Results tagged “O.” from Bill's Words

These Kids Argue... Differently


Tonight, the two boys were arguing about who really needed that particular piece of Lego. It started to get ugly when one of the boys said quietly to the other, “This is not the Lego piece you need.” He accompanied his statement with a clockwise hand wave.

The other responded, equally as quietly, with a “This is the piece of Lego that I need.” Also with the hand wave.

And thus ended the argument, with laughter.

T. and I just looked at each other and shook our heads knowingly, wondering if “Wax on, wax off” might apply here, too.

These are the offspring you are rearing…


The "N Word"


T. and the boys were working on an art project this past week, part of which involved drawing a picture of an alphabet block. You know the kind, I’m sure.

Well, T. drew the block, rendered nicely in 3-D, and put the “N” on the front. “Now, O., what can we put on the side that starts with ‘N?’”

“Hmmm… how about negotiation?

The mind boggles… nut… necklace… nickel… nose… needle… nail… negotiation?

T. called to let me know of a conversation that she and O. had in the car this morning.

O.: Oh, Mom, remember that today is Smoke Wednesday.

T.: What? Smoke Wednesday?

Think… think… think…

T.: Oh, you mean Ash Wednesday?

O.: Yeah! That’s it!

I reflected on the spaghetti-covered plate in the sink, the spaghetti covered sleeve that was a direct result of the spaghetti on the plate, and remembered that he will eventually grow up and that the spaghetti will no longer be a problem. But then, too, neither will we hear of Smoke Wednesdays anymore, either.

There are some days I want my boys to grow up faster. But God designed them to grow up at exactly the right rate. Guess I’ll just have to learn to deal with that.

An O.-ism


Upon O.’s asking for another pancake on Sunday morning, I asked, “Do you really need it?”

O.: “Yes. I’m still hungry!”

Me: “OK, but you have enough syrup on your plate for this one. You don’t need any more.”

O. (pointing at his plate): “Yeah! I have enough to drown a duck!”

T. and me: (gales of laughter)

I Love Seven


Well, to be completely truthful, six to seven is really cool.

(Er, “six to seven” what?)

My younger boy turned seven in October, and though he’s growing up, he still hasn’t lost a bunch of wonderful characteristics of this age.

  • Absolute wonderment at the smallest things: baking soda and vinegar is amazing, the way gears mesh together is delightful, and bugs are cool.
  • Independence, but not so independent as to not hold my hand when we’re walking down the driveway from the bus, or so independent that he won’t crawl up into my lap to watch some TV but fall asleep in the middle of the show.
  • A power to pretend which defies any explanation I can come up with: this age is endowed with the most powerful ability to pretend I have ever witnessed.
  • Real-world oblivion: though it drives T. and me crazy sometimes, he’s able to focus so tightly on what he’s doing (whether it’s pretending, reading or playing) that he becomes totally unaware of the real world. This has led to some very entertaining moments.
  • Simple is better: whereas his brother, age 9, is getting into the phase where his Lego contraptions need more detail, a few blocks and plates are enough to elicit the essential characteristics of a Tie Fighter, X-Wing, or, with a few more blocks, a whole Imperial Starship Destroyer. Some of the most elegant models I have ever seen are these simple models.
  • The beginnings of craftiness: On Christmas morning, T.’s message to the kids (she was downstairs with them already) was, “We can have Christmas if Dad says it’s OK.” His message to me was, “Mom says it’s time for Christmas.” And the other day, he and two of his friends sprung a plan to get the three of them together at a local game place. Of course, they each decided that the idea was another kid’s idea. The parents felt both “had” and proud of their scheming.
  • Childlike faith: his understanding of the Bible and what God and Jesus mean to us is so much more concrete in him than it is in me. He takes these things as absolute truth, without question. There have been many times over the past year that I’ve wanted to be like him.
  • Physical prowess, master of his universe: I don’t have to worry too much anymore about him and whether or not he’s going to fall, trip, or otherwise take a spill. He’s comfortable in his body and it shows. Every time he (or his brother, for that matter) run and fall on their knees to skid into the kitchen, my knees scream in sympathetic pain. Of course, it doesn’t bother their knees.
  • Cuteness: first graders are just about at the peak of their cuteness, something which starts at birth and continually increases until some of the awkwardness of eight, nine, etc., kicks in. I love picking this guy up at school and watching the herd of children, all of them miniature humans, running, playing, interacting, laughing, and, generally, being cute. And there’s nothing better than watching a game of huddleball (you and I know it as “soccer”) or seeing this age in other competitive activities.
  • Irrational Exuberance: This kid is just as likely to sit at the dinner table, waving his arms around in the air, singing to himself as he is to cry at the least of infractions, which is just fine. Emotions come and are expressed easily, whether through wild armwaving or something akin to a dance, or verbally with nonsense syllables, or in song, or through more visceral means, such as laughing, crying or yelling. There’s no doubt what is going on in that mind of his, and it’s wonderful to witness.

And on top of all of this, he absolutely loves and adores his parents and brother. I am glad that he absolutely trusts us with his well-being, even though he wants to take care of himself more and more.

It’s a delight, this age.

Some O.-isms...


O.: “Have you finished reading ‘Horrible Harry?’”

W.: “Yes, I’ve finished ‘Hagar the Horrible.’” (Snicker.)

O.: “I love it how Crap and Goyle say ‘Harrah Pottah.’”

Me: “You love what?”

O.: “I love it how Crap and Goyle say ‘Harrah Pottah.’”

Me: “Oh.”

W.: “Um, it’s ‘Crabbe.’”

O.: “I love how Crabbe and Goyle say ‘Harrah Pottah.’”

Me: (Snicker.)

One Foot in the Grave...

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So the Lovely and Talented Wife (tip of the hat to and blatant rip-off of tells me the following story:

O. was in a public bathroom (the one at the church) as T. had taken him there. He had to poop, so had plenty of time to notice his surroundings.

“Mom, what’s that bar for?” he asked, referring to the handrail on the wall.

“That’s for old people who might need it to help them get up and down off the toilet,” T. replied.

Think. Think. Think.

“So, Dad will be needing that pretty soon, huh?”

One foot in the grave. One foot already in the grave.



“O., I can’t find your sandals.”

“Neever can I.”

“Well, where’d you last wear them?”

“On my feet!”

Um, yeah.