Weasel Of Doom

By the time I get home from work, the kids have usually worked off all the “what crazy thing should we do now” energy, and are mostly content to sit and watch cartoons on Netflix (incidentally, after catching them watching “The Cleveland Show,” parental controls have been turned on). So, most of my “you can’t make this shit up” stories are relayed to me by BelovedSpouse. Here’s one from a few days ago.

MiddleOne and YoungestOne headed upstairs to play. A little while later, BelovedSpouse went to see what was going on. He caught MiddleOne and YoungestOne on the top bunk bed, playing “Flying Stuffed Animals” game. The game involves leaning out over the rails, putting a toy on the fan blade, and then spinning the fan. Voila, instant flying stuffed animals. We are still amazed we did not also have “instant children screaming because they just fell off the top of the bunk bed, head first.”

Much to their disappointment, they are no longer allowed to play the “flying animals” game.

Halloween trick-or-treating was on Monday night in our neck of the woods. BelovedSpouse had class, so UncleMel was drafted into accompanying little pests around the neighborhood, while I handed out candy.

Apparently, MiddleOne decided that he needed to pee about half-way through. Resourceful UncleMel located some semi-private bushes for him, but MiddleOne would have nothing to do with it: “You can only do that in Russia, UncleMel, you can’t do that here!” he said.

And here you have it. Russia, where the world is your bathroom :)

A week ago, we got an email from OldestOne’s teachers, letting us know that his 1st grade class received a (traveling) trophy for being appropriately quiet in the cafeteria – the (much coveted, I presume) Silver Spoon.

That evening, I asked OldestOne if they won the Silver Spoon. “It wasn’t silver, it was gold,” he replied, and after some more thought, “And it wasn’t a spoon. It was a SPORK!”

I was highly amused (and slightly drunk, which probably contributed to the levels of amusement).