It’s a bird... it’s a plane...

Those of you who know my family well know what a struggle I've had with my now 5-year-old son, Sam. I mean this kid really puts me through the ringer. I could dedicate a whole site just to him and his exploits and document the daily struggle I face to refrain from throwing him out the window teach him to be a productive member of society. This summer has been particularly difficult. I have found myself really having to focus on remembering what a real treasure he really and truly is. (I had to look especially hard today.)

Thus we come to today's post.

This was one I wrote on my prior blog a couple of years ago. Sam was 3 at the time. Those of you who've read it will live through it again I'm sure. For those of you who haven't, here you go...another reason why I love my ridiculously difficult son.

It's a bird... it's a plane...
Wednesday, October 3rd, 2007

So my little boy Sam (a.k.a Destructo Boy, the Human Cyclone, Terror-of-the-Southern-Lands-and-all-things-Poultry) has turned over a new leaf. Seemingly. I'm not sure I truly believe it yet. Those of you familiar with the Era-of-the-Eggs can understand my reservations, I'm sure.

We've survived the Egg Era, Pirate Hell, and the "Call me Pablo, Tyrone" phase. Oompa loompas have stopped screeching parenting insults my way, and Lightning McQueen has stopped racing across my pretty leather furniture. No more noodle towers, Cheerio explosions, blackberry tracks, bleach stains, flour showers, and surprisingly, 12-packs of toilet paper last more than an hour.

This has all been replaced, we think. And with what? Cue the trumpet fanfare...now the drum roll...cap it with a cymbal clash... it's SUPERSAM TO THE RESCUE!!! Can it be? Is it true? Has my little deviant finally decided to renounce his terroristic tendencies in favor of....gulp.....the GOOD OF MANKIND?

Yes, ladies and gents. I wake every morning to find he's already up and dressed in his super suit. He zooms around the house righting wrongs, protecting the innocent. His muscles flex as he lifts heavy fallen objects. He leaps tall pillows in a single bound, all the while his theme music is playing over and over on the DVD player.

What, ladies and gentleman, would I do without this little man of steel? Why just today I was moping around after a long restless night nursing bruised feelings, when in flies Super Sam. He takes a long look at me, rips off his secret identity (it's his favorite firetruck shirt and some glasses with the lenses poked out. He won't let me wash it right now...) and while kissing me on the cheek whispers " but I love you, Mom."

What can I say... my hero.

Lesson of the day

Now class pay attention. This may be on the final. Now repeat after me.

Gorilla glue is not the same as crazy glue.

Gorilla glue will bond anything to anything else.

Permanently.

As in forever.

Should you not heed this lesson, be forewarned.

Ice will not freeze it off. Peanut butter will only make a mess. Even exacto knives will do nothing but cause you pain.

No, boys and girls, gorilla glue is forever.

Your only hope is that a kind loving husband will stifle his laughter long enough to tear apart the bottle rather than ripping the flesh from the bone. If not, you could always follow your son's suggestion to burn it off or just hack off the whole finger with a sword.

Pay absolutely no attention to the full inch of missing skin.

Class dismissed.

Need a good laugh?

Yesterday I learned a very valuable lesson. Here it is.




Heavy narcotic pain killers and trips to the salon DO NOT MIX.

Now check this out.


Notice the resemblance?


Next time I shall listen to my husband and just cancel the appointment.