My son, the Entrepeneur

Should I be proud or concerned?

I've mentioned before how much Jonah loathes work. For a six year old, however, extra chores and odd jobs are really the only way to make a little moolah. (Unless of course that six year old is lucky enough to receive an allowance. Mine is not. Tried it. Didn't work too well. We'll revisit that in a couple years.) Since he has a really hard time holding on to the money he does earn/find in the parking lot/con his great-grandpa out of (must-buy-the-SuperTarget-popcorn-combo!!!) he's learning he has to be creative to keep the dollars flowing.

The other day I walked into the bathroom and turned on the light to find this staring back at me:

"Look at Loos (lots) of Marbles!!! Just for $14."

I know he's been "saving up" [translation: spending every penny he has on candy and then complaining that he needs money] to purchase a replacement battery for his hand-me-down Gameboy (at a cost of $10-15). I guess this route made the most sense. And why not? He's been raised in a family business. He's never known any different, really. I sell stuff so I can buy things. If Mommy does it, why can't he?

But $14? Whew! Do those marbles tap dance?!

...I keep my prices pretty high, too. Way to be a diva, Jonah.


Good boy.




His Great-Aunt (who supplied him with the marbles) stopped by to drop off Easter gifts for the boys. When she was heading out, I followed her to her car with the lunchbox to show her his foray into entrepreneurship. We had a good chuckle about it which was interrupted by Jonah who had come out to see her off. He caught us looking at the the open box and declared, "Wait! You looked! Now you have to pay me $14!" She replied, "I'm sorry, but I don't have $14." "Well then you're just going to have to bring it next time because you OWE me $14." A few chocolate bunnies later and he had forgiven the debt, but I haven't dared to open it since!


But here's a photo so you can see "Loos" of marbles (!!!) for yourself. If you want to send payment, Jonah is currently accepting cash and checks.

Whoosie Cushion

Not all boys are created equal.

There are some who exit the womb tossing balls and tackling teammates, others who immerse themselves in video games and comic books, and yet others still who prefer to strum a guitar or bang on a snare drum to pass the time.

However, I do believe there is a common denominator that unites boys everywhere: the obsession with bodily noises.

My boys are no exception. In their eyes, there is nothing better, nothing more entertaining, nothing more expressive than a good belch or some decent flatulence. Growing up in a house of females, I wasn't privy to the humor associated with bodily functions. After marrying into Tyler's family of brothers, I was a little shocked by how casual and welcomed it was to break wind during dinner and then discuss it. I suppose I should have looked at it as a primer to mothering boys, but at the time, I assumed I'd be graced with daughters simply because girls were all I knew how to do. I know the Lord must have a pretty decent sense of humor (just look at a giraffe and try to convince yourself He doesn't), but I didn't know He was that funny. Apparently humor is divine, because I'm now the mother of two sons.

It didn't take long to realize that this love for all things intestinally-related was innate. Once Jonah learned he actually had a little control over his body, it became a favorite pass time to see just how loud he could belch. When Sam came along, everything was taken to another level. Sam revels in it. Not only is he the first to point out and laugh at anything that remotely sounds like a toot ("toot" being our word of choice -- I feel its less offensive than other options and considering how often its said around here, it might as well not be disgusting.), but he's a pro at mimicking those sounds and does his best to slip in one -or twenty- artificial belches while we bless the food before dinner. Jonah is always a great audience, and if we're lucky, he'll join in and contribute to the symphony of inappropriate noises.

A while back, Jonah's Granny took him to the dollar store. I'm pretty sure the purpose of this particular visit was to find Sam a Christmas present, but not surprisingly, Jonah came home that afternoon having spent the entire contents of his piggy bank -- on himself. The prized acquisition of that trip was a immaculate blue Whoopie Cushion. I know he'd had one in the past, but it might as well have been his first fart-maker because it quickly became his most loved possession. His entire reason for existence became wrapped up in trying to "trick" people into sitting on it. He never did seem to grasp the idea that the cushion should be hidden so as to catch the sitter off guard, but we all played along and did our due diligence on what became known as the "Whoosie Cushion." Unfortunately, his father and his Papa were frequent targets of the whoosie cushion. When 160-270+ pounds meets a little rubber pillow, the pillow doesn't stand a chance. So once a week or so, the whoosie cushion would pop. I would suggest it find its way into the trash, and Jonah would insist on patching it with "Goose Tape" (aka, Duct Tape -- Goose, Duck, Duct...its all the same, right?). Pretty soon, the only thing holding it together was tape. But that didn't deter the boys from using it. Over, and over, and over again.

When it was his time to bring something for Show and Tell at school, the whoosie cushion was it. I'm sure he demonstrated how it worked, and I would imagine the other 5 and 6 year-olds got a kick out it (soooo much cooler than a stuffed animal!) -- And that his teacher rolled her eyes.

Sam became the whoosie cushion's biggest fan. He would gleefully scream, "toot-ing! toot-ing!" every time it was brought out, laugh delightfully at each disgusting vibration, and then watch intently as another Goose Tape patch was administered.

This morning the whoosie cushion received two more patches and I announced that it was finally time to say good-bye to the wretched thing. After cries of protest, I finally gave in and agreed it could stick around until we had time to make another trip to the dollar store to replace it.

We're counting the coins in Jonah's piggy bank right now.

How to Fold Shirts

Last night this was given to me by Jonah for safe keeping. He had asked for a tutorial on folding shirts a few days ago, and is excited to try out his adapted method. Excited? Jonah? Not surprising. But excited about folding laundry? Hallelujah!

For those of you not fluent in 6-year-old:
"How to fold shirts Jonah's way" -- followed by a very clear, concise diagram detailing how one is to lay the shirt flat, fold in each sleeve, then fold the shirt in half twice, apparently. Hopefully we're on to something here. This diagram is a keeper, though, as is this kid. He's a hoot.

Now off to do some laundry to test his method...

Bathroom Nazi

Ever react to something one of your children did and then wonder if maybe you went a little overboard?

I do. All the time.

This morning I may have crossed a boundary somewhere. But first you'll need a little background to understand the years leading up to my hysteria.

When we moved into our current situation, we first did what we always do: ripped everything apart and put it back together. We remodeled every room except for one -- the master bathroom. (and to clarify, we never completed the remodel on the main bath, either...which is why I refuse to move into the D Street house until its done-done.) The master bath was unfortunately unusable by my standards. Its a safety hazard. The wall-mounted sink is barely hanging on by a bolt or two, the grout is missing in most of the shower, and the shower fixtures themselves are not in working order. Cracked tile on the floor, no working outlets...you get the picture. Had I not been 9 months pregnant at the time, I would have totally gone in there and fixed it myself and probably wouldn't have had to spend more than $500 to do so, but that just wasn't on my agenda at the time. So it became a temporary storage closet instead, and to this day is a door that remains closed.

What that means is that our family shares one bathroom. In the big scheme of things, I realize this is not a big deal. We're lucky to have a bathroom at all, right? I do tell myself that, I do, but sometimes when I'm running out the door to meet with a client only to discover my dry-clean slacks are laced with sparkly children's' toothpaste, that gratitude escapes me. My bathtub is full of Happy Meal toys, my makeup is frequently used as finger paint, and my feminine hygiene products have been known to double as torpedoes in Star Wars battles. Now that we're in the beginning stages of potty-training Sam, the family bathroom has become an even more cramped, almost frantic environment. Every time I see one those home-improvement shows where they're making a "serene, spa-like bathroom," I snort and change the channel.

When Jonah goes to the bathroom, we expect him to be gone for at least 15 minutes. Like many little boys his age, a trip to the bathroom means a full-scale retreat into his imagination. He sings, he tries out new accents and dialects, he tells stories, and makes animal noises. When the bathroom FAN is switched on, however, its a completely different story. Not only will that 15 minutes be extended to at least 30, we also know its in our best interests (and necessary for our overall general health) to stay away until the fumes subside. This isn't big deal when no one else needs to use the bathroom (like I'm going to complain that he's occupied for a half hour!), but that's not always the case.

This morning the dreaded bathroom fan was switched on as I was getting ready for the day and Sam was playing in the bathtub. I quickly warned him to be fast and to be cognizant of the fact that there were two other people using the bathroom at the time. Do your business and flush. He assured me he would, but 10 seconds into the task, he was obviously fighting a Pokemon in a jungle somewhere in his mind. Every couple minutes I would tell him to hurry up, and when I finally pulled the mascara wand away from my eye, I glanced over to see him getting ready to use a compacted wad of toilet paper the size of a softball. I cannot tell you how many conversations/tutorials/Family Night lessons we have had on the proper usage of toilet paper. Two squares, I say. TWO SQUARES! If you need more, fine, but only in two square increments! Forget the fact that poor trees are giving their lives so you can clean your behind -- I pay for that stuff! So I march over in a huff and start separating his immense handful of toilet paper into two-square sections. When I'm done, there is a pile of 11 pieces. He was going to use 23 squares of toilet paper for one swipe! I gave him the most serious "I'm-your-mother-and-I-will-be-heard" look I could (I think I even pointed a finger to make sure he knew I meant business) and told him to finish and flush. Now.

A few minutes later I walked back in to see him getting ready to pull more paper off the roll.

"But MOM! I'm not done!"

-- Okay. In all honesty, I think I'm to blame here. In an effort to prevent the "skid marks" I've witnessed in some of my nephew's underpants, I think I may have told him at one point that if he were to ever leave anything behind after going #2, he would get a terrible, horrible rash and would be in dire pain and agony. My bad. --

"Yes you are. You are done. You have used more toilet paper than a grown man. There is no reason to -- JONAH!"

I had glanced into the toilet and saw that water could no longer be seen. There was so much toilet paper in that bowl, it was inches away from actually touching his little hiney. Had this been the first time this had ever happened, I may have handled the situation better, but as it were, I had become an expert in the use of a plunger long ago. Not a skill set I ever thought I'd need, but one I use at least every other week because of this little boy and his toilet paper habit. And I'm so over it.

So we flushed. And as you may have guessed, it didn't go down. Suddenly, I remembered one of the empty threats I had issued a few weeks ago -- I told him that the next time he clogged the toilet, I was not going to trek to the garage to retrieve the plunger, I was going to make him reach into the toilet and pull the toilet paper (etc.) out. With his hands.

And that's what I did.


I remember catching the tail-end of an Oprah episode a year or so ago where they were doing silly mom-confessions and one mother said something to the effect of, "I think the best way to discipline is for your kid to think that you're just a little bit crazy. You've got to make them think that this might be the moment that Mom finally loses it."

Today Jonah may have thought I finally cracked. After he cleared the clog and washed his hands with soap - twice - I calmly explained that this was the new order. He was now the family plunger. I think I made my point. Whether that point was a warning to use less toilet paper, or proof that his mother is actually insane, I don't know. We'll just have to wait and see what happens the next time he flips on the fan.


image via The Frugal Law Student

The Cactus vs. The Penguin

A couple weeks ago, my sister-in-law reminded me it was time for Old Navy's annual "50% off all clearance" sale. I'm in love with that sale. I try to purchase as much boys clothing for the upcoming year(s) as possible during that week, and have been known to hit every Old Navy in the area to find the best selection. I'm always doing what I can to save money, and since ALL clothing worn by my children should be deemed "disposable" (translation: look at something they've worn at the end of any given day and you'll think my boys share the same genetic make-up as porcupines and pigs), why not spend $1.50 on a shirt as opposed to $10.00?

This time, the whole family came along to kindly complicate my shopping experience. When I was finally wrapping things up, Jonah approached me , positively giddy: "MOM! Look what I FOUND!" I looked down to see him holding the most disgusting pair of slippers I've ever seen. I am absolutely certain that some kid got these slippers for Christmas and wore them once or twice, the family dog decided to use them as a chew toy, and then the mom decided they were a total waste of money and returned them to the store. I'm sure that in any other circumstance Jonah would have been able to recognize their dilapidated state, but in this instance, all reasoning was lost on him because these were Penguin slippers. I don't know what it is about Penguins and my oldest son. He loves them. Not crazy-love, but if he's going to receive anything plush, it'd better resemble a non-flying bird. I looked at the price tag.

"50% off $5.49 is $2.75."

"I've got money at home!"

"But you don't have $2.75 because you just barely made that trip to the dollar store..."

"Mom. If you'll buy them for me, I promise I'll pay you back. Pinkie swear! Look they fit perfect!" (...only if by "perfect" he means that his heels are completely hanging off the back.)

There didn't seem to be much harm in indulging his penguin fetish, and I do like to provide opportunities for him to learn to earn and respect money...so I gave in -- with the understanding that they could not be worn and the tag could not be removed until he paid in full.

Fast forward a couple weeks. Like any normal household, the filled Old Navy bags were still sitting on the kitchen floor. I finally (begrudgingly) decided it was time to put everything away, at which point we were all reminded of the penguin slippers. The desire to pay his debt was renewed, and I encouraged him to talk to his Granny to determine whether or not she had any paying jobs he could do to earn some money.

Now Jonah hates to work. Haaaates it. And he's a pretty resourceful little bugger so I'm never surprised to see him looking for ways to skirt manual labor. This time there was no whining, though, which surprised me. About an hour later I saw him trot downstairs holding the potted cactus I bought him a couple years ago in an effort to teach him about caring for living things (a lesson which totally backfired since I failed to recognize that those things are impossible to kill so it doesn't matter that we haven't watered it for 18 months). He rarely shows any interest in it, so I was curious to find out what he was doing. I went downstairs and found Jonah cactus-less with a handful of change. Tyler's grandma explained:

"Jonah sold me his cactus. He told me he needed $2.75, but I negotiated and talked him down to $2.00."

"You sold your cactus to Granny?"

"Yes! And now I'm going to go count my money and see if I have enough to buy the slippers."

What am I going say? The cactus belonged to him -- he can do with it what he pleases. Deep down I was a little impressed that he even thought to make money that way. But of course, that's not the end of the story. The thrill of entrepreneurship lasted a whole 10 minutes until I heard him approach his Granny again:

"Granny, I changed my mind. I want to buy back my cactus for $2.00."

"Okay, if that's what you want. How come?"

"I know you'll do a very good job taking care of it, but I'm afraid it will be lonely without me."

So the refund was made and the cactus reclaimed its rightful place on Jonah's dusty, cluttered dresser.

And guess what? The tags are still on those darned slippers.

$2.75 is a lot of money, after all.