Merry Christmas, Penguins!

Christmas vacation...the kids may be out of school, but me? I'm learning a lot. Being home all day with the boys always brings me closer to understanding the young male mind, and subjects like:

Who Lives at the South Pole

J.J.: The only people who live at the South Pole are scientists and penguins.

Me: Would we call penguins "people"?

J.J. Well, they stand up.

Here, I thought he would go with the tuxedo defense. But he hit me with a left hook: They stand up, don't they? Congratulations, son. You just welcomed bears, meercats, and chickens to the human race.

How to Win at Wrestling

Richie and Johnny wrestling.

Johnny (suddenly): No! No! Nooooooo!

Richie: Ha! I farted...and it's still going!

Game over.

What I truly learned from this is that eight-year-old boys think of farts as capable of "going" somewhere. Like they're wearing little sneakers or something.

How to Smooth Things over with Santa

Johnny's letter to Santa final paragraph (after I told him that you can't write a list of demands and call it a letter): How are you? Is it cold there? This year, I'll try to get you cookies, not pears. Love Johnny

Ouch! Did we leave pears last year?

How to Find a Monkey Loophole

Richie's letter to Santa: Dear Santa, Thank you for the presents last year. I hope you doing well. This is what I want for Christmas: a monkey. It has to be a nice monkey. Hi. How are you? Love, Richie.(See--not a list of demands.)

My letter to Santa: Dear Santa, Is there such a thing as a "nice" monkey? I mean some are nice to your face, but deep down? Just a few months ago, a monkey (okay it was a chimpanzee) got loose in Kansas City, and behaved so poorly (chasing people onto their roof and flipping them off) that he came very close to getting sent to Monkey Island. True story. Hi. How are you. Love, Bridget

Anyway, Merry Christmas to you and yours. I hope you get cookies not pears (and not monkeys!) And in the New Year, may you stand tall like a penguin, win all your wrestling matches, and never run out of gas.

Furious No More

While we were getting ready for Mass/Baby Jesus' birthday party on Sunday, J.J. called in: "Mom, Furious is squeeping." (sleeping)

You never want to hear those words as the mother of a pet owner. Fish "sleep" belly up. Guinnea Pigs "sleep" on their side.

When Richie came over to see his "sleeping" Guinnea pig, he announced what I already knew. Furious was dead.

While Richie was given Furious as a birthday present, and fed her and cleaned her cage, J.J. was the one who played with Furious. He planned a birthday party for Furious in November and had the idea to put carrot slices and lettuce in cupcake paper. J.J. built her houses with his blocks and read her books. He claimed that she starred in Home Alone 3 as a pet rat.

On the other hand, J.J. blamed his farts on Furious, occassionally lost her under the T.V. console, and, well, sometimes didn't have the best grip on her.

Justin and I secretly wondered if Furious saw J.J. as a friend, a father, or an insane dictator. In the end, I think Furious saw J.J. as a little boy. Because of him, she had an exciting life. Of course, I'm not a Guinnea pig mind reader. But I say this because she let him hold her without scratching, and didn't run into the corner when he came to her cage, which she did before she got to know him.

And J.J. loved Furious.

The saddest part of the whole thing came between the birthday party for Jesus, which Justin left early to dig a hole in the frozen ground, and the funeral, when we laid Furious to rest with a carrot.

Furious was still in her cage, and J.J. stood there alone. "Furious, why did you have to die?" he asked. "Why did you have to die, Furious?"

He was really waiting for an answer.