Random Dinner Conversations

A few evenings ago, our dinner conversation went something like this:

Weston: . . . and then the fart beans exploded
Me: Please, boys, no more discussions of bodily functions at the dinner table.
Cooper: Well, what should we talk about? Lime disease?
Kimball: How about swine flu?
Cooper: We could talk about guinea worms.
Me: I've never even heard of a guinea worm.
Allen: I don't want to hear about worms.
Weston: This looks like worms (pointing to casserole on plate).

I know it doesn't seem possible, but the conversation degenerated further from there. The worst part is, these same worm and disease loving children like to point out bad manners in others at the dinner table. Of course, their manners are ideal.

PTSD Fish

A few years ago, Allen decided to adopt a dog. Being a social worker, he has this strange compulsion to save pathetic things. This dog was particularly obnoxious and unadoptable, so he now lives at our home. The first day at our house, he ripped up the carpet and needed two root canals after trying to chew through the subflooring and cement beneath it. Yes, we still own this animal.

Yesterday, we journeyed to the mountains with a large group of neighbors for a BBQ/outdoor party. It quickly devolved into a Lord of the Flies experience with children running wild through trees and attacking innocent goldfish. These poor fish were swimming happily in a small wading pool. The children were invited to scoop a fish into a cup and take it home. Of course, the kids poked them, held them in the air for several minutes, threw rocks into the pool, and caught and released the fish repeatedly. Several toddlers tried to swim with the fish as well.

We came home with two goldfish, which are now inhabiting my best mixing bowl until I find them a more permanent home. However, everytime someone walks in the room, the fish swim spastically around the bowl, desperately looking for somewhere to hide. Apparently, these fish ended up with PTSD after their trauma the night before.

Fish therapy anyone?

The end of an era

A few months ago, I wandered into Weston's preschool classroom to pick him up. The rest of his class was busy doing/singing the "A-too-ta-ta" song (does it have a real name?). Weston was standing to one side with his arms folded.

As we walked home, I asked why he wasn't singing. He threw out his arms, "I couldn't get my knees together when my feet were apart, Mom--that is the weirdest song on earth."

Unfortunately for him, most of preschool focuses on musical theater, so he was really out of luck this year.

Last week, he finally graduated from preschool, but, as you can see on the clip, it was a near miss. As singing and dancing take priority over reading, writing, and math at that age, perhaps that explains the close call. (Take a gander at the video to see Weston's moves. Fast forward to the end to see him finally graduate.)

Oh, and for those of you still wondering if there really is an Allen, I included a very brief shot of him at graduation. See if you can spot him. It can be like one of those Where's Waldo books.