really spicy."

The fourthling begins to up his game plan at this point and has reverted to the tried and true arching of the back and flailing of the arms and legs.

Me: "Oh, Do you have any fortune cookies? I'm desperate here!"

And this is where it gets good...

Waitress: (In her most condescending voice ever) "No, sweetie...that's CHINESE not JAPANESE."

Now, I am not an Asian Retard. I know that fortune cookies are a CHINESE tradition, but I also know that I have been to a Japanese restaurant that has handed out fortune cookies at the end of the meal.

Had I remembered my "Asian Culture" hat that night, I would have avoided this "faux pas", but I was desperate to stuff FOOD in the fourthlings mouth so that other people could enjoy their meal in peace. I didn't care where that food came from at that point in time: China, Japan, Guam, hell...I would have settled for Tajikistan.

Excuse e moi!

Or

Shitsurei shimasu!

Touche!

Farts. Yes, I said it....FARTS.

Living with nothing but organisms of the male species in this vast lonesome valley of estrogen I call home, I have come to accept that farts are like treasured precious pearls gathered from the furthest, most remote Tahitian Island.

Farts are funny, it seems. Small ones, big ones, wet ones, long and short ones....they all bring joy to even the smallest male in the house. The Fourthling can barely contain his excitement when he rips a big one.

Now, I like a good long fart just as much as the next fat girl eating at the all you can eat buffet, but only because I feel like I've just lost 10 pounds in relieving my digestive system of such ghastly nuisances.


I don't enjoy doing it.

I don't like the smell.

I just like the after effect. Who doesn't?!

The Halfling, being of sound age and mind, is especially fond of farts. He's 7, all he has are farts to entertain him. If it is not coming out of his ass, it's his fucking mouth. I have to constantly remind him the no one else thinks fart noises are funny. Just him. All by his lonesome. A boy and his farts.

I can hear him in his bed at night giggling and farting his way into a dreamland.

And then there is the digital camera that records 15 second videos. While cleaning out his room, I found it filled with nothing but videos of him making fart noises and laughing. And there were a few videos of real farts and more laughs. And then there was a video of his BFF Kevin farting.

And don't get me started on armpit farts.

This is a current intelligent conversation I had with him:
Me (The Mom): "Oh, Halfling...Did you fart in the car again? It stinks!"
The Halfling: "No, it was The Fourthling!"
Me: "No, that is NOT a Fourthling fart, you did it. Own up to it!"
The Halfling: "I can't help it. I just love farting and I love the smell so much!"
Me: (Rolling Eyes)

Now, don't be disturbed that I know the difference between The Fourthling's farts and The Halfling's farts. It's a Mom thing.

(I think)

(Or at least I tell myself that)

(I might also add here that I have a very sensitive nose)

Besides, I am appalled that my son, the very creature I gave birth to 7 years ago, likes the smell of his farts. Sick.

And before you (general you) get all on your high horse about "potty words". Yes, we use potty words in great abundance in our house. Fart, pee, poopy, stinky face, poopy pants, poo poo face, peepee lover, etc. are all used and well-loved. Go ahead and call DFACS on me. I'm ready. Just make sure you turn yourself in for not having a fucking sense of humor. *Smooches!*

I may never fully understand the male species and thier obsession with the things that exit their asses, mouths, and armpits... but I do know this: farts are not funny, unless they are blog material.

And that is totally different.

Totally.