Being Literal

Sometimes Philosopher Child is delightfully out there.  I remember when he was very young and asked me if God ate breakfast.  Other times, he is so narrow and to the point that he struggles to understand what he is being asked to do, even when it comes to simple tasks.

Yesterday I asked him if he understood the material for his math test.

"Yes," he replied.  "A piece of paper and a pencil."

He wasn't joking.  He really thought that was the answer.

"No, as in the text."

"The...what?"

"The book."

"We don't use our books for the tests."

Touche.

Looking through his school papers from last week, I found this (click the photo to see the whole scentence)

He's not wrong... strictly speaking.

A few days ago, we were in Target and both the boys were misbehaving.  I told them that if they didn't stop, I'd put them in the cart.

Little Viking looked at me and said, "Mom, only one of us will fit in the cart."

Crap, I'm outnumbered here.

Cartoon Mirroring Part II

Part one here.
Cartoon Mirroring: verb. To imitate a cartoon.

It's not uncommon for Philosopher Child to forget something in the classroom and I have to walk him back to get it.  On one such a day, as he found his missing items, I chatted with the teacher.  However, as I turned around I saw that Little Viking was on the floor.  I was worried that he was hurt, since I had never seen him just drop onto the floor like that.  But...he was sitting oddly for being hurt.  He sat with the soles of his feet together, back straight, eyes closed, hands in prayer position in front of him.

"What are you doing?" I asked in confusion.  "Get off the floor, please."

He complied, and we moved to leave the classroom.  The teacher said something to me and I turned to respond to her.  When I turned back around, Little Viking was back down on the floor, in the same position.  I asked him again to get up, and we left the classroom.  Partway down the hall, the teacher said something to me again.  I stopped to talk with her, and immediately Little Viking was back on the floor.  He did this several times on the way out of school.

When we got home I asked him about this strange new practice.  He explained that in a cartoon he was watching, there were ninjas that did that.

"Oh, I guess they were meditating," I said.

"Yes.  It's a Chinese thing."

OK, but ninjas were Japanese.  One thing at a time.

Now to teach him dropping onto the floor at a random spot is not the appropriate action when mom stops walking for a minute.

Famenies

Famenies: noun. Family members that love and support each other because they are family, but don't get along well, especially siblings; the family version of frienemies.

Ah, report card time. Oh, and what's this? Another note about how Philosopher Child's emotions are getting the better of him. *sigh* It's kind of expected, though. He's smart. I mean, crazy smart. And unfortunately, many times with high intelligence comes high emotion.

Walking him home from school, I decided to explain to him the connection, and try to get him to see that he needs to take a step back, think, and calm down before he reacts. I had a plan!...and Little Viking, age 4, in earshot.

"The thing is," I began. "You're smart. Very smart. And-"

"No, he's not," quipped Little Viking.

And so it begins.

Meditation and Other Hazards

I've had tension headaches nearly daily for 10 or 15 years. Yep. As a teen, if I didn't take a Tylenol before leaving for school, whether I had a headache or not, by the time school let out I'd be at migraine levels. Have you ever had a migraine? They are.not.fun.

So in this manner, I was able to curb the headaches as much as possible. Eventually they nearly disappeared, but lately they are back with gusto. I have been taking ibuprofen 1-2 times a day, every day, for the pain. Doesn't sound healthy? It's not. It's actually a really bad idea. But, for the most part, it was a choice of dealing with ridiculous, blinding amounts of pain, or taking some ibuprofen.

Recently, as my headaches got more and more out of control, I turned to some specific stretches, using better posture, and meditating. Not the trying to attain enlightenment on some astrophysical plane sort of mediation, but just sitting quietly, eyes closed, and just breathing. And you know what? It helped. A lot. I went 3 days without having to take anything. That was huge for me. (I admit over the past 24-36 hours I've been really stressed and last night and this morning I had a lot of trouble just breathing the stress away. I took some ibuprofen as the pain got worse.)

This afternoon I put on an episode of Voltron on my computer for Viking Child to watch (Philosopher Child is at school), brewed some herbal tea, and was going to go and just sit and meditate as the next round of headaches was creeping up.

As soon as I was going to sit, Viking Toddler ran in, asking to watch something on the TV instead. I explained to him that I really needed him to go watch Voltron, for just a little while, and I would call him in a bit. He went back pretty easily. I was on my way to go sit, but the dog had to go out now. Fine. Take the dog out. Go back to sit. As I am, Viking Toddler runs in with another demand, and while my attention is focused on him, I back into a bucket that Husband had used to fix some plumbing yesterday. Ick all over the back of my pants that I had just put on. Go to change my pants. Go back to sit to find that Viking Toddler had gone behind my back and put something loud on TV. In a last bit of frustration, I simply shouted, "I GIVE UP!"

And then I came here to vent.

And now my tea is ready.

It's happened

It's finally happened. I've started to say it. The dreaded, "When I was your age..."

I used it today. And not in a very nice way. I just wanted the kids to *help* pick up the mess they made. That's all. Just *help*. But they wouldn't. And then it happened. In my angry mom voice, I said, "When I was Little Viking's age, I had to clean my entire room by myself! By the time I was eleven, my mom made us clean the whole house every day, including moving furniture, and our house had three stories! SOMEONE TELL ME WHY ASKING YOU TO PICK UP A FEW BLOCKS IS A BIG DEAL?????"

And honestly, I don't feel great about my mom tantrum. It was not the most mature thing I've ever done. And, in case you are wondering if all the things I said to my kids about my childhood are true, then yes, they are. Mostly. I might have exaggerated some of it a little bit. We only cleaned the main level of the house, plus the couple of flights of stairs. But we did have to move the furniture.

No, my name is MARTIN.

Wow, it's been a long month. Notice the lack of posts last month? Yep, there's a reason. Here it is.

The in-laws took Philosopher Child and Viking Toddler for 3 weeks out of state to their home. Awesome, right? I was so excited for the quiet. But, having never been without my kids for more than over night (and that was only one of them, not both), as we got closer to the time, I got anxious. Then I started getting panic attacks. In short, was sick to my stomach for much of that three weeks. Sucked.

But, they are home now. We flew out to get them and we all arrived back in our little but well loved house late last night.

But you know what's fun? Airport security. More specifically, going through airport security with children with imaginations. See, our kids have been watching Wild Kratts lately (warning, there's music when you open that link), and Viking Toddler has been telling everyone that his name is Martin, as in Martin Kratt. Hint, it's not. So, as we got to the entrance to security, a TSA agent was scrutinizing our licenses very, very close with a very suspicious eye. He looked at Philosopher Child and said, "Is your name [Philosopher Child]?" Philosopher Child dutifully nodded. The agent then looked at Viking Toddler and asked, "Is your name [Viking Toddler]?"

And then our dear, sweet Viking Toddler said, "No, my name is Martin." When I'm watching toys get removed from babies' hands and grandmothers patted down, this is not the time for that sort of humor. But, funny in hindsight.

Pomergency

Pomergency: noun. Any sort of potty emergency and/or annoyance.

We went to an air show. Hazzah. I'm not crazy about them (I don't exactly dig loud noises), but Husband and the Boys like it. I'm the moral support. Or something.

Anyway, the kids have this really annoying habit of calling "I have to go potty!" whenever we are out and they are bored. Do you know how to tell when they really, actually, have to go? Me either. Generally, unless they JUST went, I dutifully take them.

And so we find Viking Toddler and I standing in line, and by line I mean a roughly assembled mass of people standing impatiently in front of a row of portable toilets, each little toilet hut roughly the size of a linen closet.

Finally, it is our turn to try to fit ourselves in these awful little things. First off, we should have kept walking to find some toilets that were NO WHERE NEAR the beer tent. But I didn't think that far ahead. I just saw LOTS of toilets, and that, to me, meant fast.

Well, we got inside, and some (possibly drunk) guy had missed the toilet. I mean, clearly wasn't even facing the right direction. But Viking Toddler has to go, and I have hanitizer at the ready.

And then we go back to our seats. That's the point when Philosopher Child has to go. Husband takes him. About 45 minutes later, Viking Toddler has to go again. So we go back to an ever growing line and try not to touch anything once inside. This time, he decides he doesn't have to go after all. We go back to our seats. A little while later, he has to go again. And then Philosopher Child. I just want a drink of water from being out in the sun all day. Except someone has drank all my water. Big suprise.

Poof Behavior

Poof Behavior: noun. Behaviors that can be linked back to a source, and once the source is eliminated, the behavior goes poof.

For weeks, Philosopher Child was getting into trouble almost everyday at school. Not big, principal's office things, but small things like talking during work time, playing when he should be working, and being generally disruptive. Now, although some of it is attributed to boredom (he's shown to be far above his peers in certain subjects), it didn't seem to be all of the problem. And why was he only in trouble in the afternoon?

One day, as I was doing some work in the kitchen, he told me that his sandwich in his lunch had been soggy and he hadn't been eating it. He'd only been eating the fruit/veggies I put in, and even then not always.

"How long has this been happening?" I asked.

"A long time," he replied.

Hold it. He hasn't been eating lunch? And he's only in trouble in the afternoon? Oh, for crying out loud.

I rearranged his lunch box so that his sandwich wouldn't be soggy and encouraged him to eat. His behavior magically improved.

But wait, there's more! If he hadn't been eating his lunch, what had he been eating? Enter Little Hyperactive Friend. For the sake of simplicity, let's call him LHF. Now, LHF, it would appear, brings a donut in his lunch quite often. I don't know if it's every day or not, but it does appear to be often. First off, I don't know why you'd send donuts with LHF at all, as he is LHF (or at least, he appears to me, but I'm no expert). But as I'm not trying to start an argument over parenting/food choices, let's leave it as I don't understand. Anyway, LHF has been giving Philosopher Child his donut. So, he's been going all afternoon with little more than a sugar-covered fried pastry in his system.

Gee, I wonder why he's been getting in trouble?

The Earthworms and Me

The Earthworms and Me, or, How I Came to be Standing in My Backyard in the Dark with a Flashlight and Pot of Worms

Let me tell you a little story. A few days ago, we attended the Pinewood Derby at a local park. While I stood with Philosopher Child, Husband took Viking Toddler to another part of the park to try his hand at fishing. They returned with no fish, but not for lack of trying. They also returned with a near-full container of worms.

Fast forward. The day after, I asked Husband what his plans were for these worms, as in, did he plan on going fishing in the next day or so? He said no and to go and set the earthworms free. I did.

Enter Philosopher Child. He scooped them back up and put them in another container, then created what he called an exhibit so that everyone could see.

"That's fine," I told him. "But make sure to put them back in the dirt when you are done."

As I put him to bed that night, he asked if I had put his worms in the dirt.

"No. Did you?" I pretty much knew the answer.

"No. I wasn't done with them."

"But now they have no food to eat and no way to get warm," I said.

This thought caused him to burst into tears. I asked him what was wrong and received a resounding, "I love them!"

As patiently as I could muster, I explained to him that earthworms aren't pets in the same way that a dog or cat are.

Our compromise of this situation was that I, in the dark, go out with a flashlight and release the worms into the wild.

Again.

Deflacomment

Deflacomment: noun. A comment that completely deflates that second of accomplishment you had.

So maybe you finally got around to mopping the floor. Maybe you ran that errand you've been meaning to for weeks. Maybe you rearranged the closet and now you can see floor. Maybe you got a bunch of laundry washed, folded, and put away, despite having to have a "talk" with the washing machine. (By "talk," of course, I mean kicking the 2-year-old machine that never works right and is now out of warranty.) You are feeling awesome. The day is going well and all is right in your little bubble. You are in a better mood than you've been in weeks. YOU are SUPER MOM! (Or Super Dad. Or Super Grandma. Or Super College Student. Whatever.)

Afternoon is closing in, and you go to pick up your child from school, or dog from the groomers or whatever it is you do with your day.

And then you hear it. That one little remark that pops your happy little high-achieving bubble. You know what that comment is.

Here's mine, via Mrs. Teacher of my darling 6-year-old boy: "[Philosopher Child] is not working up to his potential and is not finishing his school work again."

Pop.

And then you have to go explain to your highly intelligent and philosophical child why he has to do his work, even if it is boring or he knows it already. Again.

Merry Chirstmas to all, and to all... put a smile on, for goodness sake!

I haven't come up with a word for what I'm proposing yet, however I suppose it could go under the Holinsanity category.

Yesterday (that would be the day before Christmas Eve), Husband, the boys, and I all went out to the grocery store and Target for a couple of last minute items (uh, yeah, like all the stuff for Christmas dinner that we hadn't bought yet).

Anyway, the grocery store was packed. Not only was it full of people, it was full of angry people. I'm sure I would have found the same at Target if I had ventured out of the first aid/cleaning supplies section.

Why, for the love of all things, are people so darn angry at Christmas? It could be the extra money that people "need" to spend, but I don't think that's it. The crowds? I think that's more likely. Husband himself has said many times that he hates Christmas for that very reason.

But back to my story, which is more disjointed and rambling than usual. I was helping Husband gather the last minute things at the grocery store, and it's amazing how many people had scowls on their faces and acted like you are in their way. Like somehow, you, personally, have completely ruined their Christmas by the mere act of being in the same building as them. So while some of the people were happy to say, "Excuse me," and "I bet your pardon," and smile, most looked like they were about to hit you in the face with a baseball bat.

Crowds aren't fun. I get that. But consider this: everyone is just trying to do the same thing as everyone else. Everyone just wants to get in, get what they need, and go home. Anger over an uncontrollable situation just makes it worse.

So here's my proposal: This year, I will try to remain nice and cheery, even in the face of crowds. I will remember that we are all trying to do the same thing. I will smile, even when others look like they are about to pull out their bats.

As Proverbs 15:1 says, "A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger." Not to mention all the versus on encouraging each other.

Will you join me?

Balloon Man/Woman part II

Part I
Balloon Man/Woman: noun. A person that tries, at times repeatedly, to give your child something you don't want them to have.

Walking home from school with the boys. Tra-la-la-la-la. A grandmotherly woman, whom I have seen many times in my travels and never known to be anything but pleasant, stops on her way from the mailbox and watches us.

*Cue the Jaws music*

When we get to her, she asks, "Would the boys like some mechanical toys?"

"No," I politely say, "They tend to break mechanical things."

"Oh, they're just little mechanical dogs. They can't hurt them."

"Well, they're throwers, and--" (Here I was about to tell her about the remote control fire truck that broke the first day, but she interrupted by doing what happened next.)

She turned to my children and asked THEM.

Yeah, hi. Remember me? The mom? The mom that just TOLD YOU NO???

She ran off to get the dogs and brought them back to the kids and happily shows them how they work.

"I bought them for my dogs, but they know they're not real," she says.

I.am.pissed. But I am also pretty stunned and say nothing. She tries to hug me and laughs an apology. Not a real apology, mind you. A fake, "ha-ha get over it, this is no big deal" sort of apology.

Why would you do that? Why would you listen to me tell you no, but be so blatant as to disrespect me in front of my children? Especially when I DON'T KNOW YOU?

Ugh.

So now I have these stupid toy dogs that have long leashes on them. Did I mention my kids like to wrap things around their necks? No? Let me tell you that now. My kids like to wrap things around their necks.

I've hid them. I'm hoping they will forget about them and I can donate them at the first available moment.

Shatter Duty

Shatter Duty: noun. The responsibility of having to tell your child something hurtful for their own good.

Sound harsh? It is. And it sucks. Big time.

Viking Toddler asked for a Superman cape for his birthday last July. Being crafty and using any sort of excuse to add to my craftiness, I whipped one up. He's been playing with it on and off since. Lately, it's mostly been on.

When I first made him his cape, I was careful to remind him about the rules of reality, as in, a cape won't make him fly and Superman is just a movie and not real.

Today, a lady I knew was telling me about a child years ago in the Philippines (her home country) that *supposedly* tried to fly down the stairs and didn't survive. True story or not, I decided I ought to give our little guy a refresher in gravity.

"You know you can't fly, right? It's just a story. Some kids have tried it, and gotten very hurt."

See the bold part? That's the only part he heard. The next thing I knew, he said, "Can I try flying off the roof?"

All stop! Hold everything! What did my child just ask me???

So, while making breakfast, I had a conversation with my little guy in which I had to explain to him in no uncertain terms that people can't fly. I told him Superman and Batman aren't real, they're just stories, and those were just actors in the movies that were made to look super with camera tricks. I reiterated that people, including himself, can't fly.

"Oh," he said. "Not today?"

No, not just not today. Not at all. Not ever. Superheros aren't real, no one flies, and if he tried it he would get hurt.

I literally saw his heart shatter. His lip stuck out and he got all teary.

This wasn't in the manual.

Exhibit A

Exhibit A: noun. Any evidence or set of circumstances that show things didn't exactly happen the way your child says they did.

Aaaaaand...we're back. Sorry about the time away, folks. The family are all better, and I just have a bit of a cough and sore throat left, but nothing I can't work through. Much better than before when I had trouble just being up and didn't want to be awake, but couldn't sleep. So now, on with our story.

Husband's birthday was a couple of weeks ago. I made him is favorite: German Chocolate Cake. As a side note, this is odd because he likes neither chocolate nor coconut, but I guess in cake form...?

Anyway, in the early hours of the morning, Husband and I were in bed when we heard the clink of the metal bowl we used to cover the cake being moved. Husband jumped out of bed and caught Philosopher Child sitting on a bar stool suspiciously close to the cake. Husband told him to leave it alone.

When the morning started a short time later, Philosopher Child came to me and told me the dog had gotten on the stool, lifted the bowl with her nose, and licked the frosting off the cake.

Wait, which dog? You mean this dog? This overweight fur ball? You say this dog, this dog right here, got up on a bar stool 3 feet off the ground? Seriously?

He was adiment that his story was true. When I lifted the cover, the frosting was indeed missing from the cake. But of course, this not the way it happened. Friends, I present to you Exhibit A: He was found sitting on the stool the dog was supposedly on, the dog would have eaten the whole cake and not just the frosting, and come on. Look at her.

He later recanted his story.

Reminds me of another time...

Balloon Man/Woman

Balloon Man/Woman: noun. A person that tries, at times repeatedly, to give your child something you don't want them to have.

So, your child wants a specific toy. You tell them no for whatever reason (too dangerous, too expensive, not their birthday, not appropriate...), but, despite you not wanting your child to have that toy, a well-meaning but misguided relative or friend gets it for them anyway. You, understandably, are miffed.

Which brings me to today's story. You see, at our grocery store, they occasionally give out latex balloons to small children. That's a problem for us. With Viking Toddler being so young and still sometimes putting things in his mouth (latex balloons are huge choking hazards), we really don't want to have this particular kind of balloon around. Besides that, there is the problem of them waving them around in the car and fighting over them when they get home. Sometimes we let them have those multi-colored inflatable problems, but mostly not.

On Friday, we were standing together while an older gentleman bagged our groceries. He looked at Viking Toddler and asked, "Would you like a balloon? Ask your Daddy."

"No, thanks," Husband said.

"Are you sure?" the man pressed.

"No, that's OK," Husband replied.

And then the man, who seemed a bit irritated and confused by Husband's refusal, said, "He'll hate you later."

Or, maybe as his parents, we have a reason we are saying no, and next time you should ask US if you can give our child something.

Jaws TV

Jaws TV: noun. A show or number of shows that you only thought were safe for your kids to watch. How foolish.

Christmas time is nearing, is it not? It must be, since I'm constantly yelling at Viking Toddler to get away from the Christmas tree and continually setting our wooden nativity upright again after there have been small children near it. And, of course, musing about how much I hate our tree skirt. But that's a little thing in the grand scheme of life. At least we have a house to put a Christmas tree in, and that is truly a blessing.

But I digress. As usual. I'm told that I do that. "Meander" I think is a term that has been applied to my stories by loving family members. *Cough-Younger Sister-cough*

But again, I digress. Anyway, we've been watching A Christmas Story lately. You know, the one with Ralphie and all of the "You'll shoot your eye out," and "Only I didn't say fudge." A perfectly safe family movie. You can now imagine Jaws music.

I was standing in the kitchen when Viking Toddler ran up to me and start to hit my legs with closed fists. I was confused, but told him no hitting and sent him out. Generally, that's all it takes. He went off to play, and a short while later asked to watch A Christmas Story. No problem. I put it on for him, and then everything clicked. At the point when Ralphie is beating the tar out of the neighborhood bully, Viking Toddler again ran up to me and began hitting my lges (the only thing he can reach) with closed fists. Ah ha!

Now we utilize the fast-forward button. Liberally.

Murphy's Law of Child Discipline

Murphy's Law of Child Discipline: noun. The universal law that states, "No matter how many children were perpetrating a breaking of the rules, yours will be the one that gets caught."

Philosopher Child is pretty mild mannered, all things considered. He has is snotty days like everyone else, but is mostly, well, a philosopher child. Imagine my surprise, then, when his teacher came up to me after school yesterday wanting to talk to me about a bit of trouble he had caused.

Apparently, Philosopher Child had made an obscene gesture, which I had never seen him do.* I was a bit upset, but of course I know that part of growing up is learning what is and is not socially appropriate, and this was squarely in the "not" category.

After a talk with Philosopher Child, he understood that what he did was wrong, and said he wouldn't do it again. And then...more info. This wasn't something he just up and did. He saw two other children doing it, and he simply mimicked it.

Oh, joy! I was right in thinking this didn't sound like him.

Oh, crap. Of course he's the one that got caught.

In the end, the teacher was polite and respectful and didn't fly off the deep end and demand therapy or anything like that. In fact, she, too thought this was out of character for him. In her view, what's done is done and it probably won't happen again.





*...never seen him do with one exception: he once was playing with his fingers and stuck both his middle fingers up, but of course had no idea that it meant anything at all.

Mommy Day Part III

Part I here. Part II here.

Mommy Day: noun. A day when being a mommy is exhausting and frustrating.

Yesterday was quite a day. We were off to school later than we should have been, but then had to take a detour due to a loose rotweiller (we were walking). On our detour, we discovered another loose dog. Philosopher Child looked at me innocently and said, "Mommy, why does this keep happening?" Ugh.

Got home with Viking Toddler. A short time later, argued with Husband over the phone about something stupid, though this argument was my fault due to a less than stellar mood. See first paragraph above.

In the afternoon, I received some very bad news from a very good friend of mine.

Come evening, Viking Toddler had diarrhea when he just happened to not be wearing a cover over his cloth diaper. It was 2 1/2 hours of cleaning the floor, the toys, sheets, and the furniture that was in his path. And his brother. Yes, he somehow got his brother. And I'm still not done cleaning the toys.

You know when you have one of those days when you just want to go to bed?

Viking Irony

Viking Irony: noun. Any irony perpetrated by Viking Toddler.

OK, so this is me specific. But feel free to remove the "viking" from the front of the word and add your own child's name. Feel better? Feel included?

Good. Moving on.

This was Philosopher Child's first week of school, although kindergarten didn't start until Thursday, so he's really only gone two days. Anyway, at the end of the first day, he was playing in the living room with Viking Toddler. I suppose his recent school activity gave him a boost of confidence, since he yelled out, "I'm stronger than any baby!"

Viking Toddler's answer to this was to immediately run at and latch on to Philosopher Child and take him down. Grabbed him around the waist (which is shoulder height on Viking Toddler) and tackled him to the floor. Keep in mind, Viking Toddler is just over half the size of Philosopher Child.

OK, so I know that Viking Toddler probably didn't tackle his brother because of what he said, especially because I doubt he knows what the word "stronger" means. It was just funny that he decided to play football without the football part at that moment.

And then he tried to do it again moments later. Who's Mommy's little viking? Now play nice with your brother.

Grocery Hopping

Grocery Hopping: verb. Grocery shopping with small children as you hop from aisle to aisle trying to keep the kids entertained and within reach.

We get pretty regular thunderstorms this time of year. There must have been a 2-for-1 special in the sky today, because we got hit, then hit again. But between hit 1 and hit 2, we needed to go grocery shopping. So we got everyone in the car (grocery shopping is family experience with us), and headed out, watching the dark clouds making progress towards us.

We got to the store and tried to do a mad dash to get out before the next storm wallops us. Husband and I were both grabbing what we needed and tossing it in the cart, splitting up to different aisles, meeting back up again a short time later with armfuls of necessities.

Husband went to select meat with Monkey Son #2 strapped in the cart, and I took Monkey Son #1 down the way to get fruit. He started begging for berries. Oh, look, blueberries are on sale! Here ya go. Monkey Son #1 clutched the precious perforated plastic container of blueberries while yelling about the blueberries across the produce section to Husband, who had just passed us with Monkey Son #2.

(With me so far?)

I told Monkey Son #1 to quiet down while I grabbed the rest of what we needed in the produce section, and met Husband and Monkey Son #2 again at the head of the aisle. Monkey Son #1, still ridiculously excited about the blueberries

threw them

not gently laid

threw them

into the cart. The package is not sealed by any sort of sticker and it burst open and suddenly it was raining blueberries. All over the cart and the raw meat and the floor.

We scrambled to pick them up and get them back into the container. Husband directed me to customer service, and told me to tell them what happened, that we'd pay for them, and we didn't want them.

At customer service, the man and woman (not a couple) in front of me and the employee were merrily talking about their children and their children's hair color. After some time of this chatter, it was my turn.

"Two boys," I said, taking up the conversation where the previous people had left it. "One is blond, one is a redhead. The blond one threw these into the cart and it opened and spilled blueberries everywhere."

In the end, I ended up paying for them (although I think she was ready to give me a refund damage receipt so I could get another package, but remember the storm? We're in a hurry here).

And when we got back, Monkey Son #1 looked at us and said, "Did we get blueberries?"