So there!

Yesterday we took the kids to "Aunt Beff's" to swim, as it was Chad's last day off and I thought he should get to enjoy seeing his kids almost drown 23,345 times in two hours, like I do. Or, as some call it, swim. But when you are the mom, it all looks like potential drowning. Yes, they are wearing floaties, or death traps, as the kids refer to them. But, floaties (not to be confused with poo floaties) are little life savers and help me to breath semi normally as they (skip this next part, Beth) dive off the ladder time and time again. Most of the time.


But DH (definitely dumb butt husband yesterday) did not have fun. He wanted to go play at the Blue Hole, aka Might As Well Kill Them Ourselves Hole. Lots of rocks, hidden pockets of cold death. Okay, I know it sounds like I have a thing against swimming, or water in general, but I do not. I think hot baths are God's way of saying, Thanks for not killing your kids today! Candles, books, and peanut m&ms are my own pat on the back.


Anyway...


Hubby & I threw the football back and forth for a while then I settled down with a book. Micah chose that moment to be cold and come sit beside mommy in the sun. So, instead of reading, I had the following conversation with my 4 year old. Punk.

"Mommy, dat whore weg?"

For some reason, he says '"your" as "hore". Maybe it's my guilty conscience in overdrive, but I always hear it as "whore." One of these days I'm afraid I'm gonna go off and scream at him, WHO YOU CALLIN' A WHORE?! Your MOMMA'S a whore! This would not be good, and I digress...


"Yes, that is my leg."


"Whore weg is bigger dare?" He is pointing at my thigh. My upper, fat thigh. I start sweating.

"Uh, yes...my leg is bigger there. WHY? Do you think it's TOO big? Is that what your daddy said? Did he tell you to say that? Well, it's all his fault anyway! If he hadn't knocked me up FOUR times...." Oops.


Thankfully, he had already wandered off to look at the pretty rock in the kiddie pool while I was busy twisting and turning to get a look at my humongus "wegs."

But that's okay, I got even today. I took a picture of him blowing raspberries on his baby brother's belly. Blackmail, baby. Blackmail. One day I'll pull that picture out and blow it up to poster size. Tack it to the wall in the kitchen. On his 16th birthday. And act like I don't recognize the other kid.

More opportunities for blackmail:

Note to Tim: it is not a REAL gun
PS to Tim: if it were, you'd be dead

We "Smiths" can't just swim...we have to make it a game...

Future Policewoman of the Year:

This is why she is Favorite Aunt:

And my best shot at blackmail:



Seriously...your kids drink that water, Tim!