Writing Wrongs

October 18, 2005

So the other day, Andrew comes leaping at me, shirt off, arms in the air. �Mommy! Smell my armpit!�

I decline. So he sniffs for me. �I can�t smell anything. I don�t know. Do I need deodorant?�

What he needs is a shower. I tell him that he won�t need deodorant for a few more years and I�ll make sure to let him know when he does. Later, because armpit contemplation is not enough, he tells me, �Mommy, I think I ate my Band-Aid.�

Sunday, when I was determined to finished the scene I was working on (a little something I call Mark�s accidental erotic massage), we had lunch/brunch of potato pancakes. I ate quite a few, at an exception rate, apparently, since Bob felt the need to tell the kids:

What�s the why to your mommy�s heart? Is it money? No. Is it jewelry? No. Is it even love? No. It�s potato pancakes.

At this point, Kyra let out a long: �Nooooo!� When she�s sure she has our attention, she says, �Family.�

There you have it. Our very own �from the mouths of babes� moment. All we need is Hallmark and some sort of appropriate graphic. I�m thinking one that includes potato pancakes.

And armpits.

Charity Tahmaseb wrote at 12:15 p.m.

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