Get it? Huh Huh? Do ya get it?

Hannah is my comedian. At least she thinks she is.

We were enjoying a quiet dinner. Quiet, because Joshua wasn't home. I don't remember where he was, but all I can say is, it was the first peaceful dinner we've had in awhile. That's probably wrong to say, but it's true. He's loud. He drums. He stomps on the floor. He taps his plate with his fork. He interrupts conversations. He chews like a cow and inhales his food like it's going out of style.  And he gets up and down from the table about eighty times in a twenty minute period. For no good reason. Heaven help his future dinner date. Most of our dinners sound like this:
"Joshua chew with your mouth closed."
"Joshua, only put enough on your fork for your mouth. If you have to take three bites, it's too much."
"Joshua quit fidgetting."
"Joshua, why are you out of your chair again?"
"Joshua quit kicking your sister."
"Joshua chew. Don't inhale it. Taste your dinner."
"Joshua, wait till your sister is done talking, then you can have your turn."

I decided to take advantage of the quiet conversation, the pleasant passing of food, by using my built in snitch, aka Ruthie, to check up on The Boy.

"How's Joshua doing in Chorus?" I asked.
"He's OK. He already has one strike. If he gets two more, he can't participate in the winter concert," Ruth said.
"Two more in the next three months? Or does it start over the next Chorus rehearsal."
"Two more in the next three months."
Jeremy and I exchanged a look that said, "Joshua won't be singing in the winter concert." We couldn't imagine him making it three more months without doing anything strike worthy.

Ruth interrupted our telepathy by saying, "He sits with his friends."
Uh-oh I thought, this is why he's in peril of being kicked out of Chorus. "So, who are his friends in Chorus?" I asked.
"Thomas and, Um, Um..."
"Jefferson!" Hannah said. "Get it? Get it? Jefferson. As in Thoooooomas Jeeeeefferson? Get it? Thomas Jefferson is a president. It's a joke. Do you get it?"

Sigh. Hannah don't quit your day job.

Where's The Beef?

Tuesday morning, as the mist of sleep faded from my eyes, my husband started in on me about cooking up a roast and putting it in the crock. This was bad timing on his part. I understood he was trying to get out the door, while I was still abed. Still, it's not a good idea to wake a wife up with commands on how to make a pot roast. Jeremy took over cooking when I went back to school a few years ago, and though I graduated, he decided he liked cooking and took over the kitchen as his manly domain. Apparently, I don't know how to cook anymore. And also apparently, I cannot invade his space other than to make breakfast, lunch, or do the dishes. If he should happen to require my assistance, I am treated with specific instructions.

"You have to braise it. I bought three onions. Just use one or two of them. I don't think you need all three. Then stick it in the crock with some salt and pepper and a little bit of water at the bottom."

As if I've never made pot roast. I only cooked for the first nine years of our marriage! I sulked to myself. "I won't be able to do it today. I work. I will spend three hours in bathwater teaching contrary children from 3 months to about 5 years of age, dodging annoying parents, reassuring nervous ones, and then I'll make it home only minutes before the kids get home. After that it's the homework/drum practice/soccer practice/dinner melee followed by the frantic prep for school for the next day, followed by the frantic bedtime routine. Tell me when I will be able to make this pot roast?" I said, grumpy, wanting to be contrary for contrary sake.

"You could do it now, before work."

"You could have done it last night. Or gotten up before work. You wont even be here tonight for dinner. What does it matter. I'll make it Wednesday."

"Whatever," Jeremy shrugged, unwilling to give me the argument I was hankering for.

It turned out the pot roast argument was moot by lunch time that day.

I was just leaving the office at work as my cell phone rang. Not five minutes before, I was talking to my supervisor and friend about the pot roast conversation I had when I was not quite awake. I had just reconciled I was going to make the roast, but probably not in the crock, as there wasn't going to be enough time.

"Hi Mrs. ------------?"

"Yes?"

"This is Joshua's teacher."

Uh-oh. What now. I thought, imagining my son in the principal's office. Figuring I was making a trip to the school before I even heard the laughter in her voice. "Yes?" I asked tentatively.

"I just wanted to let you know. It seems Joshua grabbed the wrong bag this morning on his way out the door. He brought your pot roast to school for lunch." She started to chuckle. "He said, 'Oh no! I brought Daddy's bag with me!' and so I told him to just eat his dad's lunch. Then he said, 'No, you don't understand. Dad never took the roast out of the shopping bag. I grabbed that by mistake.' I asked him 'did you realize how much heavier it was than your regular lunch?' And he said no. So I gave him some money for lunch today."

"Oh! Thank you so much!" By this point I was laughing as was my supervisor who has had the privileged of teaching Joshua how to swim and then coaching him on swim team later. She is well aware of his, shall I say, eccentricities, so to speak. "I'll send in money tomorrow to reimburse you."

"Oh no need. He really made my day. That was the funniest thing I'd ever seen. He wanted to bring it back home, but I told him we had to throw it out. It's been sitting in his locker since 8:30 this morning. I just wanted to let you know so you wouldn't wonder where your roast was when you went looking for it in your fridge."

"Yeah, I don't think I want it back. Thanks for chucking it. Thanks for letting me know" So much for pot roast for dinner.

"No problem. Good bye."

"Bye."

I hung up the phone, and didn't think about the pot roast for the rest of the afternoon until about five thirty when I received another phone call at home, this time from the assistant principal.

"Is this Mrs ----------?"

"Yes?"

"Um, did one of the sixth grade teachers contact you today about, uh, the uh, meat?"

Meat, meat, meat...Oh! The pot roast! "Yes, Joshua's teacher did call me. Too funny."

"Well," She began, not quite sure what to say, "Uh, it's here in the nurse's office. I didn't know if you needed it back, or er, wanted to see it for, um, proof or something, or if you, uhh, wanted us to chuck it for you."

"Oh, I was under the impression it was already in the dumpster. Just get rid of it." My pot roast spent the day in the nurse's office? Too too funny!

"Ohhhh Kay. We'll let the custodial staff to just toss it in the dumpster. Thanks."

I'm sure that went down in the history books for the assistant principal as one of the more unusual phone calls to home.

That night we had quesadillas for dinner.

Now I remember why I love Motherhood so much...

It might seem I post about Joshua more than the other kids. There's a reason for this. He's my Dennis the Menace, Calvin without his Hobbes, or any other comparison you might come up with. In otherwords, he provides for a plethora of stories. Not that the girls aren't interesting. But they really don't do anything life threatening. They don't really destroy anything. And in general, have quite a bit of common sense.

Joshua is a good kid, with a kind heart, and charming to a fault. That's why he hasn't gotten into any serious trouble with most adults or authority figures in general. However, he has NO IMPULSE CONTROL whatsoever! Now, I'm told by a sea of doctors this is the crux of the ADHD diagnosis, the lack of impulse control. I'm told that the ability to govern impulses is either a) absent in the brain or b) slow to react. In other words, in scenario number two, we all have a "stop sign" in our brains that says "Hmm, notta good idea. Try something else." In a person with ADHD, if there is a regulator at all, that "stop sign" comes up long after the impulse is followed.

This is why I will never be allowed to have nice things as long as my son lives in my house.

Now, at the tender age of eleven and three-quarters, a mother would think that she wouldn't have to hide things like black permanent sharpie markers. One would think.  One would think that the "drawing on walls and furniture" stage was long past ooooooh about nine years ago. One would think. However, as I was getting the girls ready for swimming, Hannah-the-tattle-tale came running inside with her bathingsuit in hand and calmly announced, "Joshua wrote on the porch furniture."
Wait a minute. Maybe I didnt hear her right. "Joshua did what? Are you sure that was Josh?"
"Yeah. Come see. Joshua wrote all over the porch furniture with a sharpie marker."

So I walked out the front door behind Hannah who delighted in pointing at the porch glider. "See?"

And sure enough, there was writing on each plastic strap of my glider, and some writing on the opposite porch chair. Now, common sense would say, if I had been Joshua, anyway, hmm, I have a little sister. I could draw on this chair, and she'd probably get blamed. But noooooooooooooooo, it was rather clear who the culprit was.

(This is what it looks like after he tried rubbing alcohol, then nail polish remover, and finally softscrub with bleach).(And the other side of the glider)

(Hannah's chair, apparently)

I love being a mom.
I love being a mom.
I love being a mom.
I love being a mom.
I love being...