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Wholesome humor

Posts Tagged ‘Wholesome humor’

Adam and . . . Who?

A few of the gems I collect when I really pay attention to the unintentional comedians in my midst, God’s little gifts of laughter:

What I found when I opened the pantry door.

From a then four-year-old Hannah paging through our now-worn story Bible:

“Look Mommy! It’s a picture of Adam and Evil.”

From Elijah, apparently quite fed up with beans lately:

“There’s nothing that I hate in this food. Cool!”

From my then three-year-old Marissa trying to call her aunt in Wisconsin and getting the phone answerer:

“Mommy, the washing machine is talking to me.”

From my nine-year-old Elisabeth, the philosophical one:

Me: What is discord?

Elisabeth: Unplugging cords.

A conversation among many after a trail ride in Bryce Canyon:

“I’m glad we got to ride horses instead of the plodding mules.”

“Plotting mules? What were they plotting?”

“World domination.”

“I doubt mules would really want to take over the world.”

“It could happen.”

“Nah. They’re too slow.”

From a superhero:

Elijah: Are there any bad guys here?

Me: Nope.

Elijah: Good, ’cause I don’t want to have to fight anyone.

Emily watching the luge:

“If I were in the Olympics, I would throw up.”

Children with goals:

Elisabeth (9 years): “When I grow up I’m going to go through all the corn mazes I can find.”

Hannah: (13 years): I wanna be an old lady when I grow up, ‘cuz old ladies rock!

Elisabeth: Oooo, I want to be an old lady, too, so I can sit in a rocking chair and knit.

My son, eating my food:

“Mommy, I think you really need to get your OWN pancake.”

Elijah, naturally:

“Mommy, there’s chocolate spilled on the table. Should I taste it off?”

Elijah at the chess table for an hour:

“I’m playing chess. The knight is throwing all the bad guys in the lava. I call him Superman.”

I stayed up far too late listening to my then six-year-old Emily read me her entire journal. She ended with a reminder and a warning:

“Remember, Mommy, you’re not supposed to read my journal.”

Whispered by a confused Elijah when visiting a church with a cross hanging behind the altar. The Jesus carving on the cross looked remarkably like the David from his David and Goliath action figures:

“I didn’t know David died on the cross, too.”

And I leave you with these words of encouragement from my husband:

“Just remember, the best is already behind you.”

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The Real Name

Becca Boo at the Piano

Becca Boo at the Piano

It occured to me recently that I rarely call my children by their carefully selected birth names. The proof, as they say, is in the pudding, and the pudding in this case is my son:

Me: Boy, do you know what the baby’s real name is?

Boy: Becca Boo’s real name?

Me: Yes.

Boy: I know Becca Boo’s bear name. Becca Boo’s bear name is Boo Boo Bear.

Me: Yes, but what’s her real name.

Boy: Oh, Becca Boo’s real name is Sweetie Pie.

This same boy, when asked to spell his own name, recites “B-O-Y Boy.” He’ll even sign it. I think perhaps I will write his real name on the inside of his jacket in case he gets lost. Better yet, I’ll keep them all safe at home.

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Small Ears, Big Fears

The small boy

The small boy

I was listening intently to my eight-year-old narrate the history of Corrie Ten Boom. Unbeknownst to me, a pair of three-year-old ears was also quite caught up in the story. The narrator explained in detail what I shall merely summarize: Corrie Ten Boom was arrested for hiding Jews in her house.

The gasp beside me attracted my attention. I turned and looked into a pair of big brown eyes, wide open. At the conclusion of the narration, the small listener dared not move. He merely whispered with barely audible trepidation, “Mommy…don’t we have juice in our house?”

Someday, when he is nearer to a man, I will tell him about the horrors of mankind and the agony one man can inflict on others. For now, however, I will maintain that childish sweetness just a little bit longer and offer up a prayer of gratitude that, for the moment at least, America is a free country, and we need not worry about harboring Jews–or juice–in our homes.

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Cultural Diversity

galleta de la fortuna

galleta de la fortuna

A strange irony:

After our pseudo-Chinese dinner we indulged in some made-in American fortune cookies. The fortunes, ironically, were written in Spanish.

Only in America.

Next time you indulge in galletas de fortuna , spruce them up a bit. Set a small child to the task of dipping half the cookie in chocolate (dark is a strong favorite of many at our house) and sprinkling with non-pareills, crushed nuts, or white chocolate. This is certainly not authentic, but really…how authentic are fortune cookies at a Chinese meal anyway?  According to the secret history of the fortune cookie and this UK version of the history of fortune cookies, not very!

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Always Prepared

Marissa and Rebecca

Marissa and Rebecca

Ma, you should keep dental floss in your purse. That way, if you’re falling off a cliff, you can tie it to a tree and pull yourself back up.

Me: Hmm. Good point. It might also be useful if something gets caught in my teeth.

Marissa: That, too.

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Little Boy Kneels

Little Boy kneels at the foot of his bed,
Droops on his little hands little gold head.
Hush, hush, whisper who dares?
Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.

~A.A. Milne

An heritage from Him

An heritage from Him

It was one of those horrible cases of hiccups that, to be brutally honest, sounded a lot like I imagine a hippo in labor would sound…and I was only mildly less uncomfortable than said hippo. It was difficult getting through evening prayers between hics.

When my turn rolled around, I kept it short and sweet, ending with a simple request for God hic to cure hic my hiccups.

Gone. Instantly.

All eyes were on Mama.


One little boy’s wheels were turning, and out came another little prayer:

“And please give Mommy a boy baby and a girl baby. Amen.”

Pause. Look around.

“Mommy, when is God going to give us the boy baby and the girl baby?”

When indeed…?

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Mr(s). Grill

I am not a feminist. I am what some may term “old-fashioned” as I cheerfully don my apron, nurture my children, and tend to my husband’s needs. It’s not that I can’t do man’s work. It’s just that my man handles man’s work immensely better than I do. I am a woman, and as such I joyfully assume the roles more commonly associated with “the weaker sex.” I prefer to sew on buttons, bake pies, and change diapers, and leave the tough stuff to someone with muscles!

This can't be that hard!

This can't be that hard!

Why, then, did Memorial Day find me hovering over a huge grill when I usually declare grilling “man’s work,” and retreat to the safety of my kitchen to whip up side dishes and desserts?

A song was in the works. My musician husband was deep in that lyrical realm that ensnares him for days and from which he eventually emerges with a musical masterpiece. Not wanting to interrupt the creative flow of my Music Man, I opted to leave my hubby to his chord progressions and harmonic genius and attempt the grilling myself. So I bolstered my courage, picked up a grilling spatula and some raw meat, and headed out to the grill.

I was spied en route by my eldest daughter. The years had not dulled her memory of the time I exploded a grill and singed all the hair off my arm, miraculously leaving the rest of me and my family unscathed. Read the rest of this entry »

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