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From the mouths of babes

Evan, 3.5 years old, standing in footie jammies but with only the arms in, every piece of skin except arms and backside are exposed, he looks down at himself: "Look, I gots stamps on me."
Dad, observes a green Santa clause the size of a dime stamped on knees, thighs, ankles, stomach and chest: "Stamps go on paper."
Evan, holding arms akimbo but with index finger pointing rather than hands on hips: "No. Stamps go on me. Like this!"

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Bulging eyes, puffed cheeks, head thrown back…3..2.1

A sight no parent wants to see is your child poised to regurgitate the evening meal. The only thing worse is realizing that this is round two and round one is on the bed, the child, the floor, and the fringe blanket. Vomit has magical powers of stupidity. For one, the smell makes you instantly want to join in the fun. "Oh look! Your spaghetti looks like stringy glue! Let’s see if mine’s the same…blarp" Secondly, as your child’s gag reflex audibly kicks in, you run to comfort her without a trashcan, a towel or any thought of what to do with the vile muck that is working its way up the child’s throat, so placing one hand on the child’s back, you stupidly cup your other hand just under her mouth as if you could miraculously keep round two from somehow not adding to round one. Blarp! Then you lie, "It’s going be okay."

That was last night. Let’s hope this is an isolated event and doesn’t rip through the family.

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From the mouths of babes

Dad: "Noah, do you know that the school board passed a new rule allowing random searches at the school?"
Noah, 12 years old: "No."
Dad: "It means that teachers can just pull you aside and have you show them everything in your bag and pockets. How do you feel about that?"
Noah: "I’m not doing anything wrong so I guess I’m okay with it."

My heart sank. He gave the scripted answer! The system has him. I think Noah is old enough to read 1984, Brave New World, and Fahrenheit 451. Time to knock the dust of my copies.

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From the mouths of babes

Our yard is practically devoid of grass. Basically we have leaves and mud so today I spread a bale of hay to cover the mud.

Amy, 6 years old arriving home from school: "I was playing in the hay!"
Dad: "Explain ‘playing in the hay.’"
Amy, doing jumping jacks: "I made a hay angel!"
Dad, with great hesitation: "Turn around…"

Update: Evan, 3 years old, came home later, plopped down in the hay, and, of his own accord, started throwing it all over himself.