Archive for the ‘Underwear’ Category

Nevemind that it was still 36 degrees this morning when one of  my children noticing nothing but the sun zipped outside in his underwear to pedal his bike. 

By which time he came in and asked for gloves. 

And nevermind that the sun–all by itself–makes us actually want to live again.  And say we’re sorry for touching all the cookies and licking two before finally nabbing the biggest one.  And hug each other without explanation.  And plan a picnic, with napkins even. And slap some hotdogs on the grill.  And…

and pick a few flowers…

Only to realize there aren’t any.  But since the sun is shining, by golly there should be.  Flowers, that is.

Which was when we got crackin’ on the tissue paper and made our own.

Here we just unfolded a couple rainbows worth of tissue paper and then marked off a 5 x 7  inch rectangle.  It only looks like we got serious with that ruler.  Heh.  Don’t be fooled.

Then using the first cut stack as a guide, we made rectangles out of all the paper.  If they weren’t quite 5 x 7, we used ’em anyway.  Our flowers certainly weren’t going to care.

Then because I couldn’t help myself, I separated all the colors into piles by, uh, color.  It just seemed the right thing to do.

Then my son who wanted to participate by hogging all one color to himself, did that.  And my daughter and I picked out 15  colored rectangles apiece and each made a stack. 

Here are my fifteen sheets.

And here’s my son not about to have the sparkly green paper pried out of his paws.

Which makes for a non-flower.

Only he wanted a flower–

Which means he then parted with a few of the green ones.

But anyway…

Taking the long side of the rectangles, we folded the tissue paper up like a fan–back and forth–back and forth–until it looked fairly unspectacular like this.

 Here’s my daughter’s fan about ready to jump from the table.

Then– trust me on this step–we pinched the middle of our fans and then took the top part of  a pipe cleaner and wrapped it around the center of the fan, so the rest of the pipe cleaner would hang down like a stem.

At this point there was nothing cool about the flower.


as soon we started pulling each piece of tissue paper gently toward the center–like separating a napkin–the flower came alive. 

Here’s the first side of my son’s flower.  I’m still gripping it in the middle where the pipe cleaner is wrapped around.  But I’ll flip the flower around in a second and pull the other petals toward the center.

My daughter pulled her petals up from both sides alternately.

Which worked just as well.

Here’s one finished flower.

And here’s another.

They ain’t be the real thing.  But for today…

they be a little hope of heaven.  They be sunshine in our hands.


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The same child who crawled into my bed this morning and tooted on my sheets and who is now sliding down the stairs for fun in his underwear is also the child who yesterday cried from upstairs like an animal in distress because…

because he’d taped his weanie.

That I found my husband and my son both in the doorway of my son’s bedroom–one of them holding back the laugh of his life–and the other in near hysterics didn’t seem like such a stretch.  Until I saw with my own eyes what I could not have imagined.  And, well, I could only suck in my breath.

My husband informed me, as one who likes to start from the beginning, that he’d told our son to go get dressed.  Only it was obvious that wearing just a dangling roll of double-sided tape around his weanie, our son had not obeyed.

Then, as one who might implode if he doesn’t let the biggest laugh rip, my husband near cried, “and that’s the second piece he’s pulling off.”

Which made me smirk.  Until I realized from the crescendo in my son’s cries that that second piece wasn’t coming off. 

My son had wrapped his weanie like a Christmas gift he hadn’t wanted anyone to open, and, well, he’d done a good job.

I’d just knelt down to help peel the last confining piece when I grabbed my husband instead. “Do something,” I gasped.  “It’s turning purple.”

By which time my naked son managed to unwind the last of his weanie and then curl into my lap to convulse for the next ten minutes.

I patted his sweet bottom.

It was the least I could do.

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Tinkle Interrupted

I sat down twice today.  That I remember.  Both times to use the bathroom and regroup for six seconds. 

Only the library bathroom’s metal door didn’t stop my son from crawling underneath to check on my progress.  Or from me seeing him slip out the main door before I’d retucked anything and flushed.  If they heard me in the biography section yelling from the john, “get back here this instant,” nobody made mention of it.

At home, I’d gotten as far as closing the door and tearing the toilet paper, when a pair of used underwear showed up beneath the door frame still stuck to the stick that had poked them in. 

I could hear the tee-hee-er in the hallway.

Only I didn’t tackle him once I ripped the door open like I’d planned.


I hugged that kid who wanted every ounce of my attention.

And figured I’d regroup tomorrow.

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As our son unzipped his pjs with news  he had something to show us, I was certain it was his lack of underwear we were about to be front row and center to.  And, well, I was prepared.

But he surpassed our expectations by first having underwear, albeit inside out and appearing to strangle what it was covering,  then dipping into his drawers with his right hand and coming back out with a…

with a light bulb…heh…for his night light. 

There really were no words.

And there were still no words after he reached in again and smugly retrieved the second bulb. 

Only gasps.

By which time my husband and I shifted in our seats, pulled out our pointer fingers and simultaneously concluded, “that’s your kid.”

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That it started with a bad case of the undies…

And eventually ended like this…isn’t the whole of the story.

It’s that at one time during the day he’d had these sweats on, and while he was still wearing them, he’d asked if we could play Twister.  The party game, Twister.  The game we’ve had on our shelf since my husband’s birthday last February when we’d thought it was a good idea to spring a hip, pass gas in a crowd and show a little crack reaching for the red dot.

Ain’t no crowd, though.  Just a little boy wantin’ to take his finger to the cardboard spinner and get a handle on knowing his left from his right. 

 Which became a game in itself.  One I could sit back and, uh, certainly not strain myself over.  Here he’s got a good thing goin’ on.  The spinner says, “right foot on green.”  And behold…his right foot be on the green.  Nevermind his other limbs.  They’re just happy to be somewhere.

So here he is, spinning again…

And here he is positioning himself for the 100 meter dash.


Which is really no further away than putting his left foot on red.

Only he’s taking this very seriously.

So seriously that he had to lose the orange sweats.

By which time he collapsed in his underwear on the Twister mat. 

Until the idea came to him to shed those, too, and wear ’em on his face.

But, uh, you already know all that.

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I’d love to tell you we’re all normal.  About as much as I’d like to be eating a brownie right now.  But sometimes the evidence is just the opposite.

This is my son with his classy forehead-bandaid, the one that stuck to his face for three days.  And the one no one knew why it was there in the first place.  Those are his homemade froggy pants, the ones I sewed a year ago.  Ain’t nothin’ they don’t go with.

Some time ago when the weather was, say, warmer, this was our son in our plastic pool.  Which may make one ask the hypothetical… What fun is laying in a plastic pool with water when you can  lay in a plastic pool without water?

And this is our son with his burrito at Los Pinos.  The joy runs deep.

Very deep.

Um…possibly a little too deep.

This is also our son in what may have been the best hiding spot in broad daylight.

And here he is again having  just swallowed a penny.  And now suddenly sure he shouldn’t have.

This is the condition of our butter most days. Fresh with chomp marks.

And this is the butter chomper.  Sorry as they come.

And since I must tell you what I want you to believe, here it is:  I think that underwear’s clean.

The truth, though…  I really don’t know.

And words probably can’t touch this picture. Whatever my children are doing with their bottoms has compelled the dog to do something with his.

Moving, isnt’ it?

And to change the subject entirely… this is the only way to eat ice cream.  Like you’re already in heaven.

Which I can imagine is the best place to be.

Followed not-so-closely by sitting in a brown chair with a pull-up on your head.

We be the Munsons. 

And, sigh…that be our ‘normal.’

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