Excuse me?

Tornado S: (Showing me his Emperor toy.) The Emperor has a big dick.

Me: What?

Tornado S: The Emperor has a big dick!

Me: Excuse me?

Tornado S: The Emperor has a big dick!

Me: Um.  Tornado S.  Can you please repeat yourself?  Slowly?

Tornado S: The Emperor.  has a. big. stick.

Me: OH!  STICK!  The Emperor has a big stick!  Yes.  The Emperor has a big stick.

Oh, thank God.  I don’t think he knows that word.  But with my boys and their apparent penis obsession, I wouldn’t be surprised.  The stories I have to write.

That’s one big stick.

Problems of being a big brother

I was making dinner when I heard this.

Tornado S: Tornado A, no!  Those are my toys!  You can’t have them!  No, Tornado A!  No, Tornado A!  A, those are MY toys!  Tornado A, stop that!  Tornado A!  Tornado A!  Are you listening?!  No, Tornado A!

Tornado A was crawling all over Tornado S to get to the Star Wars figures.  Sometimes having a little brother is tough.  I should know.  I had two.

Another salesperson

While I used to be eternally grateful that grocery stores moved the toys from the cereal aisle, I have recently found them in a far, far worse place, the baby aisle.  The aisle that I have to browse, read ingredient labels, debate, and finally select.  Ample time for my boys to seduced by several toys.

First it was the rubber chicken that has a raw egg coming out of it when you squeeze it.  They find it hilarious that an egg is coming out of “the chicken’s butt.”  For a brief moment in time, I entertained the notion of correcting them, but then I came to my senses over what kind of trouble that conversation would get me in.  But when Tornado E isn’t with us, Tornado S doesn’t seem so amused by the chickens.

Instead he is drawn to a toy that is exactly at his eye level and in his interest, mini Star Wars figures.  We have quite the little collection at our house because my boys will pop off the heads of the 6 inch action figures.  The mini action figures are a much better substitute.  Tornado S wants them all.

I’m usually very good in saying “no” and not causing a fight.  But last week, Tornado S wasn’t taking “no” for an answer.

Tornado S: Can I have Star Wars toys?!  (He nodded his head and smiled his biggest smile with sparkling eyes as he held up the toy.) Please, Mommy!  Please, Mommy!  Don’t put them back!  They’re mine!  Please, Mommy!  But I want them!  I’ll be good!  Please, Mommy!  Pleeeeeeaaaase, Mommy!  I really want them!  I like them!  Please, Mommy!  I like you!  Please, Mommy!  Please, Mommy!  I need them!  I WANT them!  I’ll put them away!  Please, Mommy!  Please, Mommy!  I don’t want to go!  I want THEM!  Please!  Pleeeease!  I don’t want to go get Tornado E!  I want Star Wars figures!  May I please have Star Wars figures!?!  Please!  Please!  I’m staying right here!  Please!  Please!  Mommy!  Come back!  I want Star Wars toys!  Please!  I don’t like you!  Let’s go back!  Let’s go back and get them!  I don’t want juice!  I want Star Wars toys!  Please, Mommy!  I don’t like you!

Fine.  Don’t like me then.  I love you, but I’m not buying any toys at the grocery store.

God, it’s like the ABC’s (A is for Always.  B is for Be.  C is for Closing.  Always be closing.  Always be closing.  ALWAYS BE CLOSING) are running and ruining my life.  Unfortunately those pleas  did leave their mark.  How does a three-year-old earn more toys?

Toy of Destruction

I like buying toys for people.  Not just kids, but people.  I have a long-held belief that everyone loves toys and wish to have an excuse to play like they did as children.  Some people appreciate this; some think it’s pretty weird.  Obviously I buy more toys for the people who appreciate this unique belief of mine.  Like my dad.

Some time in high school, I started buying my dad police toys for Christmas.  Not every Christmas, just every other one.  I would find the most interesting, possibly loudest police toy I could find and present it to my dad.  He in return would take it to the obvious to annoy people when he needed a laugh.  It worked out well.

Until I had boys.

Until my dad retired.

Bringing home all those loud cop toys.

The first one was a motorcycle with lights and sound, even drove by itself, that my dad “accidentally” left at my house.  “But my grandsons enjoy it so much.”  Um, thanks.

Then yesterday my dad showed Tornado E a police car that activated with a clicker or any loud noise.  The thing would turn on its lights and siren and drive in some random direction.  If it was stuck on something when activated, it would just go backwards.  Another click or loud noise, the car shuts down.  Very clever little toy.  Except ANY loud noise activates it.

Any loud noise.  Like a clap.  A snap.  A stomp.  A yell.  A song.  Talking. TV.  A YELL.

And sometimes it doesn’t go off.  It just goes and goes and goes and goes.

I’ll tell you one thing.  It’s going back to Grandma and Papi’s.

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The Pirate Ship

So of course, we had to get Tornado S his own pirate ship.  Since that was all his little heart desired.  The Husband and I stayed up until midnight putting things together for the surprise.  Yet another Christmas Eve of us bickering our frustration at each other because including directions with the toys is now so not cool.

The next morning, Tornado E woke first and looked at his toys before coming and getting us.  We smiled as he exclaimed over each toy.  After 45 minutes and no Tornado S, I went in to check on him.  He was just lying in bed, thinking, contemplating, relaxing.  When he saw me he climbed out of his bed, and I ran into the family room for the perfect spot to catch a picture of the look on Tornado S’s face when he saw his pirate ship.

Tornado S came out into the family, taking in the magical scene.  I lifted the camera up, focusing it.  His eyes landed on the pirate ship.  Those dark brown eyes lit up.  A smile burst on his face.  He took a running step forward.  I started to press down on the button.  Then Tornado E jumped up and bumped his brother out of the way.

Yup, Tornado E cock-blocked his little brother from Tornado S’s own toy.  Nice.

Tornado S was determined.  They raced to the pirate ship, getting there at the same time.  Tornado S let out a yell as Tornado E grabbed the pirates and the ship.

I have spent the last several days trying to make sure everyone is sharing and not hitting, punching, kicking, scratching, biting, pushing, bludgeoning each other over a toy pirate ship.

Christmas is magical.

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The Newest Family Member

One of my good friends went to Thailand to do humanitarian work several months ago.  Being the sweet darling she is, she brought back a hand-made dinosaur for Tornado E and a hand-made water buffalo for Tornado S.  Tornado E adores Toothy, sleeping with him every night.  But the poor water buffalo got the short end of the stick since Tornado S’s true love is his blanky.

Today Tornado E was playing with the water buffalo, playing with the horns, singing his version of “Where is Thumpkin?”  Then Tornado E left to keep his daddy company as daddy dressed.  Lucky daddy; they don’t bother him when he’s in the shower.  I walked in a minute later to put some jewelry away as the boys tend to sneak into the boxes and play with them.

The Husband: Tornado E was just telling me that he wants the – what do you call this?

Me: A water buffalo.

The Husband: Right.  Tornado E doesn’t want another baby.  He wants us to raise the water buffalo.  It’s going to need food and love, and it will get bigger.

Me: Really?

Tornado E: And he’s name is Horny!

What?

Me and The Husband: What?

Tornado E: His name is Horny!

Tornado E smiled at our hooting laughter and his cleverness.

(And I bet you thought I was talking about the Munchkin.)

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Rock and roll

Back in high school, I had to do a report on ancient Egypt, which I got an A.  During the research, I came across a fascinating book about ancient Egypt that I ended up reading cover to cover instead of the small part I needed for my report because the author was so engaging and interesting.  It was the first non-fiction book, I enjoyed.

I remember reading the chapter about children and childhood in ancient Egypt.  The author wrote about the amazing toys found in tombs, in archeological digs.  There were toys that rolled, toys that made sound, lions that jaws opened and closed.  Some of the toys were very complex.  At the end of the chapter, the author went on to write about how the kids were probably delighted by these bright, shiny, new toys but fifteen minutes later they were probably playing with the dirt and rocks, forgetting the toys, like children today.  I laughed at the truth of it.

Now I see the truth of it.

Last week to keep the plastic grass carpet from blowing away (because our rental house only has rocks for a backyard), I placed a brick-sized red rock on the corner.  It worked perfectly.  Then the other day, Sean decided to adopt it.  He brought it inside, barely able to carry it.  When we tried to take it away in fear of him dropping it on his toe, he wouldn’t be parted with it. 

NO!  My Ra-rock!

Evan was a little jealous of the attention, so he brought in his own rock, same color, much smaller. With some cartoons and a trip to Grandma’s and Papi’s, Sean forgot all about his rock.

Until we came home. 

My Ra-rocks!

Then Sean went back to playing with his rock and Evan’s smaller rock.  Evan had moved on.  When bedtime came, Sean lugged his rocks into the room with him, sitting next to them during story time.  He was insistent that the rocks went to bed with him, but I feared for Sean’s little noggin.  I told Sean we would leave them beside his bed, which induced heart-wrenching wail after heart-wrenching wail.  Evan chimed that we could put the rocks in the doll bed, and he put them in and covered the rocks with a blanket.  I took Sean out of bed to say goodnight to his rocks.  In his distress, Sean ran out of the room seeking a place to throw a temper tantrum.

Sean: My Ra-rocks!  My Ra-rocks!

Me: Come on, Sean.  Let’s say goodnight to the rocks.  You can play with them in the morning.  They have their own bed, and they are tired.  Goodnight, rocks!  Sweet dreams, rocks!

Sean: Night-night, my ra-rocks!

While Sean peeked over his rail a few times to make sure his rocks were safe and sound, he made no more commotion about the rocks sleeping arrangements.  He went to sleep himself.

The next morning, Sean woke me up for a story and juice.  We played for a little bit, until Sean got up and ran from the room.  He ran into his bedroom.

Sean: WAKE UP!

Fearing that Sean was trying to wake up a sleeping big brother, I ran into the bedroom to swish him back into the family room.  I found Sean on the floor next to the doll bed, cradling the rocks.

Sean: Wake up, my ra-rocks!

Giving into this new turn of events, I’ve decided to go with the flow, praying that Sean doesn’t break any toes.  When we leave, I scoop up the rocks and place them in a tote for easy transportation.  Every bedtime and naptime, the rocks are put to sleep in the doll bed.  I even debated on painting them, but I’ll let Sean tell me if he wants to do that.

I’m just wondering if I should be relieved that it isn’t a coconut that will rot or worry because it’s a rock so it’s here to stay.

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The Arsenal

When I was pregnant with Evan, I had many beliefs, theories, and rules for when I was finally a mother.  One of the those rules was that my children would be four before they even saw a weapon like squirt gun or a plastic sword.  I’ll pause for you to recollect yourself.  Pause.  Ok.  It wasn’t that funny.  I’ll give you another moment to recollect yourself.  Was that a tear?

Evan turns for in a couple months, and Sean turns two in a few days.  As I was helping them pick up the toys, I decided to take stalk of our little arsenal.

 

5 hand-held squirt guns

1 squirt gun rifle they don’t know about yet

4 light sabers

1 wooden dagger

1 wooden shield

1 wooden sword

2 Master Monkey fighting sticks (probably not my smartest purchase)

1 foam sword

2 plastic daggers

4 plastic daggers meant for an adult Halloween costume, which are the perfect sword size for a two year old

1 bow with no arrows as they were broken and then confiscated

 

This does not include the kitchen utensils that can be made into weapons, like the wooden spoon I took away yesterday, or the balls, cars, action figures that can also be used as creative weapons.  We are completely armed for an imaginary bad guy attack or to give me laryngitis.  Now my brother wants to give Evan cap guns.

Updated:

After reading Ink’s and Insider53’s comments, I would like to assure you that our arsenal expands and shrinks every day as they bring home sticks for sword fighting, use pens for swordfighting, use chopsticks for swordfighting, straws for swordfighting and make guns out of legos, cars, cheese, bread, pretzel sticks, pens, and various other toys in  the vague shape of a gun.

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It looks like . . .

Evan: Mommy!  Mommy!  Mooooooommmmmmyyyyyyyyyyy!

 

Me: Evan, what?

 

Evan: Can you help me find my toy?

 

Me:  Which toy?

 

Evan: The green one that looks like a gun with an orange thing and it all looks like a bone.

 

Me: What?

 

Does any one know what he’s talking about?  Any one?

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An Anatomy Lesson by a Three-year-old

To minimize the risks of accidents I make Tornado E try when I need to go, so I was a little indisposed when this little gem dropped out of his mouth.  Tornado E played with his Spidermen from McDonald’s as he sat on the potty, pretending to do his business.

 

Tornado E: Look, Mommy!  My Spidermen don’t have penises!  They have butts, though!  They can’t pee!  They can only poop!  But I have a bottom AND a penis!  So I can poop and pee!  Mommy!  You can poop and pee, too!

 

Is it too early to start making room for that medical diploma?