The “Other” Spelling Bee

My seven-year-old son came home and told me that one of his little friends — another boy mind you — in his first grade class said a bad word at school the other day.

I asked, “Oh, did he get in trouble?”

“No; nobody heard him except me.”

I looked at him, trying to decide if that was worry or excitement I detected in his voice.

Then he continued, “It was a really bad word.”

“OK. Well don’t repeat it.”

“But it was a really bad word,” he said. “Really bad. The h word. You know the one that starts with h – e …” Well, you know the rest.

I sighed — great — now he’s spelled it.

So, the next day he comes home and again tells me his friend said a bad word. “It’s a really bad word. You know the one that starts with s.”

He proceeded to spell it out for me. But I told him that really wasn’t necessary, I was more than familiar with the word.

By the next time he’s telling me about this friend — who I’m beginning to think my son has put on a pedestal for his ingenuity in language — I’ve realized for sure that this is a co-op mission. In fact, his friend may be the one to say the word, but then I’m pretty sure it’s my son who spends his recess period trying to sound out and then spell these words that they ought not be saying, or spelling, in the first place.

The take home message is that my son can spell; and, I’m so proud. If only he would use his powers for good instead of evil.

Or, perhaps if we lived in an alternate universe — that showcased the dark side of spelling bees — I’m quite sure my son would be the national champion.

This draws to my attention the fact that boys and girls are so vastly different. I remember the first time I said a bad word, (and it wasn’t anything like my son can spell); I cried for days.

But, I guess I should have had my first clue when my boys were drawn to the Stormtroopers instead of the Jedi. Boys idolize bad guys.

My son thinks he’s truly brilliant because spelling isn’t technically saying. It’s like he gets to deal the cards, but not gamble. No crime, no punishment.

I don’t know if I should applaud him, or be deeply afraid of this young mastermind. The other bad thing is that even I can’t even spell things out in my own house anymore. You know, I used to get by with spelling things out to my husband that I didn’t want the boys to know about or hear. Those days are long gone. Like I said, my boy can spell and sound things out quite well.

A blessing, and yet, a curse.

And, as much as I love the fact that he has an inquisitive mind and a love for learning, I told him for now, we need to take a break from spelling bad words. I don’t want him to showcase his talents at school or, heaven forbid, Sunday school.

Last year, I thought it was great as I stacked up his full semester of perfect spelling tests. Yes, he got all his words correct for his entire Kindergarten year. Now, I’m beginning to wonder if this was such a good thing? And no, I’m not quite sure where he gets his talents from.

Dog Toys Are Not for Boys

I went to Tractor Supply the other day in search of dog food with no added coloring — as advised by my vet — for my dog, Mr. Sensitivity. After I waited in line and got up to the checkout counter, I noticed my two boys were hiding items from me.

“What do you have?”

They laughed as they produced dog toys from behind their backs.

“Are those for Rex?”

“No. They’re for us!” they exclaimed.

“Put them back.” I’m not buying those.

They, then, proceeded to scream, cry and throw tantrums (gaining everyone’s attention in the store) because I am quite possibly the meanest mom in the world. What kind of mother won’t buy her children dog toys after all?

Perhaps if they would’ve promised to chew on them quietly in the corner, I would’ve been more tempted to give in. But, instead, I could see the situation play out in my head of the boys fighting with the dog over the toys, or squeaking them until I pulled out my hair and threw the toys (or the boys) out the door.

But — at least now — I know what I need to get them for Christmas.

Dog trainers encourage you to make a clear distinction to your dog between yourself — the master — and him, the dog.

But, no matter how hard I try, my dog hasn’t seemed to grasp the fact that my children aren’t dogs themselves. And, considering their behavior, it’s no wonder why.

Just the other day, I ordered my oldest son to clean up the orange JELL-O he dropped and left on the kitchen floor.

Then I turned around just in time to see him lapping it up off the floor with his tongue.

A Trip Through the Cabela’s Woods

You would think from the line of cars backed up at the exit off the Interstate, the parade of taillights, the overflowing parking lot, outdoor tents, and the NASCAR car parked out front, we were going to DisneyWorld.

Unfortunately, for us … we were in a land far, far away. While I was looking at the long, meandering line, I was sad to remember there was no Space Mountain, Pleasure Island or even Butterbeer at the other end to comfort me.

Instead, we were waiting in line at the opening weekend of Cabela’s in Lexington. Which — apparently — is quite an event in and of itself.

Of course, we’ve been to Cabela’s — every store we ever pass in fact — but, my husband said we just had to get out and see the latest and the greatest. And he assured me he would find some great deals, as he lured me with thoughts of those cinnamon and sugar almonds I like so much. The kids cheered wildly when we told them where we were going.

Boys. Need I say more?

So not only did we have to drive two hours to get there, fight the crowd, and buy toys for both big and little boys alike, I have to admit, the store was very similar to all the other stores … perhaps we could have saved time with some online shopping?

But my oldest son was quick to point out to me that at this location we got to see a lion about to eat a gazelle, (something we hadn’t seen before). His fascination with animals eating other animals is slightly disturbing, but I’m glad he takes such an interest in nature.

Now, you would think between the children gawking, and onlookers snapping pictures on their phones, we were actually at a zoo — yes, there were even people petting some of the animals.

Far be it from me to tell anyone these animals are actually not alive anymore (because, nobody else seemed to know).

Doctors Won’t Tell You, But Allergies Are Contagious

I’ve determined my husband gave me his allergies.

Yes, while I’ll admit, the medical community would probably frown at the conclusion I’ve drawn, let me take a moment to make an argument for my case.

I didn’t have allergies before I moved to Eastern Kentucky. (Apparently, I was living a life of bliss, and I didn’t even know it.)

My husband, however, grew up as a regular allergy shot taker, and now laughs as his allergies are minimal, while mine have not only developed, but keep getting worse

In fact, I’ve joined the ranks as a full, year-round allergy sufferer. All year. Yes. Something bothers me, all year.

This is why I blame my husband entirely for my problems, and have therefore determined allergies are contagious — or, perhaps, something that’s in the water — seeing as, these are the only things that makes sense.

The Easter Sugar Rush

While spring in Kentucky teases us with intermittent days of warm weather, I can’t help but feel hopeful as I hear the birds begin to sing, and see the flowers start to bloom. Yes, we are one month closer to summer (invariably the best time of the year).

And, watching the new flowers popping up out of the ground, I can’t help but think of my children, as I see their brightly-colored blooms emerge.

Kids love loud, vibrant colors … clothes, balloons, cereals, candy, Popsicles … you name it. (Somehow, this color thing has yet to catch on with vegetables, where this does — in fact — create quite the opposite effect; take eggplant and orange cauliflower for example. But, I’m still keeping my fingers crossed.)

Yet, as much as my children delight in artificial coloring, these days I’m trying to buy more foods without added dyes (Thank you General Mills for making my cereal selections easier.)

But, Easter becomes a particularly hard time to say no to high-fructose corn syrup and food coloring. Dyeing Easter eggs, eating JELL-O salad, and supplying baskets full of candy are all American staples during this time of year.

And I’ve found the more vibrantly colored a processed food is, the more children are drawn to it; like a moth to a flame.

Some Things Just Go Together, Like PB&J

Some things just go together — they seem to be made for each other.

Like thunder and lightning, Starbucks and lattes, Peter Pan and Wendy, or Oreos and milk.

When I was pregnant with my second child, I was trying to save money, so I ate my lunches at work in my office.

Soon, I found myself keeping a loaf of bread, peanut butter, and strawberry jelly (PB&SJ) readily available. I thought it practical; because it was cheap, and something I could keep easily at work.

When I thought about it, I couldn’t really remember the last time I’d eaten a PB&J sandwich. I loved them as a kid, but I’d pretty much outgrown that phase of my life.

I was sophisticated now after all. Grown-up people don’t eat PB&J.

In fact, it wasn’t until the day I sat at my desk and ate three entire sandwiches, I realized I had a problem. Ha! Apparently, (now so obvious) I was experiencing pregnancy cravings.

I have to say, while I don’t snarf them down like I did then, I still have great appreciation for a good PB&SJ sandwich.

So, I was somewhat caught off guard when my son (the in utero PB&SJ eater) told me he wanted a jelly sandwich for lunch.

What’s a jelly sandwich? “You mean a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?”

“No; just jelly.”

OK; I believe something is missing in this equation.

Jelly is perhaps fabulous as a standalone item on a biscuit, or perhaps even a piece of toast. But a jelly sandwich? It just doesn’t seem right.

Training the Family

I bought my boys a puppy.

Yes, I can’t deny it; I’m crazy, a sucker, and a glutton for punishment.

But, apparently the boys asked Santa for a puppy, which of course Santa didn’t bring (because they neglected to tell anyone else). But, after the holidays, they made sure to tell everyone in the family, they didn’t get what they asked for.

So, I gave in, and we have an Australian Shepherd puppy of our very own. Darling, sweet and definitely naughty … all rolled up into one big fuzz-ball. That’s our boy. So far he’s added quite a bit of excitement and work to my daily routine. But I tell myself that his cuteness makes up for all of the things he gets into.

The boys named him Rex, after the sheepdog on Babe, and of course, short for T-Rex, the tyrant lizard king.

The other day my son asked me what Rex’s last name is. I said, “Well I guess he has our last name, so Turner.”

“So his name is Rex Delicious Turner?” he asked.

What? He’s a dog. He doesn’t have a middle name.

“But you call him Rex Delicious.”

I was wondering what he was talking about, when I realized he was quite right. I had started calling him (on occasion, mind you) Rexaliscious, because, he is in fact so cute.

Rex Delicious doesn’t roll of the tongue too well, so my husband shortened it to Rex D.

Now our dog has a first, middle, and last name. So I guess he’s officially part of the family now.