It’s Not All Mary Poppins

You Can Pick Your Nose…

You know that saying, popular amongst teens: “You can pick your nose, you can pick your friends, but you can’t pick your friend’s nose”?

It’s not true, you know.

George approaches me. “Mary, I need a kleenex. I gots a booger on my finger.”

So he does. Thick, green, good consistency, a little crusty on one side, it sits solidly atop his pointer finger.

“Yuk, George.” Probably a little rattled at having this thing waved too close to my own nose, I ask what would appear to be a completely foolish question as I hand him the kleenex. “Where did you get that thing?”

“Baby Alice.”

June 24, 2005 Posted by | eeewww, George | 8 Comments

Lost in Translation

Arthur:    Wha’ these crackers cold?
Mary:     Cold? Are they cold, Arthur?
Arthur:    No, wha’ they cooolld?” (Enunciating carefully for the thick one.)
Mary:     I don’t think they are cold, just normal.
Arthur:    No, not cold, cold!! Wha’s the name of these?
Mary:     Oh. They’re called Saltines, my dear. Just normal crackers.
Arthur:    And what are they going to turn into?

June 24, 2005 Posted by | Arthur, the things they say! | 2 Comments

The Eye Has It

Poor Thomas! I have no idea how he’s managed it, but thus far, knock wood, he does not have a black eye.


A howl of protest draws me to Thomas and George, who had, till that moment, been happily playing with a large exercise ball. (You know the type: also called “therapy balls”, designed for adults to torture themselves upon.) Made of some sturdy vinyl/rubber stuff, bouncy, and brilliant red, it’s attractive and lots of fun. For them, at any rate. It comes a little past my knee – pretty much the height of most of the children in my home. However, the game seems to have devolved a bit. Thomas is trotting down the hall exuding indignation. “George took the ball from me and poked me inna eye!”

My concern is first for his eye, and only secondarily with the territorial dispute. His eyelid is a bit red, showing signs of having been properly poked, indeed. “What did he poke you with, Thomas?”

“The ball.”


An hour later, it’s a wail of genuine distress. Thomas very rarely actually cries. He’ll howl, fuss, and foment like none other, but real tears of anguish or pain? Hardly ever. He’s a resilient little dude. His tears are always genuine. His eye is quite red, above and below, and he’s almost unable to open it. No matter how he tries, it keeps twitching involuntarily shut. Ow,ow,ow. Oh, dear, oh dear. As I apply ice, we debrief.

“What happened, love?”
“George kicked me inna eye!” *


Another howl, this one of outrage.

“Goodness, you’re having a rough day, Thomas! What happened this time?”
“Arthur poked me inna eye – wiv a book!”


It’s nap time now, and barring a sudden bout of sleepwalking, I think Thomas’s eye is safe for the moment. The boy is on some kind of a roll, though, and I will count myself very lucky if he manages gets out my front door this afternoon without a black eye!

* In defense of poor George, who is a largely peaceable little man, I hasten to explain that this happened while they were rough-housing, head to toe, on the couch. I am quite sure it was inadvertent.

June 24, 2005 Posted by | random and odd, Thomas | Leave a comment