. . . .out of the mouth of babes

I don’t know about you, but sometimes my kids can be really insulting.  Seriously.  Listen to this.

Miss 5 was looking around, trying to put something away, but didn’t know where to stick it.  I told her to put it in the laundry room.  She said, ‘Why?  Because it’s always so messy in there?  It’s the messy room.  Messy. Messy. Messy.”  Then she starting singing, “It’s a dirty place, dirty and messy, messy in there.”

“Miss 5.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Be quiet.”

“Okay Mom.”

So I was insulted about my laundry room.  Painful, but sadly, not entirely untrue.

But it doesn’t stop there.  Last night I made meatballs for dinner.  Of course my girls did not want to eat them.  They never ever want to eat anything.  They asked me to leave some meatballs out of the spaghetti sauce for them because they hate spaghetti sauce and thought it may be better with just the plain meatballs.  I complied.  I put one meatball each on the plates of Miss 6 and Miss 5.  They ate everything else and wanted more but hadn’t touched the meatball.  We use fruit as a serious bribe around here so we told them they couldn’t have anything else, including pineapple, until they ate the meatball.  Usually this works, but last night, no dice.  They started whispering together, thinking up ways to get out of eating the meatball.  I interrupted.

“The only way you’re going to get out of eating that meatball is if you drop dead.”

Miss 6 raised a hopeful eyebrow.  “Drop dead?” she repeatedly thoughtfully, as if it was an option.

“If you die before you eat that meatball, I am going to bury you with it.” I said.

So there.  Case closed.  Mom wins.  Not.  Miss 5  literally threw up her meatball under the table to get out of eating it.  (sick I know, but she’s the one who did it.)

So my cooking was insulted.  Apparently it is bad enough to induce vomiting at (or under) the kitchen table.

We’re still not done here.  Oh no, it goes further than that.  Miss 8 insulted me, too.

I have been trying to find her a new Christmas dress.  I brought one home for her to try on but it just wasn’t flattering.  She said the following to Miss 6:

“It made me look fat like Mom.”

I looked at her.  She had the decency to at least stammer.  “Well, um, you know, Mom’s are just. . . . thicker.”

“Miss 8?”

“Yes Mom?”

“Be quiet.”

“Okay, Mom.”