The "Acorn " Story

About three years ago, my endometriosis was really kicking in and I was tired in the mornings, especially mornings after work.  One morning as I was lying in bed, Zach sauntered in wearing his Superman pajama pants and a very cocky smile.  He stopped in front of my side of the bed, hands on his hips.
"Good morning," I said sleepily.
He continued to stare at me without speaking, frozen in his Superman pose.
"Hi, honey, " I added.
Then I saw something on his pants, right in the front, but without my contacts in I couldn't quite tell what I was looking at.  Peering closer, my sleep-fuddled mind was trying to work -- "What's on his pants? Is that an acorn??"
Needless to say, it was NOT an acorn. My darling son had taken scissors and cut a hole into the front of his pajama pants, allowing (ahem.) something to hang out, and was strutting around the house thus exposed.
"Zach!" I yelped, hopping out of bed. "What did you do?! Take those pants off! And don't use the scissors like that!!"
"What?" he innocently smiled, his dimples working their magic.
Later in the day when I told my husband what HIS son had done, he was immediately concerned about everything having remained intact, and once I reassured him, he smiled proudly. Of course.
The Superman pajamas are folded up in my closet, and will be reappearing only once, when I had them over to my future daughter-in-law the night before their wedding.

Age of Discovery

On Wednesday Katy went with her "Women in History" class to the local birthing center. As I did the dishes that night she was telling me all about it, including a picture on her phone of her "crazy" teacher sitting in the giant tub, asking way too many questions for the students comfort. Katy told me how the midwife showed them around, how the midwife was explaining different aspects of childbirth to them as the tour continued.
"But," she added, "isn't the midwife the lady who gets pregnant for someone else? I kept wondering, 'yeah, but where's the baby?' "
This comment stopped me  in my dish-washing tracks, and I stared at my beautiful 17 year old daughter, wondering exactly how much of the Birds & Bees I should revisit with her.

It's Me, the amazing Katie

Last night after I finished the dishes, I decided to send our pastor, Dave, a funny text. He is always so busy and gets so many "emergency" phone calls and texts that occasionally it's nice to just send one that will put a smile on his face. Inadvertently I put a smile on lots of faces after sharing my embarrassing goof involving a texting typo.
Originally I was planning to send this:
"suggestion for the church sign: My husband is the head of our home 95% of the time with God's help. The other 5% of the time he is the other end, all by himself!" I added, "Just kidding!" and then meant to ask if I would be relieved of my duties in leadership for sending the text, but accidentally wrote: "So, am I going to be licked off the youth alpha team?"
Smugly I went into the living room to show John what I sent to Dave, and he said, "Wow, that's funny. What's really funny, though, is that you asked him if he was going to lick you off the team."
In horror, I doubled checked the text - John was right.
Oh, no.
Helplessly I dissolved in laughter, which quickly led to a bout of "laugh/crying," my hysterical way of dealing with something SO funny when I am exhausted. The waves of embarrassment just kept on rolling, and when Dave responded, "uh, ha. How are you doing?" I confessed that I wanted to die from humiliation, and asked him to never talk to me again.
Figured I should just go ahead and lick myself off the team to avoid any further terrifying typos.

Exposed

Today while I was innocently sitting on my parents porch, my mom pulled into the drive way, and walked over to me, shaking her finger and saying, "We have a problem."  Uh, yeah. To put it mildly. She handed me a piece of paper.
"When the boys were at Sharon's they were so good. They stopped to visit Grandpa [at the nursing home] and while they were there Gabe drew a picture, which was immediately hung up on the wall next to Great Grandpa's bed. Today, " my dear sweet mother continued, "I took that picture down."
This is what my eight year old son drew. What was hanging next to my grandfather's bed for two weeks.

(Photo has been censored.)

It was a conversation I wasn't planning on having with my son for at least a couple more years.

Holiday Hilarity Part IV: It's in the Bag

For John's birthday this year I had a silly whim and decided to wrap all of his gifts in Victoria's Secret bags.  Although I'm sure the idea came upon me due to a lack of wrapping paper, it did strike me as a really funny idea, so when he came home on his birthday to a giant pile of pink bags, varying in size (hmmm, I like to think ALL of my Victoria's Secret bags are small!), I, for one, was giggling.
When Katy announced on Christmas Eve that she had decided to wrap all of her gifts to her friends in Victoria's Secret bags, the idea began to seem less appropriate. However, parenting -especially teenagers- is a constant tension of choosing which "battles" to fight, so I let it slide. An additional preface to the upcoming horror story is that sometime during the advent season, my oldest daughter and I had discussed the old tradition of including an orange in people's stockings. Katy was horrified, having never eaten an orange, and also having embraced wholeheartedly our family tradition of chocolate gold-wrapped coins that are in the very bottom of her stocking each year.
John and I narrowly escaped having to leave church during the Christmas Eve service this year due to our uncontrollable giggling; when the last song ended we heaved a collective sigh and stood up, ready to wrestle our kids into the car, into their pjs, and into their beds so we (I) could finish wrapping gifts (yes, I did spring for buying wrapping paper this time around).  We were just turning to collect our coats when a young man, a friend of Katy's that we are fairly well acquainted with, came over to us, a Victoria's Secret Bag in his hand,a frown on his face.  He quickly approached John, my formidable looking husband.
"Um, your daughter gave me this, " he said,"and I'm not sure if I'm supposed to have it."
He held out the bag to John, who peered into it as his eyebrows shot up to somewhere above his hairline.  Katy's friend continued to hold the bag out to John, whose expression was vacillating between confusion and horror. 
I rushed over, taking in the situation, knowing Katy thought it would be funny to use the lingerie bags as a joke, but not realizing she was going to pass them out IN CHURCH.  Peeking in the pink bag, my legs just about gave out - lying at the bottom was a banana and a small container of clear gel.
"That better be hand sanitizer!" my husband thundered.
It was. Katy had decided since we didn't have any oranges she would pass out bananas, and then apparently decided to throw in anything else she found lying around the house, since due to a lack of funds she hadn't actually bought gifts for anyone.
Her poor friend was trying to give the bag to John, probably worried he was about to get his arms ripped off, and I rushed away to try to stop my innocent daughter from handing out any more of her holiday "packages".  I found her outside, and did my best to navigate the conversation without sounding like some kind of pervert.  She gave me a blank look, and said, "Well, we didn't have any oranges, what was I supposed to do?"
Next year we will be assembling gifts together, maybe those jars full of cookie ingredients.

communion of the saints

This morning during the church service we had communion, and as usual Gabe and Zach participated, with many whispered prayers and reassurances that while the crackers were indeed delicious, they also were paying attention.  Usually communion is a good time to reinforce some basic tenants of our faith, and today Gabe had a couple of questions regarding the "bread" and "wine" (crackers and grape juice).  After explaining as quietly as I could about the juice, I went on to his next question, the gist of which was Jesus as the bread of life.  We went back and forth for a minute, all the while I was delighted at how astute my son appeared as he considered these weighty matters. Almost done, I continued my explanation, then wrapped things up, or so I thought. As I settled back in my seat Gabe's eyes got wider and wider.
"Jesus was made of wheat?!"
I had a little more explaining to do.

Holiday Hilarity Part III: the Godseys get the Giggles

Every year by Christmas Eve I come to the sad re-realization that I am a procrastinator.  The nights leading up to  Christmas involve staying up into the wee hours, wrapping gifts, making lists, baking, etc. Throw in a big pair of red pants and forget to wax, and I'd be just like St. Nick himself. This year was particularly grueling as we had a newborn and I was working, so sleep was precious and hard to come by. Our tradition has always been Mexican food, followed by the Christmas Eve service, with Uncle Bill who was always up for the holiday. We missed him this year as he celebrated with his  new family in Texas. But I digress.
We invited my friend Lara and her parents and siblings to attend the service with us this year, and it was the first time I met some of them.  Taking up two rows, my growing family and her grown up family all were able to sit together on the right side of the church, and things were going fairly well until Rilla had her bottle. At just seven weeks, Rilla was still needing to be burped throughout her feedings, much to her brother's delight.  Just as someone (I still don't know this lovely lady's name, and plan to never find out) stepped up to the mic and began a mellow, melodic rendition of "Mary, did you know?", my baby burped, which led to Zach squeaking out a giggle.  In the reverent silence, Rilla's burp rang out like a ram's horn, but for some reason she couldn't stop.  Burp after echoing burp, my tiny daughter continued, rivaling the song for length and volume. Zach was beside himself, with big sidesplitting giggles, and John and I were elbowing for all we were worth, one on each side.
At this point, the unthinkable happened. John started to giggle.  In my sleep-deprived state, it was a useless battle, and I gave in as well. So there we sat, on Christmas Eve, listening to a meaningful, spiritual hymn, surrounded by guests we had invited to experience the beauty of the evening, laughing like demented hyenas. Great big tears rolled down my cheeks as I tried without success to somehow mute my laughter, Zach's giggles, Rilla's burps, and John's cackling.  Lara's family sent bewildered looks our way, then trained their eyes forward in an attempt at politely ignoring our insanity.  The song ended, and so did the burping. And giggling. But my face stayed red long after it was all over.

In the Eye of the Beholder

John has worked in a nursing home for many years now, and often the boys and I stop in to say hello, smile and hug some of the residents, and occasionally visit  the giant fish tank up on the fourth floor.  This last activity was especially popular with the boys when they were a bit younger, so we took many elevator rides up to the fourth floor with Daddy  when they were around ages four and five.
One time we were just finished staring at the fish (really, watching three fish swim about for five minutes was somehow the highlight of their young lives, which is thrilling to any mother who is searching for cheap field trips - a nursing home and a fish tank - I may be considered a skinflint, but it worked!) and were headed down the hallway towards the elevator when I spotted a resident parked in the hall in her wheelchair.  Whenever we encountered folks in the hallway, I would encourage the boys to say hello, knowing what cheer small boys can bring to the elderly.  Gabe gallantly walked by with a polite wave and equally polite greeting.  Zach veered straight over to the lady, who was admittedly a bit hunched over, most likely about a hundred years old, kind of bent, with one eye open, and did a quick wave, while exclaiming,
"Hello, little monster!"
Praying she was hard of hearing (eek, is that even allowed?) I was quick to grab my youngest son by the shoulders and steer him into the elevator before he could elaborate.

Easter Sunrise Surprise

Every year our family attends the Easter sunrise service at church; it's a lovely way to celebrate the day, and being held in the field across the street from church, it's truly beautiful. Although casual (when Easter falls in March is it especially casual, as I have to bundle everyone up in snow suits, blankets and boots, usually on top of their pajamas), last year Katy and her best friend tried their hand at "dressing up" for the occasion, and nearly put the me through the roof when they came out of her bedroom at 5:30 in the morning dressed in:
Short colorful dresses
over metallic leggings
with tall boots
colorful scarfs, hats,
and on top of everything
A red velvet  hooded cape and
Gabe's Darth Vader Star Wars hooded cape.

All ready to go,  and with NO IDEA why I made them go change.
Attention, anyone?

A Parable about Keeping an Eye on the Kids

One way John would often help me when the boys were younger would be to take one of them with him while he was running errands; as any mother knows, little boys (maybe girls are the same but I guess I won't know for sure) love to egg each other on, especially little boys like mine who have very different interests.  My husband loves to read, loves buying books, looking at books, collecting books, et cetera, and many times stops in at the local Parable Bible Bookstore to peruse the shelves. 
When Zach was three and freshly potty trained, John was out with him and decided to stop in at this particular store; the ladies there are very sweet but mostly a bit older, giving the impression that they have forgotten what small boys are like - it was my own personal nightmare to take them into the Bible bookstore due to the numerous glass figurines placed on low shelves all throughout the building.  However, where books are concerned John is fearless, so in he and Zach went.
John ushered Zach over to the children's play area, where a veggietales movie was playing and a table of giant legos waited to be played with.  As he was skimming over a book, one of the sales ladies  came over with a small smile.
"Isn't he cute?" she said, gesturing to Zach.
"Mm Hmmm, " my vigilant husband replied, politely glancing up before returning to his book.
"Yes, he's really something." She kept the conversation going, waiting for John to reply.  He finally got the hint and lowered the book, only to see his son racing around the store, completely naked from the waist down.

Gone Fishing

We live the downtown part of Concord, so there are two parks close by, and we often walk to one or the other of them when it is warm out.  Which park we go to is determined by our willingness to chase the boys around, since one is much bigger, although this has gotten easier as they have gotten older.
As toddlers, one of their favorite things to do was go to White Park, where we could feed the ducks as well as enjoy the playground, so we spent a lot of time there with our stale bread when they were younger.  The pond  is a duck pond  - slimy, shallow, but lovely in its own right. The type of pond that makes me issue these warnings often - "Back up. Don't get your feet wet. Honey, BACK UP."
One day we were down there with our leftover offerings, and two year old Zach suddenly took his summer hat off his head, and threw it as far as he could (about five feet) into the water.
I looked at John, telling him without words there was NO WAY I was going into that water. As soon as Zach realized what he had done, he began to cry.
"I want my hat. Hat! Hat! Get it!"  It was starting to sink into the green water when suddenly, another hat joined it - plop. Gabe had decided to get in on the fun, and tossed his hat in as well.
Now they were both crying as their hats began their descent into a watery grave.  Still, John and I didn't move; it was a hard call, facing the crying children and buying new hats seemed much easier than facing the slime, the feathers, the mud.  In the end we knew we needed to rescue our darling boys from watching their summer hats drown, so we sprang into action.
Looking to the right and left, I attempted to find something we could use to grab the hats, but being a duck pond there wasn't a whole  lot in the way of tools lying around.  About twenty feet away a young man was fishing, calmly ignoring us.  Without a moments hesitation I marched over to him, smiled as I gestured to my screaming children, and requested the use of his fishing pole. With one look at the boys, who were pointing and yelling and making a general ruckus, he handed me the pole.   John made quick work of catching the hats, we returned the fishing gear, and made a snifffling, drippy retreat, having become a little wiser in the art of feeding ducks.

Not to be confused with utter UTTER humiliation

Stopping to pick up groceries with the kids is never fun, and for some reason stopping to pick up one thing seems even worse - it isn't logical, but the bother of  getting everyone in and out of the car, traipsing into the store, NOT buying everything the kids want, finding that lone item - it's just a huge pain.  This particular time, the culprit was a gallon of milk.
The boys were a bit younger, four and five I would say, and we had to stop at Hannafords on the way home. We piled out of the van, found the milk and had made it to the express lane without incident.  I was handing some money to the cashier when I felt an insistent tapping on my leg.  Zach was standing just behind me, and was not going to stop tapping until I acknowledged him, so I looked down to ask what was up.  As I was glancing down, a couple of things happened:
Zach said, "Mommy, look!"
And I saw a very large woman in line behind him.
Time slowed as my brain began to put two and two together, but Zach was not slowing down. "Look, Mommy!" he said again, pointing this time.  "She has a really big bottom!"
Horrified I quickly looked to see if she heard while my arm reached out of its own accord, yanking Zach over to me. My face was on fire, the cashier was handing me my change, and Zach wanted to keep talking about it.  I looked him in the eye, steel in  my voice as I said, "Zach, STOP TALKING."
His face crumpled at my tone. Blindly I grabbed the milk, my two boys, and turned to make my exit, praying the poor woman was unaware of what was going on.  But Zach wasn't done.
"Mom, you won't listen to the the truth!" he wailed.  We were almost to the door and I knew if I kept dragging them quickly toward the exit I would be in the cold fresh air and maybe able to start breathing again, so I ignored him and kept going. 
"MOM!" he yelled. "LISTEN TO THE TRUTH, MOMMY!!"
We made it to the van, and I got the boys inside as quickly as I could.  I lectured with gusto.
"We do not use the word fat. We do not point at people. We never talk about the outside of people, we talk about the inside. We don't want to hurt people's feelings."  Zach stuck with his argument that I should listen to him when he is telling the truth, and shouldn't get mad. Somehow I knew I needed to get my point across, but temporarily gave up once Gabe piped up from the back, in all of his big brotherly glory:
"Yeah, Zach.  Next time, go up to the lady and say 'Hi, you're really skinny!' "

The jogger never saw it coming

For a brief time we had dog named Rowdy, a hound dog with a great heart that did eventually find a different home.   Once we got Rowdy I had to figure out how to take him for walks while John was working, and it was tricky because the boys were two and three at the time so no matter what plan I concocted,  there were drawbacks.  For example:
One morning I decided I would take the boys and the dog around the block - only one block, but still, I figured it was better than nothing.  At this time Gabe had a stuffed puppy dog that he had also named Rowdy, and he would tie it to a leash, which is not as effective as attaching something to a leash, so the poor little stuffed animal was dragged to and fro through out the house. That morning Gabe wanted to bring his puppy with us on the walk.  I popped Zach into  a backpack, handed him his current favorite stuffed animal (a giraffe), hooked Rowdy up to his leash,  and headed out the door.
We started off around the block, Gabe dragging his puppy, and Rowdy dragging me along; the progress was slow, like any walk with toddlers, but eventually we made it three-quarters of the way around the block and I could see our house up ahead.  Out of nowhere, a jogger passed us, and like a shot, Rowdy took off after him.  I broke into a run to keep up with the dog, but of course had my three year old son by the hand, not to mention the other son on my back.  Gabe held on for dear life, his poor stuffed puppy flailing along behind at the end of a very long leash, and in all the excitement, Zach squealed and threw his giraffe on the ground.
Now it was like a demented parade, with the jogger in the lead and the rest of us behind - it was so ridiculous that I started laughing, doing my best to keep up with Rowdy as he continued to race after the hapless jogger.  Behind me I heard someone calling ,"Miss, excuse me!"  and I turned to see a kindly neighbor following me with Zach's discarded giraffe.   The margin between my dog and his prey was growing, so now we took up the whole block : the jogger, my dog, me - cackling hysterically , holding on to Gabe and trying to keep Zach safe as we zoomed along, the stuffed animal at the end of its leash that by now looked like road kill,  and our conscientious neighbor, racing after us, waving a giraffe in the air like a flag.
Finally, finally, the unsuspecting man was out of sight, so Rowdy came to a full stop and our neighbor caught up to us, her face full of bewilderment. 
 I took a deep breath, tucked my hair behind my ear, held out my hand to retrieve the giraffe, and smiled.
"Hi, " I said nonchalantly, wondering if she would buy it. "I'm Katie. Thanks!"

Glamour girl

Katy was seven when John and I got married, and she used to love having me paint her nails and do her hair. She was as cute as a button, which made it even more fun to get her all dolled up.  Often I would pick up those cheap little trinkets you can find at Target or the mall, pretend make-up or jewelry, and on the weekends we would have fun playing with them.
One week I found tiny little "press on " nails, Barbie themed if I recall, and she was thrilled. Having never worn fake nails myself I wasn't aware of how difficult it was to actually have them applied to the tips of ones finger, and how impossible to get anything done while wearing them.
All weekend long I would find ten tiny little plastic nails, neatly arranged in two rows, left in different places throughout the house.  The worst - and the one that always comes to mind - was when I walked into the bathroom and saw, delicately placed on the toilet lid, all ten fingernails.

Holiday Hilarity Part II; O Tanenbaum

The first year John and I were married we lived in Manchester; I was quite pregnant at Christmas time, and we waited to decorate the giant tree we bought until Jake and Katy came over. We have a fantastic home movie of the event, complete with multiple embarrassing moments, and we enjoy viewing it very much.
The next year we lived in Pembroke and were not going to have a tree due to limited space but at the last minute I changed my mind (no tree?! Hardly ok!) and sent John out looking for the least expensive, smallest tree he could find. And he literally found the tiniest, cheapest tree to be had, bringing it home with broad smile that quickly faded when I couldn't stop laughing at his choice. About three feet tall and balder than Daddy Warbucks, it did indeed fit into our tiny apartment, although finding a side to face "out" that had enough branches to decorate was tricky business.
The following two years we lived in Boscawen and had two babies running around so we opted for small artificial trees we could put out of reach on a tabletop - not very authentic, I know, but it made sense at the time.
By the time we moved to Concord, Jake and Katy were living with us, and I was determined to make as many holiday memories as I could. We found a nice tree down for sale (short and fat and FULL)  and also carried on our five year old tradition of decorating stockings to hang up - we did this for eight years, but alas, "going green" led us to keep the stockings from a couple years ago.
The next year I decided it was time to take things up a notch, and asked Dad and Mom if we could find a tree out of their woods, and claim it as our Christmas tree. Having fond memories of cutting down trees in MY grandfather's woods, I thought this was my best idea yet.   We bundled up the kids on a snowy day and drove over to my parents, where we headed down into the woods armed with a small saw, and my determination to ignore all of the complaining and looks of martyrdom.  It seemed a lot harder to find a decent enough tree than I had figured but it was really cold so we finally settled on one we found way down the path, and Dad and John started sawing away.  The men took turns carrying/dragging the tree up the trail, and we finally made it to the house, only to realize we hadn't planned on a secure way of getting the tree home on the van roof. Dad found some rope and John started tying, aiming daggers at me to the whole time. (Surprisingly, my southern boy does not appreciate long walks in the snowy woods carrying children, tools, and trees.)  Finally done we piled in the van and headed home, opting to take the highway because it was snowing so badly we were afraid to take the back roads.  The fifteen minute drive took about twenty-five minutes, and when we pulled into the driveway I was ready to make hot cocoa and decorate the tree, hoping the rest of the family would thaw out soon - figuratively and otherwise, as no one else had fully embraced my idea of picking out our tree.
As I was getting out of the van John said, "Where's the tree?"
"What do you mean?" I said. "It's on the roof."
"No it isn't."  The tree had flown off somewhere between Pembroke and Concord, in  a snowstorm somewhere along the highway.
With a HUGE sigh John sent me in the house and went out looking for the scrawny, scrubby tree that was perfectly camouflaged in it's natural habitat, the woods on the side of the road.
He called me an hour later from Wal-Mart, "I'm coming home.I've got a tree."
                                          *                              *                          *
The year after that, John told me I had to let him go out and get the tree.  Thinking to surprise him on his day off after the long weekend he had just worked, I stopped at Agway and got an enormous pine tree on clearance (I love bargain shopping and had no idea this carried over into Christmas trees) so I bought it on the spot.  Once I got home I found our tree stand and set about getting the tree up, all the while thinking about what a nice wife I was to pick up a tree so John wouldn't have to, especially after last year's fiasco. Soon I discovered why this particular tree was in the clearance bin- the trunk was unusually wide, so that it would not fit into the tree stand.  No matter, I thought, and headed out to buy a bigger stand. Five sold-out stores later, I was back home in defeat, realizing I would have to shave the trunk down to fit into the small stand.
The saw from the year before was nowhere to be found, so I grabbed the only sharp thing I could find - our meat cleaver.  It was really hard work so I had Jake come out to the living room to help, and he started whacking away at the tree trunk, briefly trying out a samurai sword he had to see if it would work better (it broke).  John awoke to all of the banging and chopping and came out into the living room, half asleep, to see his entire family covered in pine needles and wood chips,  trying to shove a ridiculously full tree into a teeny tiny tree stand.
We now own a very boring, six foot tall "fake" tree that can be assembled in about twenty seconds flat, and although I do miss the real trees, I've decided this is one battle John should win. For now.
  

Holiday Hilarity part I

Every year while Jake was growing up I would buy some funny boxers to put in his Christmas stocking, kind of a tradition - like the new Christmas pjs we always have. The first year it was Superman boxers, and then I found that during the holiday season American Eagle always sells kind of funny  themed ones, so the next year I bought a pair with smiling Christmas trees.
The next year I inadvertently bought the pair that we still laugh about, the ones with the strings of Christmas bulbs.  It all seemed innocent enough until about five months later when I was switching Jake's laundry from the washer to the dryer and saw, written on the flap of the boxers in huge letters  words that no one's mom should ever ever associate with their underpants:
NAUGHTY or NICE?
Now I am so careful when I buy men's underclothing, looking for any inappropriate words that may be hiding inside.

Honest (G)Abe

On the first day of second grade Gabe came home with all sorts of paperwork, including one assignment he had done in class. It had already been "corrected" and had the obligatory smiley face sticker at the top of the page. Looking over it, I saw questions about their new class/classroom: Name one thing in the classroom with sharp edges. Name one thing that is round. Name something that has five colors on it. When I got to the bottom of the page, one question stood out, but only because of Gabe's answer:
Name one thing in the classroom that is too heavy for you to pick up. My son wrote down:
Mrs. Hutchinson.

Magic Beans

Mom and Dad's house is located on seven acres, mostly forest, with the exception of their nicely manicured lawn. They have all types of woodland creatures that visit on a regular basis, and often Mom or Dad will photograph the visitors and share the pictures with Zach. This leads to tracking animal footprints, looking for animal homes, and reading up in Mom's vast library of northeastern animal books.
Before Zach became familiar with which animal went with which track and the meaning of the word "scat," he had a brief encounter that has stayed with me for years. Dad and I were outside with the boys, who were around 4 and 5 years old at the time; we were chatting up by the porch while the boys played in the front yard, which is perfect for biking, ball playing and lots of other activities, although by this point Zach obvious interest in all things animal had become apparent. We stopped chatting long enough to notice that Zach had bent down and was looking at something  on the ground, so Dad started heading towards him and I followed. Soon Zach had this new discovery in hand and was heading towards us to show it off.
"Look, Grandpa!" he beamed, holding out his chubby little hand. "Magic beans!" As soon as dad starting laughing I started running, and at the same time we chorused ,"Zach, PUT THAT DOWN!"
"But look-" he protested.
Firmly I stood my ground and told him once more to put down the magic beans; I'm actually quite proud of myself as I look back on the episode, knowing I must have wanted to scream or run my son inside for a bleach bath.
"You may not play with those. That's fox poop."