The other day we had meat balls for supper.
This is a mistake, a very dreadful mistake, if you have a twelve year old boy in the house.
I think I must have heard the word "balls" at least seventy to one hundred times in that short span of twenty minutes that encompassed our meal that evening.
"I'm never making meatballs again!" I told my husband after wards as I scraped said balls into the garbage. The kids did not eat them. Just used every opportunity to use the word 'balls' in a salacious way.
And by 'kids' I mean Geoff and Gage.
Of course, the highlight of the evening was when Gage found a hair in his meatball. I was going to quote him, but well, you can imagine the kind of comments followed that.
So you live and learn. Never serve meatballs to a twelve year old.
Or a forty two year old, apparently.
So this has led me to reflect on other things I've learned. The hard way.
Never let your three year old pack her own bags for a camping trip. I thought, well, what could go wrong?? Throw in a few pairs of pants and a couple of shirts... we'll only be gone for a few days and in any event we can make do with what we've got. Here's what I ended up with when I opened her luggage to change her into her swim gear: three dolls, a make believe toaster, several changes of clothes for the dolls, blankets for the dolls, a velvet Christmas dress (perfect for the beach!), and seven pairs of Hello Kitty panties.
That actually worked out OK in the long term (but in the short term- not so much- she had to wear the clothes on her back the entire time) because now she knows how to pack better. She'll ask "how long are we going to be gone for" and I'll tell her "two days" and then she'll say "So I need two pairs of pyjamas, two pairs of shorts and two shirts, right?" So she thinks it out. But still I double check.
Lesson three. Never tell your husband "don't worry about my birthday" Here's what I meant: don't do anything crazy elaborate for my birthday. Here's what I got: literally NOTHING for my birthday. Not even a card or a freaking breakfast in bed, not even a piece of toast or a half baked birthday cake. Nada. And then when you complain he gets all defensive like "Well, you're the one who told me not to get you anything." Lesson learned. "Don't do anything crazy elaborate for my birthday" can simply go unsaid. I'm pretty sure I don't have to worry in any event.
Lesson 4. When your four year old starts crying when getting off the tire swing and says her stomach hurts really bad, do not pick them up and let them bury their head in your chest. My first instinct was to pick her up and comfort her. What I ended up with: a chest full of warm, chunky vomit, in the hot August sun. With no bathrooms anywhere in sight. Ew.
Lesson 5. Never trust a man named Sneaky Pete. This is a lesson that I've learned vicariously through a coworker. Long story short: litigation. Harassment charges.
Lesson 6. Never let your three year old do your fingernails or toenails. How bad could she botch it, I thought? The answer: Pretty bad. Ditto for you hair.
And your make up.
Lesson 7. Never leave your eighteen month old in a room alone with a box of Kleenex. Ditto for diaper rash ointment. That stuff actually does stain clothing and fabric, by the way.
Lesson 8. Never assume that your cat and the tomcat down the way are "just friends". There are no "just friends" when it comes to cats, apparently. You will end up with a storage room full of kittens and feline placental blood on your wedding dress you were storing back there. And then your dog will eat a kitten. And then you will have to keep a kitten. And then that kitten will run away. And then you will have to spend all your spare time looking for said kitten and making posters for it.
Anyways, that is all for now.
Hopefully this will help you avoid some of the pitfalls that I have encountered.