Reading Reward

"Did you know the end of the year reading party was a fruit kabob party?" Big Kid said, in a rather accusatory tone.

"It was?"

"Last year it was an ice cream sundae party. I read 14 novels that they picked and got some fruit kabobs for it? Sorry, that's not special. They are always getting us to eat fruit now, I read those books for an ice cream sundae."

"Yeah...I see why you're disappointed. Still, you enjoyed the books and still got a party for reading them," I offered, fully recognizing that a fruit kabob party sucks.

"It's just out of control. The pizza in the cafeteria has blue crust and they're making our ice cream sundae party a fruit kabob party because they're so worried about us eating healthy."

"Yeah. I see your point. We can have our own sundae party."

"It's not right."

"They didn't have to give you a party at all."

"I didn't have to read the books and when they said there would be a party, I did not think it would be fruit kabobs. Fruit kabobs are not a party."

"Yeah."

I know it's a little ungrateful of him, but I have to agree that fruit kabobs are pretty lame.

Mash Up of my Heart

Yesterday was Big Kid's 4th grade musical.

I think I've mentioned this before, but school assemblies make me cry. All of them. No matter what. A really ugly laugh/cry hybrid that if I don't hold back, sounds like a distressed hyena.

This one was particularly hard though--they are so big. No longer are they the tiny little peanuts being silly on stage. Even the awkward, gangly children in ill-fitting clothes are fading. They are growing up, they are becoming real people, and they were just so lovely. I was overcome with emotion.

I was wondering if I was alone in these thoughts when Mr. Ashley turned to me and said, "You can tell who they will become. Like the little girl with the red hair?" and I laughed because I had noticed her too, so much in fact that I was ready to hunt down her parents to congratulate them on a job well done. There was nothing spectacular about her, you could just see the strong, confident woman she was about to grow into and she was particularly close to taking that step away from childhood. Many of them were like this, they were finally individuals instead of a group of goofy school kids.

The kids' new school has an amazing music program. At the first grade musical, they did a drum line and sang "We Will Rock You." They did it well, too. This one ended with a Cups/Some Days mash-up that I think was incredible--not just the concept but the performance too. I was so proud and impressed. Excuse the poor camera work, I had to concentrate so hard to hold in the laughing hyena cry.

I came home and watched it three times and happy/sad cried my heart out each time. Happy at their success and our success in raising them, and sad that so much raising has already happened so quickly.

The "You're gonna miss me when I'm gone," line makes my heart crumple, because it is so true.

Dangerous Expedition

Today I have to clean out the boys' bedroom to prepare for the removal of bunk beds and the installation of twin beds. Big Kid is tired of being on the top bunk and little kid is a wild laughing sleepwalker and can't be trusted up there.

I've had two cups of coffee and have been sitting here thinking about it for an hour and a half.

I would honestly prefer to put on hip waders and venture out into the everglades. And I've done that before and hated every single second of it.

It's probably safer than what I'm about to attempt, too.

If you don't hear from me by tomorrow, I am probably underneath a mountain of little boys underwear, action figures, random Lego pieces, wadded up bits of scribbled on paper, and treasures like bottle caps and snake skins.

Bring a shovel and some vodka when you send the search and rescue team out.

Home on the Range

I really want to sell everything we own, acquire a motor home, and travel the country together for one year homeschooling the kids.

I know it's the kind of idea that would leave me wondering, "Exactly what in the hell was I thinking?" within 100 miles from home. It would be loud all of the time. It would be small. No one would or could ever go away. Neither my cat nor my dog are good car riders. I would have to drink a lot and there would be a lot of yelling.

It's ridiculous and crazy and I would do it in a heartbeat. I think now is the perfect time too because I can tell the children are on the verge of annoying ages and then they will probably stop being fun. Mr. Ashley is tired of work and whenever he complains about it, I pitch my big idea again. I could write a book about it, I offer! He could take his skills on the road! His job would rehire him whenever! I can do my job from wherever! But he's all about being practical and seems reluctant to be confined to a travel trailer with his beloved family.

I also think he's worried about the whole stealing a motor home part. It's a vital part of the journey and the book though and I don't think it will be that hard, so he'll have to man up about that.

This is one of my best bad ideas ever. Think about all of the blogging material. Or at least all of the time I would have to complain to you all.

I also really, really want a pet prairie dog. Maybe I should propose this as an "either/or" situation when I bring it up again. Or both? Can you imagine if I took a road trip with a pet prairie dog? That's NY Times Best Seller stuff right there.

Work Out

The biggest problem with working at the yoga studio is that I count it as a work out.

That's completely delusional--wearing yoga pants and sitting on a stool isn't a work out.

But wearing yoga pants and sitting on a stool at a yoga studio?

I'm pretty sure that counts.

Thought That Counts

"Tomorrow is Mother's Day so we're going to do whatever I want," I explained to the children when they asked if they could borrow my laptop to play Minecraft tomorrow.

Big Kid froze. "Tomorrow? Tomorrow is Mother's Day?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Well. We were going to get you a card...but dad's been working and..."

"That's okay. You could make me something if you want."

"Okay. Time to make you a card," he said, walking to the printer to steal a piece of paper. He turned when he was halfway to his room. "Mom?"

"Yes?"

"There won't be a joke or anything. I can't think of a joke."

"That's okay. I don't care."

"I mean, I can think of a few mom jokes but I would never use those."

"No?"

"No, definitely not. Like, 'You're not getting older, you're just getting fatter?' I would never put that on a card for you."

"Uh...thanks?" I said, laughing.

"I just didn't want you to think I would do that. Because I never would."

"Yeah, no, I didn't think you would do that."

Ahhhhh, the joys of motherhood.

Thanks, though.

Overheard

"Do you know what the worst thing in the whole world is, little kid?" I heard Big Kid ask.

"Everything?"

"No! Not everything!" As if that was ridiculous.

"Then what?"

I was curious to know what my sensitive little humanitarian would come up with.

"Social studies. Social studies is the worst thing in the world."

...

Social studies? He's clearly still mad about having to learn the state capitals.

Capital Punishment

"We have to learn all of the states' capitals." Big Kid told me when I asked about his homework.

"Yeah, we had to, too. You have an awesome memory, you'll do great."

"I only remember Tallahassee."

"You should make flash cards," I offered.

"To be honest, I don't really want to. It seems kind of pointless. It's not like a job interviewer is going to ask me the capital of North Dakota." He has an excellent point there.

"Yeah," I tried to think back to the last time I needed to know a state capital as an adult, recalling the pain of learning all of that crap via rote memorization. "It's helpful in trivia games or if you're on Jeopardy. Or if you're the president. You should make some flash cards."

"Ugh. I'll probably never be on Jeopardy. And we have to do a whole packet about this stuff in 2 days. Only 2 days to do it."

"Suck it up, buttercup," I replied, tiring of the conversation.

"It's not the homework in general, it's that there's so little time to do it. And I disagree with the idea of the homework." He insisted.

Big Kid is majorly over the school year. I am majorly over hearing Big Kid complain about how tired of school he is--at this point I would homeschool him for the last grading period of each year just to make it stop.

And I probably wouldn't ask him to memorize the state capitals, that's why we have google. Every time I do simple math on my phone's calculator, I hear Mr. Eder saying "You won't have calculators all of the time when you're an adult, you can't always use a calculator!" Uh, yeah, I can, with absolutely no shame at all.

"Yeah. You should make flash cards."

Hello Henry

After 12 years of service, Mr. Ashley and I hauled our old couches to the curb because tomorrow West Elm is delivering the Henry:

 

Believe it or not, I was kind of sad to see those old Rooms to Go couches go. They've moved 4 times, they were around when we were young and hopeful, they've seen the arrival of 2 babies, they knew our original pets, they withstood the abuse of our two growing boys, and they were super freaking comfy after all of that breaking in.

I'm sure I'll get over it some time between 2-4pm tomorrow, though.

Fit Test

I forgot to tell you all but when we were in Orlando, I got to go to the Lululemon outlet there. I was more excited about this than Disney World.

It was smaller than I expected and we get a lot of clearance Lululemon stuff in the yoga studio, some of which I even get a discount on (thus the whole paying to work thing), but I still found a pile of clothes to try on. There was a line for the fitting rooms and I waited patiently before finally getting my own stall.

I tried everything on and did my downward dog mirror test on all of it, when I found myself at the last piece of clothing--a cute tank with a built-in bra. I really liked it, I decided to put it in the "keep" pile.

Then I tried to remove it.

I managed to get it halfway off and then I was stuck. Really, really, really stuck. I struggled for a moment and managed to become more entangled. One arm was stuck in the air, one caught up oddly in the shirt, my face halfway covered and my belly exposed, the shirt not budging...not up or down.

I considered my options. Mr. Ashley was at the front of the store but my only hope would be to call him on the phone--my limited mobility was not going to allow that kind of maneuvering. And what, he was going to march past the line of people and break into the fitting room to rescue me? I mean, he would and all, but ugh. I struggled for another minute and started to panic. I was in pain from my contorted arm.

At this point I was really freaking out. 

I thought about calling out for the fitting room attendant, and then remembered that it was an attractive young guy. I struggled some more, genuinely afraid I was going to obstruct my face and suffocate for a minute there.

I decided I might just have to use Hulk strength to bust myself out of the top and hope the checkout person didn't notice the tattered condition of the shirt as I bought it. I gathered myself for a mighty struggle, quickly cursing the durability of Lululemon clothing and giving up again, feeling exhausted.

I just could not call for help, I was having visions of the fire department coming in with the jaws of life; everyone in line pissed about the hold up, the fitting room guy telling his friends at the bar later that night.

I calmed myself, took a few deep breaths and told myself that much like a fox stuck in a trap, I was going to do whatever it took to get out of that fucking shirt, up to and including chewing off a limb. Like a wild person I fought and wriggled and squirmed and after practically dislocating a shoulder, managed to free myself.

That was some scary shit. I'm pretty sure I almost died.

I did not buy that shirt and I will never even attempt to buy a shirt like that ever again.

People Haters

Last night Mr. Ashley said, "I hate people."

"Me too!" I said. "I was just thinking earlier about how much easier life would be if it was just me and a world full of cats. If I only had to associate with cats."

He scoffed. "No! Cats are assholes!"

"People are assholes! A world of cats would be wonderful. All quiet and everyone just doing their own thing. No phones, no traffic, no working, lots of naps."

"Ashley, they'd be running around shitting and pissing everywhere."

"They'd be outside! Running free! I wouldn't have to clean their litter boxes, who even cares?"

"There would be kittens everywhere. Cats breed like crazy."

"Kittens are in the 'plus' column! I love kittens! There aren't nearly enough kittens running around. Kittens are cuter than babies."

"I don't know about living in a world full of cats."

"I don't know about living in a world full of people!"

"True."

Fashion Advice from Kids

Although he hates it, I love taking Big Kid shopping.

He has a good eye and no poker face whatsoever.

"You look like you think you're a toddler," he said of a bathing suit with a ruffle.

"You are too old for polka dot pants," he once reminded me firmly.

"I'm sorry but it just looks...not good," he's said with a head shake.

"Your stuff is kind of out," he reported, making a vague motion to where cleavage would be if he had it.

Occasionally I'll try something on that he can tell I like and he pauses before cringing and apologizing.  He tries to be gentle.

Sometimes when catalog shopping, I'll hold up the page and say, "Cute or ridiculous?" and he'll answer with just a glance.

I take his advice 98% of the time.

(But I do think a little cleavage is okay.)

little kid thinks everything I've ever considered looks amazing. He means it too. The other day he stopped dead in his tracks at Sears and BEGGED me to try this outfit on:

Seriously.

"Oh my God, NO!" Big Kid gasped.

"Why do you like that?" I asked, highly amused at the thought.

"You would look like a kung fu girl! Like a black belt!!"

I would, indeed.

I love him to death. But won't be asking him for fashion advice.

Family Anniversary

This weekend marked the very special occasion of our 12 year anniversary.

We chose to take the kids to Disney World. Where we experienced a freak cold front and were forced into buying $40 Mickey sweatshirts. And my flip flop broke 5 minutes after arriving, so I got to rock some Mickey flip flops too.

We were supposed to go to a water park but got rained out. We were supposed to have a nice dinner at Downtown Disney but again, the pouring rain canceled those plans. We ended up at Medieval Nights. Where we ate meat with our fingers and watched a show comparable to Wrestlemania but with horses and swords.

We spent a lot of one day locked in a hotel room with two wild kids. Mr. Ashley knocked for re-entry at one point and I pretended the security guard was with him, just out of sight, asking us to please be quiet and quit jumping on the beds, more for my own sanity than out of consideration for other guests. Later in the day, little kid locked himself in the bathroom and insisted he wasn't coming out because he was tired of being in trouble and demanded that our behavior change, when he was the one acting like a monkey on meth. We refused to change our behavior and insisted he stay in there.

We looked at each other around that time and said, "Remember the last time we said we were never celebrating our anniversary with them again?"

That was the time one child spent the entire dinner show at a Japanese restaurant stink-bombing the bathroom so bad that people were just turning around and leaving upon entering. Then when we got back to our food, the other kid barfed all over our shared table and down a hallway.

We can pretty much never go back there.

But that was a few years ago so we forgot. We always forget because we love them so much...but while locked in our hotel room, I pointed out that if we were at The Standard in Miami, we wouldn't care if it was raining. That our feet wouldn't be sore from walking, that they would be getting massages from beautiful people in a luxurious room together, and lounging around in the heated marble hamam, and taking baths on the hotel room's patio. That there would be no kids. That no one would be locked in our bathroom making absurd demands.

At one point, while hugging and reminiscing about what we were doing 12 years ago at that time, little kid came and hugged us, making sure to wedge himself in between us.

"You do not belong in that hug, little kid!" Big Kid shouted.

"I belong in this hug! It's my anniversary too!" He replied. 

We rolled our eyes and laughed and whispered "Never again!" and we mean it (at least for a few years).

But despite things not going as planned, it was still wonderful. I love being at Disney World because the boys are so happy there, and now that they are older we have a blast on the roller coasters and maneuver easily through the park.

Medieval Nights was hilarious--an accidental treasure. I would have never chosen that, but we had so much fun cheering, and as a mom of boys, I'm embarrassed to admit that Wrestlemania is kind of right up my alley these days.

Those cheesy Mickey hoodies? I just bought myself the same hoodie the boys got...so the three of us wore matching hoodies all weekend. When else could I get away with something so ridiculous? We loved it. (I did, at least. They didn't mind.)

I love them and I love being with them and I love seeing them happy. These are the moments our memories are made of.

But next time I'll be at The Standard.

Official Adult

As I mentioned during Pukefest 2013, I am bartering work hours for classes at the yoga studio.

I don't know if I am doing this because I am committed to staying fit, because I like yoga, because it could provide some great stories, or because I have a major girl crush on the person running the program but so far it's going pretty well. Even the working part.

When I get nervous I talk too much and try too hard to be funny, though, so after every new social situation, I go home and analyze everything I said and decide what I should not have said.

It's a ton of fun.

So since I worked again today, I was in the middle of the torturous mental review tonight when the lady I had been working with texted me and said it had been nice to meet me.

I replied that it was nice to meet her too, and thanks for helping me.

And she replied that she was just really excited to meet someone she liked. Then she sent a few texts saying that came out wrong and was a bit awkward of her.

Yes! I must not be acting like too much of a freak. Sometimes it's hard to tell because they're all so very cool.

She wants to get our kids together and I want to say let's just skip that and do lunch and yoga and fun things like not standing around at the park with two little people who might not like each other at all, but I guess we'll get around to that. God, I hope she's not crazy. I have no reason to think that she is other than her liking me. Crazy people often like me.

But anyway, I feel all official scanning stuff and answering phones and interacting with other adults semi-successfully. It's almost like being a real grown-up.

Except I don't make real money at this job and usually end up shopping during each shift with my retail discount, so I kind of pay to work. But still. I said almost.

Hot Rollers, Big Hair, and Visa Gift Cards

Okay, so I've ended up with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder over my curling iron burn (and a neck scar). I'm willing to just give up on having big bouncy hair daily, but I'm in a wedding in a June where I am the oldest attendant by a good 10 years, so I need to feel concerned about my appearance at least until then.

What about hot rollers? Safer? Easier to manage than a 400 degree rod of metal? Is there any hope of getting the same casual big, wavy curls? (Not pageant girl hair.) I like that I could wander around and look at the internet while they are doing their magic, and it's probably easier to manage a glass of wine during the hair-doing process.

Some of you must be girly girls or hairdressers or whatever and I implore you to help me. Blogher had a good video about hot rollers but the problem with these videos is that although adorable and talented, these people doing them don't seem to be the sort who would be sporting a huge curling iron burn on their necks and suffering from a paralyzing fear of trying again:

 

Do I invest in hot rollers? Go ahead and get a new big curling iron with a clip like the last video I showed you? (Which I fear will only complicate things, it seems like one more thing to worry about.) Insist on wearing a hat everywhere I go forever? Rock my ever present ponytail at this wedding?

Those are my options, people. Help me and my neck get through these trying times. Don't let those college bitches have better hair than me!

(Just kidding, they aren't bitches. But really, don't let them have better hair than me.)

If you are pro-hot rollers, should I go with something like this:



or this:


and if you have a large barrel curling iron that doesn't melt the flesh from your neck, please tell me all about it. 

For your trouble, Blogher is giving away Visa giftcards! That has nothing to do with my hair, really, but if you helped me and then went and entered to win, I feel like the karma gods would smile down upon you with some wonderful plastic cash. Maybe. They should, it should totally work that way.

Here are the official rules which may or may not include a requirement that you comment here about how likely I am to hurt myself with hot rollers.

Can't be Beat

little kid got beaten up by a 3rd grader on the bus this week, and I have spent the last two days on the phone and in meetings. It has been a roller coaster of emotions and a highly calculated battle on all sides, and I think I've finally got everyone's attention and have learned this ridiculous bureaucratic dance one must do to get anything accomplished. Exhausted does not even begin to describe how I feel right now--it feels like I've been crying for 3 days, and I've been too mad to cry at all.

Because they are also parents, I believe the school administration now realizes I'm a really good parent...but they will also probably be cringing at the sound of our name for a while. I feel bad about that, but not really. I'm confident they'll get it right if there's a next time, though.

Anyway, little kid is mostly fine and his regular, hilarious self. The day after it happened he came home and did jumping jacks and push ups, and stacked his bean bags up to practice punching them as hard as he could, asking me if I thought he hit hard enough to hurt someone. He's getting karate lessons and permission to defend himself however necessary. (Yeah, I'm that mom now.)

Yesterday morning while we were snuggling, he told me that I was so beautiful that someone should build a building that looked just like me.

"Yeah?" I asked, imagining a huge Kim Jong Il-like statue of myself.

"I'd build it myself, but it would be super hard." He offered.

"True." I said.

"It would have to be a pretty small building because you are pretty small and I really don't know how to do that. But if I could, I would. A building of you--that would be awesome."

Hell yeah, it would. How could you not love this child?

Then today he mentioned that he thought his brother would be rich when they grew up.

"I think you could be rich. You have charisma and you're a hard worker. You're good with people. I could see your bubby being some successful creative genius and you making a ton of money off of something more technical. Or politics! You could be the president!" I told him.

He wrinkled his nose. "Why would I want to be the president?"

"You would be famous! And you could change the world."

He looked unimpressed.

"Or you could be a lawyer. Or maybe just a governor or something. Someone who talks a lot would be good."

"Wait, wait!! Who are those guys who boss around the president?"

"Secret service? You'd be a great--"

"No! No! Those other guys...the ones against everything?"

"Do you mean...congress?"

"Yes! I will be a congress." He said triumphantly.

I laughed so hard. Yes. He would be the perfect congressman. God help us all.

Especially this little jerk on the bus.

Last Day for Giveaway

Today is the last day of the Shabby Apple $50 gift card giveaway!

Did you enter?

Why not? If you hate cute clothes and jewelry, you could give the gift card to me. Because I'm serious about wanting that dress.

Socks and Slippers

Big Kid is a cat guy.

Our cat Pearl loves him, climbing the bunk bed ladder every single night to sit with him and purr while he reads. On the rare occasion he is sent to time-out, she goes with him. Each morning when we snuggle in bed, she lies on his chest and purrs.

He's asked if he can take her to college and since I cannot bring up the fact that she is very unlikely to be around then, I have agreed that if his housing situation allows it, he can. He often talks of their life in college together.

He also talks about his first cat that he will get as an adult--how he would never declaw it, how he will build an outdoor cat run, how he will feed it the best food, and get it when it is a little tiny baby after asking the person in charge of cat adoptions which kitten is snuggliest.

But recently he came across a photo of Bill Clinton's cat Socks and decided Socks was the coolest cat ever. He thinks the name Socks is the cutest thing in the world (but almost died of a laughter-induced heart attack to hear that a stray that hung around at the same time was called Slippers) and regardless of what it looks like, insists his future cat will be named Socks.

The exact photo that started it all. Socks is pretty bad ass, I will admit that.

So, Clinton's cat comes up in our home a lot, oddly enough. During his Socks the cat research, he heard a derogatory song about Socks and was freaking pissed about it.

"TURN IT OFF!! Socks wouldn't WANT to be free! Socks lived a very nice life, doing cool things. If you're going to write a song about someone's cat, it shouldn't be a depressing song!!" He insisted.

I had to eventually point out that Socks the cat was more famous than the guy who was lame enough to sing a song insulting a cat. He agreed, with vehemence. Don't get him started on that guy, though.

He also went from thinking Bill Clinton was the most creative, most awesome guy in the world (seriously--the name "Socks" is some genius-level shit in Big Kid's opinion) to being disgusted at the news that he left Socks with his former secretary when he got Buddy, as the two were unable to get along. I pointed out that at that point Socks was a celebrity and the cat version of a humanitarian--visiting children's hospitals, going to press conferences, and could probably never be happy again in Arkansas after the glitz and glamour of the White House. A dumb dog wouldn't know how good he's got it. He reluctantly agreed...but he wouldn't have left his cat. Big Kid's reasons for being suspect of Bill's loyalty are different than the rest of the world's.

Socks has inspired a fascination with other presidential pets, and he's in the process of making a list of animals that have lived at the White House. He is up to the original George Bush. So far, the only pet halfway as cool as Socks was Andrew Jackson's parrot, who apparently cursed so rudely and often that it had to be removed from Jackson's funeral. It is his other favorite, but hasn't inspired the want of a parrot or anything. Thank goodness.

I love cats. I'm glad my boy loves cats. I'm glad he's young enough that this is what occupies his mind and time--but I'm also slightly concerned about all of the brain power dedicated to presidential pets. Everyone thinks it must be so fascinating to have a child with such a high IQ. Sometimes it is...but sometimes you're stuck talking a lot about historically significant cats.

Spam A Lot

I told you that I get a ton of spam comments but I didn't get a chance to elaborate. I've been saving screen shots of my favorites for a while now, but this one pushed me over the edge into having to share: 

"I'm mad and that's a fact I found out animals don't help Animals think they're pretty smart Shit on the ground, see in the dark" (link erased because I'll be damned if I give these people the publicity they are looking for)

That is what I deal with all day long. Some are more poetic than others; one was especially talented at throwing together the most beautiful words in the English language into one completely ridiculous, nonsensical sentence, and I really regret not saving those. Most of them were in reference to Loboutin shoes and they were accidental poetry but they have long since moved on to greener pastures where their comments might actually get published. But here are some others, click to enlarge:

 Please note my favorite from this list: She allegedly managed to flight from the fleshlight. The fleshlight is fiddling in clean up position to do it but it was no way to the mind, inhibiting adrenergic fountain from the bag approximately the globe. Fleshlight the fleshlight is as just as how he plant them sexually explicit pics of her kitty-cat I was pretty a good deal nix movies, looks can lead astray. You're departure to be the Hither today so he doesn't own a theme song fleshlight :)

What in the actual hell? Do I want to know?

Probably not.

But THAT is why your comments are moderated, my friends.

The Wall

First thing this morning, little kid hopped in bed to snuggle with me while I was still sleeping and since his eyes were open, of course his mouth was moving: 

"What if the British knocked out one or two blocks from the Great Wall of China--would it fall?"

"No", I answered, mostly still asleep.

"It might."

"No."

"What would they do it with? Swords? They couldn't do that."

"No, they couldn't. They wouldn't, either," I added, draping my arm over my face.

"Yeah, because they know they couldn't get through that wall.  What if they had cannon balls? Mom, do the British have cannon balls? Could a cannon ball go through the wall?"

"I don't know, babe. I really don't. I'm super tired."

"Yes, but do the British have cannonballs?"

"Yes, they do, hon. They have no interest in going to war with China, though."

"Because they know they couldn't get through that wall."

"They could get through the wall, little kid. They have bombs and stuff now."

"The British?!? Have bombs?!? Do they have tanks and stuff?"

"Yes."

"Wow! Hmmm. So they could get through that wall, I guess. Could a tank get through that wall?"

"It wouldn't want to, little kid! The British aren't going to war with anyone--they couldn't care less about China or its wall."

"Probably because they know they can't get through there--it's like a huge wall."

"Right." I agreed out of frustration.

"Mom?"

"Yes?" I answered, my patience wearing thin.

"You are so beautiful that you couldn't even be sketched."

"Thank you, honey."

"Maybe you could be sketched by a robot but it would have to be a super good artist robot."

"Right."

"Maybe it would need to have a finger that traced your face--I don't know, maybe the finger would need to be a scanner or something? It would be hard to get right.  Hey, are there buildings in China? And how do we know the British don't want to start wars with anyone anymore?"

"A lot, and I really don't know. The British have chilled a lot in the last 200 years or so."

"That's good because they could never get through that wall anyway, don't you think?"

"I don't know, little kid. Maybe not."

"I can't believe the British have bombs now."

"Yeah, me neither."

"You are beautiful though."

"Thanks."

And that's a pretty typical start to my morning.

But watch out, England, little hasn't quite forgiven you for your participation in the Revolutionary War yet.