Humans are food?

N: We aren’t human beans, are we?
Me: Yes, we are human beings.
N: No we aren’t; I said human BEANS.
N: Are we human corn ears? Are we, mama?
Me: GO EAT, crazy child.


T has decided Pepper, our dog, is his cow, and is trying to herd her into a “cage” that he made. (He tried, and failed, to lasso her earlier. She thought it was much fun.) He’s walking back and forth to the “cage”, trying to get Pepper to follow, saying “Pepper! In, in, IN PEPPER! Pepper, come in! Cow, cow, cow! Follow me in, Cow!” N, who is almost 8, tells him that we don’t put cows in cages; they belong in barns. T says that we do put PET cows in cages. Hard to argue with, he is.

(FTR, yes, they do know that meat comes from animals. T tells us, whenever we have chicken, that the chickens died so we could eat them. Sometimes he says they died happily, which we’re not so sure about. We don’t make a big deal about the animal/meat connection, though, because N is the sort who would turn veg if he thought too much about it and I just don’t want to go there yet. Because it is, of course, all about me.)

Did I ever mention that I never thought I’d need to say things like “Please don’t break that, and don’t break your brother either!”? Oy.

What is it with this kid?

We’re engaged in a power struggle over food, as usual. He wants the pumpkin bread, and I want him to eat something healthy first. He comes over to me, looks at me determinedly, and says:
“Mama, I command you to show me where the last piece of pumpkin bread is.”

I’m so glad he’s not overly dramatic.

I just told T he couldn’t have a yogurt stick until he ate his chicken sandwich. (You have to eat something healthy before you get to the pure crap.)

He looks at me, screws up his face, and STOMPS away, declaring “Then I’m not going to eat anything for the REST OF MY LIFE.”

(Did I mention that he stomped over to the table, carrying the sandwich, and proceeded to eat half of it? :) Silly boy… )

He’s just like me.

I tend to have trouble, in the moment, differentiating between reality and a dream. As, for example, when I woke my husband up screaming because a man with a tomato cage was attacking me. (In my defense, I was pregnant at the time and pregnancy tends to lead to “interesting” dreams.)

So about 3:30 this morning, T crawls into bed with us, crying. I can tell by the sound that it’s not a life-threatening issue, whatever it is, so my WAKE UP RIGHT NOW Mama Adrenalin doesn’t kick in. I ask him what’s wrong, groggily. He tells me his foot is broken. I mumble something reassuring and he keeps crying. Mumble, cry, repeat. Finally I realize I need to actually wake up and deal with the situation, and I ask him what’s wrong and focus on the answer. “My foot is broken,” he tells me, in the most distraught voice imaginable. “What do you need,” I ask. “Turn on the big light and look at it,” he sniffs, pathetically. So I reach up and turn on the light and we look at his foot together (well, he looks and I sort of blearily point my eyes in what I hope is the right direction). He looks up at me and, with a huge, relieved smile, says “it was just a DREAM!”

Clearly my son. The not-going-back-to-sleep until 6 am, part, though, must come from the milkman, because neither his father nor I would have any trouble with that if not for the squirming talking alien being in our bed. (My husband was actually off to the Albuquerque Balloon Festival bright and early, so he was less bothered by the whole scenario. Thankfully.)