A Very Practical Application of Grammar: In Vs. On

**DISCLAIMER: Yet another bodily functions blog. Sorry, it's a pretty big part of my life. **

Life is never boring here. I've recently embarked on my least favorite part of childhood: potty training. All of my kids seem to have huge mental blocks when it comes to this very necessary transitional part of life and of course it frustrates me to no end. But also provides me with exceptionally funny stories to torture my children with. In advance: sorry kids.

Diaper Bombs

So young, so adorable, so untrainable

Ellie absolutely refused to potty train until she was over 4 years old and I was literally at my wits end. I was convinced that the child was never ever going to give up diapers. Every single day was a battle for us. I tried crying, begging, threatening, pleading, bribing, cajoling... nothing had an effect. I read books, I had nice long talks, I tried multiple tactics, the child just happened to like her diapers. And if anyone else has had to change a 4 year old's diaper, I feel for you. Bush was looking for WMD's in the wrong place, they were right there in my kid's pants. I told her that I hoped that man that she married was quite ok with changing her diapers because I was pretty she was gonna walk down the aisle wearing them.

And then, one miraculous day, she decided that she was done with diapers and was potty trained overnight. And lo, there was much rejoicing in the land.

Grammar lessons: In Vs. On

Picture of innocence

A few months ago Maya showed signs of being ready to potty train. I was NOT going to have another 4 year old in diapers and I figured I might as well give it a go. Amidst much fanfare, we purchased her first potty chair and big girl pants. Operation Potty Training had officially commenced. The first time Maya sat on the potty chair she accidentally managed to pee on it, immediately freaked out and demanded a diaper. The fact that it wasn't contained in a soggy diaper apparently was too much for her little mind to handle. Ever since that day, she has equated the potty chair with "naked sitting time" and when she actually has to go, she demands that the diaper be put back on. She can't quite comprehend that when you sit on the potty chair you actually have to put something IN it. She also discovered that the potty makes a perfect step stool and I routinely find both her and the potty chair in forbidden areas.

Yesterday we reached a whole new low in the potty arena. My friend Rachel and I were sitting in the living room having a very pleasant and non bodily function related conversation. I could hear the sounds of both Ellie and Maya playing in the bathroom. At this point, I was not alarmed because they actually seemed to be getting along and so far no horrific screams had issued forth from that direction. No sooner had I voiced that thought than screams of horror came from the bathroom. Maya came padding out into the living room. She was stark naked and was leaving little wet foot prints behind here. My heart sank.

She proudly announced, "I pee pee ON potty chair".
Ellie shouted from the bathroom, "Mooommmmm. Maya peed ON my underwear!!!!!!!!!"
My friend Rachel giggled, "I am SO glad I'm here to see this"

Guilty as charged

I hesitantly headed back to the bathroom (taking special care to avoid the suspicious footprints) and was greeted by a horrific potty training crime scene. Ellie was stranded on the toilet. There was a heap of soaked clothes on the floor (as well as the useless discarded diaper).

And there was pee. All.the.way.up.the.walls.

Apparently my enterprising little potty trainee had divested herself of her clothing and stood on her potty chair in order to reach the sink. While she was happily splashing in the water, nature called and she readily answered, all over my nice clean floor (of course I had scrubbed that bathroom the day before). Maya was quite correct, she did pee ON the potty chair, with the lid closed. And judging by the enormous amount of liquid splashed all over my bathroom, it had been quite a while since she had done so. It looked like the Niagara Falls had just peed in my bathroom.

I went into Super Mommy Mode (something about pee everywhere really gets the adrenaline flowing.).  Maya was boxed into a corner to avoid further unsanitary footprints. Ellie was given fresh clothes. The Lysol and paper towels made an appearance and were applied liberally to every visible surface. And Maya was unceremoniously dumped into the shower and hosed down.

Once everyone was reasonably disinfected and I had gulped down a large cup of coffee, I was able to see the humor in it. Ha. ON the potty chair. Needless to say, I will be supervising the children's bathroom time a bit more closely. We will also be reinforcing the important concept of IN vs. ON. I guess 8th grade grammar was pretty important after all.  I also have a feeling Operation Potty Training will continue to be a rather long and arduous process again. God help me, I still have to potty train Kiki too.

Ah, the horrors!

"Die" Kitty Cow: how my kids slaughter the English language

One late late night about 6 years ago, I was holding a very upset and very distraught infant Ellie. She had been crying for close to an hour and I hadn't the foggiest idea what was the matter with her (there goes Mother's intuition, right?). At one point, I held her up and stared directly into her beet red screaming little face and said "why can't you just TELL ME what's wrong???? I can't wait till you can talk!?!?" Oh, how I've learned to rue those words.

Fast forward a few years, and Ellie has definitely learned how to talk, in fact it's nearly impossible to shut her up. From the time she could smile and wave, Ellie has always been the social butterfly. She said hi to anyone. And when I say anyone, I mean anyone. The lovely old ladies who cooed and fawned over her at the grocery store were gifted with her most charming smiles. But she would also try to jump into the arms of the mildly alarming man who looked like he hadn't bathed in weeks. Her benevolence was never discriminatory. One of the first words she learned after "Mama" and "Dada" was "Hi", and this fascinating new word was applied liberally to every hapless passerby.

Now the English language is a rather difficult language to master, even more so to a small child who has been mostly subjected to a twisted form of English known as Baby Talk. I'm not sure how anyone learns how to talk when they spend the first formative months of their lives hearing, "Ooo's a bwiigg widdle gwirl, oh yessums we are!" So Ellie had the "hi" part down pretty well, but the "goodbye" part was a bit trickier, instead of a clear "bye", we all received a cheery: "die!" I must admit, I secretly loved the looks on people's faces when my 1 year old cheerfully told them to "die" and merrily waved at their somewhat shocked faces. But sometimes it got a bit spooky. One particular time, my sister was putting Ellie down for a nap, and as she was laying down, Ellie was waving and chirping "die, die, die!" to her. No child likes going down for a nap, but wishing death upon the bringer of the nap is pretty extreme.


Due to Ellie's extreme chattiness, Maya's vocabulary is pretty extraordinary for a two year old. When you have a six year old sister that you adore, of course you're going to mimic everything she does, which includes talking continuously. We've been dealing with full sentences for a bit now, which only means I have two girls who talk non stop all day. Last week I was working on animal sounds with Maya, some of them familiar, some of them new:

Me: Maya, what does a cat say?
Maya: Mew
Me: Oh good. Now what does a dog say?
Maya: Woof, woof.
Me: Great. Now what does a chicken say?
Maya: Pot Pie!!!
Me: *uncontrollable snickering*

One guess what her favorite dinner is? Poor chicken.

Bring on the good stuff Mommy!

Now a bit of background on my middle child. Not only does she possess a large vocabulary, she is also the proud owner of an incredible appetite. When she was 4 months old, she began begging for my food. Actually, she wasn't so much as begging as she was trying to launch herself face first into my plate. The child was starving. I normally hold off the solids until the baby reaches 6 months, but she seemed SO hungry that I reluctantly pulled out the nasty rice cereal and prepared for rejection. From what I've heard, most babies hate rice cereal. You insert the gelatinous goodness and they immediately push the foreign-not-breast-milk/formula right back at you.  And I don't blame them, it looks gross, smells gross, and I'm willing to bet it doesn't taste like cherry pie. If you've ever seen rice cereal it's relatively thick, with a consistency like paste and as far as stickiness goes, it can give super glue a run for it's money. Oh yum. So Maya got her first taste of the gluey rice cereal, promptly ate 3 times the recommended serving size and cried when I finally stopped the flow of gooey cereal.

I wasn't joking about the food nose dive.

And she never looked back.

After that, nursing was pretty much an afterthought. Maya adopted the: "forget you Mommy, I've got the good stuff now" attitude. By the time she was around 9 months old she was eating 2-3 bananas and a bagel for breakfast and then turning around and eating just as much for lunch and dinner. Most meals she ate more than I did, sometimes she ate more than her dad. Of course I was mildly concerned that I was raising a small gorilla, but since she never showed any serious primate behavior (besides consuming her weight in bananas) I didn't get too worried. You've heard the phrase: "a bottomless pit"? That was Maya, she was a black hole of appetite disguised as a cute 9 month old baby.  In the past few months, her appetite has finally slowed down, for which I'm extremely thankful. (She's also turned into a rather picky eater, but that's another story for a different time).  I gave birth to three girls, I never bargained for feeding a teenage boy too.

Welcome Home Pumbaa

Only Disney could make something so horrifying look so cute and harmless.

 **WARNING: if disturbing images give you nightmares, close your eyes, scroll down and skip the picture.  It's not a pretty sight**

On an mostly unrelated note, my dad is a hunter. I grew up watching him suiting up for his deer stakeouts. And it was a relatively common occurrence to wake up one winter morning to be told  that there was a deer hanging in the garage (which we raced to inspect immediately). Personally I'm not a hunter. I'm not going to sit in a tree for hours hoping a deer/ wild animal will just so happen to wander by me so I can shoot it. It sounds boring. And cold. But more power to you if you have the patience and several camo parkas. On one of his more recent trips he went to a game preserve and bagged a wild boar. When I heard the news, I was happy for him. I mean great, sounds like fun, it's not my cup of tea but it's not like I would have to deal with the thing, right?

I was also under the impression that a wild boar looked something like Pumbaa from The Lion King. Sure he'd be kinda fat and hairy. But he would have cute little tusks, he'd be generally nice and look like the type who would like singing "Hakuna Matata", maybe even toss in a few dance steps here and there. Obviously I never paid much attention at the zoo when ever we passed by the wild boar exhibits because the non-cartoon version of Pumbaa is UGLY and nightmare inducing. I'm pretty sure he's never even met Wilbur and Babe or maybe he just ate them for dinner. (I don't think he even has a passing acquaintance with "No Worries for the Rest of My Days". Although if you stop and think about it, technically our Not-Pumbaa's days are over and he pretty much doesn't have anything to worry about). I feel pretty betrayed here, is everything Disney taught me a lie?


My dad had the boar mounted and with mild trepidation brought it home. In all fairness, he did warn us that it was rather scary looking and he even promised that he wouldn't hang it in the living room. I told him he was free to hang it in the living room, but I would hang a sheet over it so I wouldn't have to stare at it and if my kids had nightmares, he would be the one who got to wake up and deal with them.

Pumbaa, the Kitty-Cow

My dad walked in the door with the large ugly dead pig and Maya took one terrified look at it and ran as fast as her little legs could carry her to the other side of the room. She peeked out from behind a chair and when she was certain the pig wasn't going anywhere she exclaimed: "A Kitty-Cow!" Since we're pretty much city dwellers, and she hasn't had too much actual face time with cows, I can understand the confusion. But if a kitty cow actually existed outside of my two year old's imagination, I would think it would be kinda cute. Maybe a smallish shaggy version of old Buttercup that has whiskers and likes to purr? Hmm, maybe it's a disturbing animal no matter how you think of it.  I suppose from a 2 year olds perspective, that was as good of a name as any. Thankfully, "Kitty Cow" is not living in my house, he is peacefully residing at a friend's hunting cabin where he is free to give all the deer and cute birds as many nightmares as they want. I stood on the porch and watched our Kitty Cow go to his new home.  I waved gleefully, "die"... errr... bye...Kitty Cow!



Mary must have had a little brother

Nursery Rhymes seem to be a theme lately, last month I was going through my "(Not so) Old Woman in the Shoe" identity crisis and this month Ellie has taken upon herself to revise an old classic. I was sitting peacefully in the living room when I heard Ellie playing the piano and warbling away at the top of lungs. The tune was familiar, Mary had a Little Lamb. However, Ellie must have felt the old fashioned lyrics needed a  modern twist because she definitely edited:

"Mary had a little man, little man, little man!
Oh, Mary had a little man and she threw him in the snow." 

I'm pretty jealous, why didn't I think of those lyrics first?

So I'm curious, do you have any childhood stories of the brutal slaughter of the English language? Or maybe a Kitty Cow or two of your own?

They're coming for you Neo: Parenting and Paranoia. A Dirty Story.

While this was my favorite movie at age 13, I don't believe my children are evil robots. Yet.

Warning: For those suffering from weak stomachs or just cannot abide the thought of dirty diapers/ baby puke... read no further. You simply can't be a mom without having to wade through disgusting bodily fluids of some sort. I've found that the key is to some how find it funny instead of vomit inducing.

Knock, Knock Neo

I look like I'm smuggling watermelons

Every time I have a baby (that would be three times now) I develop an all consuming Persecution Complex. My initial symptoms began to crop up in the very beginning of pregnancy, right about the time morning sickness hit. First off, I would love to get my hands on the doctor that named it "morning sickness",  because obviously he/she never had my brand of "all-day-every-day-for-6-months sickness". Right about the time I realized I would be spending the vast majority of my day cultivating a friendship with the toilet, I decided that my unborn baby hated me. She obviously had serious beef with all of my food choices, and therefore spent all day just hitting the reject button for fun. Ham sandwich? Reject. Cucumbers? Reject. Ice Cream? Not in your dreams Mommy, Reject. My antagonistic relationship with my child grew as she outgrew her living space. Those gentle little flutters rapidly transformed into jabs, then punches and full out fist fights. As I would attempt to pry a little foot (or head or arm, I could never quite tell) out of my rib cage or try to persuade my child that dancing the rumba on my bladder was not a good option for either of us, I became more and more convinced that she had it out for me.

Luckily, my birth experiences haven't been too horrific. (Thank you God for epidurals). And out of consideration of those with sensitive stomachs I won't go into the gory details. Needless to say, after all that HARD work, and the little one actually arrived, I readily forgave her for all the reject button pushing and bladder punching she had done. All three of my little girls were perfect angels in the hospital. They barely cried, the first time around I smugly thought I had produced a miracle child. She didn't cry! This parenthood thing was going to be a piece of cake! (Do you notice a trend here?) Then we got home and the shock of their forceful eviction from their former home wore off and they discovered their lungs. And the parade of dirty diapers and spit up stained clothes began.


The Perils of Parenthood

Postpartum Psychosiss (PP)  is a real and dangerous mental state that can affect women after giving birth. In my opinion the DSM-IV should add another unofficial mental state to their lists, Post-Baby Psychoticness (PBP)  While this mental state isn't nearly as life threatening as PP, it is never to be discounted. Post-Baby Psychoticness can strike down both parents, although the mother is generally afflicted with a more acute case due to the physical trauma of child birth and a massively unfair dose of hormones (although the father can be equally traumatized by having to witness the birth and the verbal abuse directed toward him during the actual delivery.) Some of the tell tale signs of PBP include:

• Glassy glazed eyes, inability to focus, droopy eyes
• Tendency to stop in mid sentence, mutter "Must. sleep. no. sleep. gimme. coffee."
• Constant incoherent mumbling
• Hair trigger emotions: if refused chocolate/coffee/nap/anything, the parent may have a psychotic break which may be life threatening. Or they may just weep copiously 
• Ranting, raving, screaming,  and much wailing and gnashing of teeth 
• Paranoia/ Obsessive Compulsive Desires: parent is seized with the need to check that the newborn is still breathing, multiple times a day. 
• Amnesia: simple facts about pre-baby lives are simply forgotten, they've also forgotten what it's like to take a shower every day or sleep more than 3 hours in a row.  
•  Personality changes: a previously stoic woman may find herself tearing up at Hallmark commercials, Disney movies or anything that may hint at emotion. This will never go away.

No parent of a newborn escapes some form of Post Baby Psychoticness. Recently, when I was in the middle of my newborn haze with Kiki, a friend of the family was admiring my little family and innocently inquired how many kids I had. I gazed at her through bleary eyes, paused and said "I have... three? Yeah, *pauses to mentally count children* I have three girls." Yes. I forgot how many children I had. But to be fair, I had gotten 3 hours of sleep the night before and it really felt like I had alot more than three kids that day. 


**Disclaimer: I am not a psychiatrist, and in case you didn't pick up on it already, Post Baby Psychoticness doesn't really exist (although in my mind it does). I wouldn't recommend waltzing into a doctor's office and demanding happy drugs to deal with your severe case of PBP.

 Getting my hands dirty...

But back to my Persecution Complex. Perhaps it is due to the fact that I am generally massively sleep deprived (and I like my sleep) but my half joking belief that my child "has it out for me" turns into a deep seated conviction after we leave the hospital.

And this is where it gets gross.


I frequently complained to my husband that "_____ (fill in child's name here) hates me". Yes, my paranoia had reached epic proportions. But between the constant "diaper surprises" (open diaper, get peed on) and the uncanny accurate aim of the spit up, the only logical conclusion I could come up with was that my child popped out of the womb with a life long grudge against me. This time around, my paranoia soared to even greater heights, I began to suspect my children of somehow holding secret meetings while I was otherwise occupied. I'm not sure how or when they arranged these clandestine pow-pow's, I just know they had to have happened. Because everyday, without fail, the minute I would get one child down for a nap, the other child would immediately start hollering. Literally.the.very.same.second. Their timing was utterly diabolic. And I don't think it's possible without some sort of planning meeting.

Taking a stroll down memory lane, I vividly remember my very first diaper change. I was nine years old and my baby sister had been home for a few weeks. Up until that very fateful day, I had adamantly refused to change all dirty diapers but had very gamely handled all wet diapers with a great deal of expertise. One afternoon, I laid my sister down in her crib and began to change her, fully expecting a wet diaper. Much to my horror, it definitely was not wet. I quickly dashed down the hall screaming "Mom, Mom, Mom, the baby has a dirty diaper, come change it!" My mother had just survived a particularly horrible c-section with several complications and was in no condition to change said diaper, she said "Go ask your dad." So I frantically scurried down the hall, yelling "Dad, Dad, Dad, the baby has a dirty diaper!" His reply? "Go tell your Mom." This game was played several times until it became clear that the time had come, I was going to learn how to change a dirty diaper. I hesitantly reentered the baby's room and found her laying in the crib happy as a clam. But in my haste to get my parents, I had forgotten to refasten her diaper. She was covered in poop from her little neck to her tiny little toes. And it was my job to clean her up. I spent the next 10-15 minutes resolutely cleaning the child up, I used about half a box of baby wipes and spent a good portion of the time gagging. Eventually she got clean, and I'm very proud to say I didn't throw up. My first diaper change definitely left a lasting (and scarring) impression.

Ensuring the propagation of the species, one smile at a time

Generally by the time the child in question started sleeping through the night (around 3 months old), my paranoia (and Post-Baby Psychoticness) slowly abated. The child in question also got much cuter. Now I'm not saying any of my children weren't absolutely beautiful, but from a purely objective viewpoint, most newborns look like, well, wrinkled old men. They are squished, wrinkled, red and their skin doesn't quite fit them. I've heard Bill Cosby liken them to lizards because they change color so often, and I don't think he's far off. By the time my kids reach 3 months old, they've developed those pinch-ably cute chubby cheeks and thighs and they've also learned one important defense mechanism: the smile. I firmly believe that children are cute because if the weren't so adorable their parents would:

         A) never ever have more than one child (unless they happen to be the martyr type or just like pain)
         B) most children wouldn't make it past the first few months of life.

Deceivingly innocent

This might sound unbelievably harsh, but after my impish two year old has broken the third glass of the morning or somehow rooted through the fridge and spilled a whole gallon of milk on the floor, I am quite tempted to toss her in the yard with a sign around her neck that says "Free 2 year old to good home". Enter the "cute defense mechanism". If these children weren't born with the innate ability to be so gosh darn cute, I firmly believe our species would have died out centuries ago. There's something about the innocent smile of an adorable two year old that tugs at your heart strings that some how makes you ignore the pool of spilled milk that surrounds her.

Well, most of the time you can ignore the spilled milk.

But to all my friends with newborns or friends soon to have newborns, I wish you luck during your Post-Baby Psychoticness. And if you ever need a shoulder to cry on or a nap, give me a call. With three kids, I don't have a social life.

Capitalism and Unclothed Catnaps...

There are a few things on my mind right now, primarily money and nudity. Most of those issues tend to be rather controversial and polarizing, so fair warning :)


The Horrors of (Toddler) Stripping

Picture of innocence, right?

To continue with my day, I arrived home to two out of my three children screaming at the top of their lungs. This is a normal occurrence. First I rescued Kiki from her baby prison and then quickly went to break Maya out of her toddler jail. She had been ominously screaming "Mommy, poo poo, owwie, I wanna get DOWN" repetitively and urgently so I figured that it was time to spring her. When I cautiously opened the door I was greeted by a pathetic scene. Maya was clinging to the bars of her crib, drool running down her face, chin and arms. Tears were pour copiously out of her little red eyes.

And she was stark naked.

Upon further questioning, she explained that she was "all wet mommy" and "diaper 'frew floor". All that came out of my mouth was a semi-hysterical gurgle. I was immediately torn between the desire to either laugh uncontrollably, shout in frustration or run and grab my camera to capture this priceless moment to share with her first boyfriend. Since I still had Kiki squirming and squawking in my arms, I managed to trample all the little bubbles of hysteria that were threatening to escape and gingerly tucked Maya under my free arm and carried both of them downstairs. I quickly threw a fresh diaper on Maya and put Kiki in her chair and ran upstairs to inspect the damage. With her natural propensity for trouble, Maya had not only managed to strip all of her clothes off, but she had thrown everything in arms reach all over the room. And then she wet the bed.

Priorities, priorities...

But I have recently subscribed to the "divide and conquer" method (hey, if it worked for Ancient Rome, then it definitely should work with three little kids right?) My immediate to do list presented itself. Maya was standing in the middle of the living room, hollering that she wasn't wearing any clothes. Kiki was in her chair, also screaming, because she was so hungry that her stomach lining must have been self digesting. And then there was all of the bed linens to change, Maya would need a bath, plus the neglected oldest child was also wasting away with hunger.  I attended to the starving child first, a fact which did nothing more but piss Maya off further. (How dare I leave her naked?) I informed her that she probably should have kept her clothes on in the first place and I would put her shirt on a minute. After the youngest and oldest needs were sufficiently met, I informed Maya that it was bath time. Unfortunately the kid loves bath time, and I feel like I may have positively reinforced the whole bedtime stripping act. (I take off clothes and pee my bed and then get a bath. Yay!) I sincerely hope this doesn't become a repeat performance, because I will not hesitate to pull out the duct tape. By which I mean I will duct tape the diaper, no, I will not duct tape her to the bed, even though that would also solve the clothes problem. Eventually everyone was fed, clothed, cleaned, changed, Lysol-ed and relatively happy. And I have yet another story to add to my arsenal of embarrassing Maya tales. Bring it on First Boyfriend!

Capitalism: they get 'em early

Lately Ellie has shown signs of actually being related to me. I say this with surprise because I apparently have not mastered the art of passing on my genes and my children don't look a thing like me. I'm half Japanese, so I'm of the black hair/dark eyes stock. All three of my children have dirty blond hair and blue eyes. I am routinely asked if I'm their stepmother or if I adopt (No ma'am, I was there. For ALL of it). Although my children look like they belong to someone else, every once in a while, I see a familiar bit of my personality or childhood quirks popping up. (Sleep walking anyone?)

My sisters and cousin's normal lemonade stand.

When I was a child, maybe 6 or 7, I decided that I just didn't have enough money. Now most children sell lemonade or Kool -aid or something a bit more conventional to make a bit of pocket change, but not I. I came up with an ingenious solution. People didn't want boring old Kool-Aid, it didn't last very long anyhow. I would sell... rocks! Rocks last forever! So I spent an afternoon picking up rocks in our backyard and then began my door to door campaign for more money, cup of rocks in hand. I distinctly remember knocking on my neighbor's door. Mrs. O'Brien was really a very lovely old lady who had patiently put up with my "visits" in the past. I explained that I was selling rocks and proudly displayed my stony wares. Believe it or not, the wonderful woman actually bought a rock, never mind the fact that her own yard was filled with the same unremarkable product that I was plying. Perhaps my rock bottom (ha!) price of one penny was just too good to pass up? All in all, I managed to wheedle several soft-hearted old ladies (and my mother) into buying my miraculous rocks. Capitalism at its finest.

Ellie has recently discovered that our backyard is full of acorns that are starting to sprout. They're actually rather cool to look at. After she pulled one or two of them up, I could literally see the little wheels in her little 6 year old mind turning, "Mom, do you want to buy an acorn?" I asked her how much they were and she replied, "Oh Mom, you can buy them for free". Clearly the concept of money, buying and selling hasn't taken root quite yet. We went on a walk in the neighborhood and every single person we met was told they could "buy an acorn for free". I'm hoping that this trend will catch on and Walmart will adopt this pricing policy.

The true selling point is the 6 year old charm

My little entrepreneur took an actual step in the business world today. She acquired a business partner (the little boy up the street), since they already had a compelling product (half sprouted acorns) all they were missing was a slogan and well, money. It turns out her business partner has a much better head for business than Ellie and after they harvested their crops, they began running up and down the street yelling:
Little Boy: ACORNS!
Ellie: FOR SALE!
Little Boy: ACORNS!
Ellie: Hey, you're going too fast!
Little Boy: Ok.. A...C...O...R...N...S.
Ellie: F..O..R  S..A..L..E.
They fixed their price at one for a quarter, or two for two quarters (quite a bargain). And after 30 minutes of pitching their sale, the kids had made $2.00. Color me impressed.

I tried really hard to think of nice tidy conclusion to this rather untidy blog. But try as I might, I can't figure out a single way to tie in confession, my daughter's nap time stripping act and Acorns for Sale. So I give up, draw your own conclusions :)