The one in which I have failed to train him properly for his future wife

The other night, I was in my bathroom washing the make-up off my face. McKay came in and a conversation ensued that went a little something like this:

McKay: "What are you doing?"

Me: "Washing my make-up off."

McKay: "Do you even wear make-up?"

Me: "Um, yeah. I wear a lot."

McKay: "I don't like it when girls wear a lot of make-up. You should just be natural. It would look better. Don't wear it anymore."

I finished washing and showed him the horror that is me au naturale. He wrinkled up his nose, made a face, and said:

"Um, never mind. I think you should wear some. Maybe even a lot."

Redefining classy

Chase has recently begun sprouting the beginnings of a mustache on his upper lip.

It is thrilling to everyone, of course, except his older brother, who - for reasons known only to the gods of manliness - is lacking a mustache of his own.

[That, and the fact that Chase is now taller than him, has become the bane of his very troubled existence.]

Last night at dinner the ever-palatable topic of the 'Stache came up yet again. Chase was asking me if the Husband has to shave every day, and how quickly the stubble grows back in. When he found out that it indeed does grow everyday if you don't shave it, he seemed pleased.

Then he said, "Yeah, I think I'm going to grow a two-foot long beard. They're just so classy."

Classy? Probably not the Vogue magazine definition of the word.

But I'd say it definitely suits him.

Of muscles and men

The other day, my kids were flexing their bicep muscles and showing off to each other. Not one to be outdone, I lifted my shirt sleeve and showcased my own muscles.

Or lack thereof.

The Husband laughed, in a polite sort of way, and felt the proffered muscle. Finding my arm lacking muscles of any sort, he started pinching around as if trying to solve the riddle of the missing bicep. What he did find in abundance, apparently, was a good deal of the squishy old lady flab underneath my arm.

The slight look of horror on his face told me he might not be too impressed.

I kindly offered to keep ALL my jiggly bits from his sight and touch, lest they gross him out and affect his ability to concentrate in meetings at work.

He suddenly found within himself and professed an undying love for ALL my body parts.

Especially the jiggly ones.

Imagine that.

Something about an apple? Not falling too far from...what was it exactly?

A few days ago, while driving in the car to church, the boys were bickering and competing with each other over highly controllable things like height and shoe size. Fed up with it, the Husband settled the debate for them with the following statement:

"Relax, boys. Your life is not a competition. But if it was? You'd both be losing to me anyway."

THAT, my friends, is exactly why I married him.

Revenge is a dish best served covered in chocolate frosting

When Hannah was about two, she got into a little bit of trouble.

I found her one afternoon, standing at the open door of the fridge, eating fistfuls of cake.

From a seven-layer, made-from-scratch, five-hours-worth-of-my-life cake.

[Okay, maybe it was only a two-layer cake. I exaggerate.]

But it took a really long time to make, and was resting comfortably in the fridge for the Husband's birthday celebration that night.

That is, until baby girl got to it:

[Not the actual photo. I am sure I was too busy yelling and squawking to actually pull out the camera and document the crime. But you get the general idea - a happy, guilty, adorable chocolate face.]

So, last weekend, when my three children worked together to make a cake, I laughed really hard when we all discovered that someone had done this:

[No, it wasn't me. ]

It was someone who's name rhymes with Bosh. Also known as the Flusband.

I think it's one of those full-circle moments that make parenting worthwhile, don't you?

Irony

Hannah came running in, her cheeks flushed and her face set. She sighed, an exasperated release of air coming from her tiny chest.

I waited, stifling a grin.

She sighed again, looked at me and rolled her eyes, just willing me to beg it out of her.

Practiced in the art that is Hannah, again, I waited.

Impatient, she burst out, "Mommmmm! The boys called me a tattle-tale!"

I am not sure which offended her more - the boys' description of her; or me, doubled over with laughter, rolling around on the floor, unable to punish them for their keen ability to hit the nail right on the head.