Perhaps I’ve been hitting the chlorine a little too hard lately.

 

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I’m sitting in the concession stand area during pool lessons. I have my computer, my super cool Netflix thermos of coffee, and a kitty coffee mug. I am fully outfitted. The other parents are sitting around talking or playing on their phones, but I’m pouring coffee into my cup like some weirdo epicurean coffee lady who doesn’t drink coffee straight out of her adult sippy cup thing like everyone else.
Here’s why I have the thermos: Netflix GAVE it to me and I am not one to look a gift thermos in the mouth.
Also, I spill. I spill horribly. Adult sippy cups are hard.

It’s summer. Did you know?

There’s this smell here, at the pool. It’s chlorine and sunscreen and heat on concrete, and I remember this smell from my own childhood.
I remember when I was fifteen I had a white one piece that I bought at The Limited. I never could do the two piece thing. I didn’t even ask. A bikini on me would have been equal, I am sure, with my mom sewing a big red G (for “grounded”) on my white one piece.

Oh the memories.

It’s cool here in the shade, and as I pour more coffee like a weirdo and smell the chlorine I am filled with peace.

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There are two reasons for this:
1. My children are over THERE. I am over HERE.
2. I am writing, which is my happy place.
3. That thermos really makes good coffee and yes I know that’s three but the peace doesn’t equal fully firing synapses in my case.

I know I’ve already talked about how summer can be crazy busy. But it’s a different kind of busy.
I realize this is like saying it’s a “dry heat” when the sun is melting your eyebrows off, but still. I stand by my “crazy but different” explanation. I think it’s because the phrase “Crazy, but different” sums me up, so perfectly.

If I was ever to get a tattoo, it would be that, “Crazy, but different” all scrawled across my lower back because that is JUST how I roll. In my alternative universe where I get huge tattoos on my lower back.

(Don’t think for a minute that I am judging you, Tattoo People. I am just admitting that I am powerless over any sort of pain and needles and if anyone wanted to even TRY to poke at me with an inky needle all over my lower back for an hour or so there would be lots of crying and dramatic behavior. I can barely manage to pluck my eyebrows, for Pete’s sake. Pain is to be avoided, at all costs.)

Ohhhh that explains a lot, doesn’t it?
Perhaps I should get a tattoo: “Pain is to be avoided at all costs.” Right? Very cool and ironic? Also, long. A long sentence. So, so painful.

Somehow this post ended up being about skin art. How did that happen?

Every once in a while I look up from my screen and take a deep breath. The smell is soothing and energizing, at the same time. It’s like my oil diffuser back home, that I always have loaded up with buckets of lavender because of all the running and animals and endless Star Wars. Lavender oil does only so much, when it’s 6:30 am and your boys (WHO NEVER WOKE UP THIS EARLY DURING THE SCHOOL YEAR MY LORD IN HEAVEN CAN THEY NOT JUST LUXURIATE IN A BED FOR ONCE) are ready to tussle and also have a full on conversation about The Hulk. At 6:30 am.

I think I figured out why my synapses aren’t always firing on all levels, folks. Children beat the synapses right out of you. They do, at 6:30 am, as they stand in front of you in Lego Star Wars underpants, wishing to discuss the merits of The Hulk and his anger issues. He’s still a Good Guy, you know. Even though he gets so Angry. But his powers are nothing in comparison to Wolvering (yes, that’s how we pronounce it at our house. It’s cute but messed up. OH MY GOSH THAT COULD SO BE ANOTHER TATTOO.)

Anyhow. Picture me, standing over my oil diffuser, sucking in lavender mist like I need to go to oil diffuser rehab. That’s how I start my days.

The pool, and ten am swimming lessons? A much better substitute.

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Thank you so much for reading this post.
Obviously the pool fumes are making me a bit drunk on summer. There’s a lot of feelings but not a lot of logic.
Logic is for winter.

(AND JUST LIKE THAT. ANOTHER TATTOO. BOOM.)

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Summer is here and I love it.

Guys, I haven’t posted here in like crackamillion years.

Wanna know why?

I shall provide you with a neat graphic:

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Go ahead. Pin that graphic to your Pinterest boards. I dare you.

By the way, I don’t wear a bikini but I didn’t have the patience to try and draw anymore.

So, we have been busy, y’all. The calendar in the kitchen is so loaded down with stuff that I tried to add something to it the other day and it shrank away from me and started weeping. “Go away,” Calendar said, rocking back and forth. “I just want to be alone!”

On Tuesday, we were so busy that by the end of the day, after the boys were upstairs in bed, I found myself looking around in a panic, wondering where my keys were. It’s like when the cool army people jump out of planes, you see? You know… they’re all lined up, jumping out, all “Go GO GO GO!!” – that’s us. We are the army, people. We are being all that we can be.

I’m exhausted.

Ok, granted there has been pool time, and this is when I get to sit in one place for a prolonged period of minutes. I sit there, and then I slowly start to sweat into the plastic back of my chair and it imprints itself all over my white backside. So, then, of course, I go gingerly into the pool and swim around with my head above water, all old-lady paddling, and then get back out. And go sweat again. Sometimes I read. A lot of times I just stare at the blue water and try to remember where it is we are going to next.

By the way, I TOTALLY get it, Mom. You used to take us to the pool? I remember you had a leopard print one-piece swimsuit that was very Mrs. Robinson, except you weren’t really into seducing anyone. You were a good woman.* But the swimsuit still was so Anne Bancroft. ANYHOW… I totally get it. Sitting at the pool, watching your daughters prunitize themselves in the water for hours… You are a saint. We moms, we are SAINTS.

Plus that swimsuit was very cool.

Yesterday, I took Blonde and Red to the pool after some sort of thing they had (I think it was play practice? Because they are in the summer musical? I dunno anymore. I just drive them places and pick them up. I’m a Mom Uber. A MUber, if you will.)

So, we’re at the pool, and I have just head-outta-the-water paddled my sweat off, and plunked myself back down with a book. Red approaches. He’s all wet and drippy and has that peculiar wet-kid walk that is part waddle with his hands all clutched up under his chin. I don’t know why my children walk like this when they go to the pool. It’s like the water makes them all self-clutchy and I guess I should be happy they don’t clutch any other body parts. They look all wet and shrunken, like little wet rabbits, and it’s kind of cute.

ANYHOW.  (Didn’t you miss this? Momsie’s brain while writing is like watching Rocky and Bullwinkle, I tell you.)

So, Red approaches and stands by me, too close, as every seven year old must stand next to his mom, and drips all over my book. “Whatcha doin?” he asks and I bite my face off to not respond with sarcasm.

“I’m… reading. This. It’s a book.” (Ok, that did have a whiff of sarcasm but trust me, people, this was the softer, gentler version.)

Red nods and then asks, “Why aren’t you swimming? Why did you bring THAT *nods derisively towards the book* to HERE *gestures widely to the water.”

I see where he is going with this. His brain cannot understand that I am not in the water the entire time, until I get pruny.

Also, it was adult swim. This is pool-jail for little kids. And here I was NOT SWIMMING WHEN I SO COULD BE.

In other words, I was being glib. I was being all glib about the POOL. This was hard for him.

I tried to explain.

“Honey. I’m an adult. That’s what adults do. We bring books to the pool and we don’t like to get our hair wet.”

He dripped a moment, and nodded, staring off in the distance.

And that’s how my child learned that growing up is awful.

The end.

 

By the way, I took them home and fed them ice cream bars for dinner. This is because I am glib, but I am not crazy. It was necessary.

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*ARE. You ARE a good woman, Mom. The verb tense is important.

Take Heart: Family Game Night Will Save Us All

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We have just finished our first day of summer at this house. Here are some highlights:

1. One child woke up at 6:40 am. Never in the history of forever has he woken up at 6:40. But today, he did. I heard him start to thump sleepily down the stairs just as I sat down with my coffee and bible. Impeccable timing.
2. The other kid slept until 9 am and then demanded to know what he had missed, like we had all jetted off to Vegas while he was gone.
3. Boredom is the great leveler. Both boys found themselves tortured with boredom by 10:00 am, and were forced to ACTUALLY PLAY A GAME together.
4. I’m not gonna make it to June, y’all. Pray for me.

This whole summer thing is interesting. We love it, in theory. You know, pools and sun and trotting around in sleeveless tops and fifty-thousand baseball practices, and so on.
But, in reality? My arms are still floppy from the baby weight (the baby is now seven) and the sun gives you wrinkles.

I don’t think my children think this way. They are not concerned about the wrinkles. Bless their unwrinkled hearts.

Red and Blonde are of the opinion that every summer day should be Big Fun. It is my job to vanquish this dream, and I think today did the job.

However, there is hope. There is something called:

Family Game Night!!!!!!!! Woop Woop!!!!

Here are the rules:

  1. Dinner is popcorn, apples, cheese, and milk. Sometimes I totally go all out and make chocolate milk. This momma plays hard.
    2. Games are selected based upon playing time (cannot exceed bedtime) and are nixed if there was crying the last time they were played (Monopoly. It’s always Monopoly)
    3. Dad has to play. He is the comedic relief. He is always comedic relief.
    4. The cat will try to lay on the game board. This is essential.
    5. We stay up late (because we always break rule #2), laugh a lot, and forget that earlier that day one kid tried to teach the other kid how to burp. (Oh, yes, they know how to burp, but now it can be cued.)
    6. There will always be a Royals baseball game on the radio. If the Royals are not playing, then we are allowed to cue up our funkadelic Toby Mac station on Pandora, but there is always a Royals game on. Always. It’s magic.

I know Family Game Night is not a new idea, in terms of fun family activities. I know it’s not really imaginative or has cute, Pinterested crafts involved, or involves a trip somewhere fabulous.

But that’s just the point. It’s simple. We drag out our Jenga and Life, and the other games that we forgot we had, vote on our favorites, and play. Democracy in action!

And, did I mention? It’s really fun.
The one thing I will never forget about this weekly tradition is that there is never any clamoring for screen time, or tablets, or anything, essentially, that has buttons to push. Well, we play Outburst Kids, and that has buttons, but you know what I mean. Our kids would rather just be with US than anything else. We are even cooler than Lego Star Wars on the Wii.

Who knew? I am cooler than Lego Leia who jumps straight up a lot, and can never shoot anything with her light saber except the useless potted plants*

Last week’s Game Night was a rousing marathon of Sorry, which lasted about five hours. Sorry has an apt name, my husband and I have decided. As in, “This game will last about five hours. Sorry.”

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Well, of COURSE the British made up this game. So polite. So apologetic. And, evidently, with lots and lots of time on their hands.

Finally, FINALLY, at the end of all the Sorry-ing, our youngest, Red won the game. He popped up, wiggled his hips in a Macarena sort of victory dance, and I considered throwing the yellow flag, calling a penalty on the play for celebration. But, it was cute so I let it pass. And as we finally pried the children away from the popcorn and mess, and managed to get them both into bed without too much chaos, Blonde reached out and grabbed my neck.

“I love you, Momma,” he said. And all was right in the land.

“I love you too, sweetie.”

“And next time I want to play Uno.”
I twitched a little. Uno is also the game called, “Wait, What? Whose Turn is It?” because it makes my synapses itch. All that switching around! Reverses! Skipping players! This kind of stuff is not good for a woman who has been multitasking all day and her brain is tired.

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By the way, sometimes we do watch screens. We are great fans of a movie night, especially if it is also paired with popcorn for dinner. If you’re interested in a great Christian movie resource, I recommend Pure Flix. It’s got a kajillion movies, shorts, and shows for the whole family. Also, Pureflix is partnering with Convoy of Hope, helping to feed Americans in need. It’s a great cause.
* It’s possible that Princess Leia only hits plants because her handler, Momsie, CANNOT PLAY THIS GAME. IT’S HARD. User error. It is what it is.

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I kill plants, not people.

This was not a sponsored post. All opinions are my own. Guys, you know I’ll tell it to you true. 🙂

The Last Days of Summer

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I gotta admit. The motherhood over here is getting a little screechy. Like, we’re all kinda tired of each other. The pool is closed. School starts in T-minus two days. For some reason, I just don’t have it in me to start a craft project any time soon.

We are experiencing a LULL, people. A LULL IN PARENTING AND CHILDRENING.

Breakfast was a highly uninspired bowl of cold gloom and orange juice. The boys sat and chewed silently, staring off in the distance, while I set up my IV intake of coffee.

I had bought a sale brand of coffee. It tastes like despair.

The boys decided “make your beds” meant “stir the sheets with both tiny hands until tangled. In despair.”

Also, this. My sweet six year old decided he wanted MORE gloomy cereal, so he poured an ENTIRE bowl of the stuff WITH milk and then ate TWO BITES. And then, he proceeded to spill the rest of it on the floor as he was trying to “clear his place” which to him meant, “set in front of the dishwasher.”

And then. I stepped on THIS:

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I mean. What even IS this thing? It has SPIKES. Legos don’t have SPIKES. Also, note the gigantica that is my seven year old’s clodhopping paw-foot. He used to have the chubby cute toddler hobbit feet. No longer.

Silly Momsie. The cute hobbit feet are long gone. And… so is my motivation to get into a bra today.

Too much?

I need reiterate: DESPAIR, PEOPLE. HEAPING SPOONFULS OF IT ALL OVER THE HECK PLACE. INCLUDING THE FLOOR.

Now, there are two things that Momsie can do here. Shall I show you in a chart?

Let me show you in a chart:

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I like charts, don’t you ? This one doesn’t make a whole heck of a lot of sense but WHY START NOW?

The thing is, I wanted the grand send off. I wanted the Last Days of Summer to equal something Big and Memorable for the wee ones. And I realize The Last Days of Summer kinda sounds like a Lifetime made for television movie about some girl and her boyfriend Chet who fall in love and do PG-13 things… but that’s not the vibe I was going for here.

The Last Days of Summer are equaling going to the dry cleaners and listlessly playing with the cat with a sock someone found under the couch. The sock has so much fur on it I think Steve has adopted it as his own. He’s sobbing and holding it, rocking back and forth like he’s Daddy Warbucks in Annie.

Ok, not really, but you know I gotta do something with this post to make it more interesting.

So. The Last Days of Summer. They’re here. And I got nothing. No campouts in the backyard. No glorious scavenger hunts for school supplies. No movie marathons or bungee jumping or shouting our barbaric yawps to the universe before we head off to the land of education.

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It’s tough being me. The world I envision in my head is soooo often NOT even close to reality. Pfft. My head is overrated anyhow.

You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna bake them a cake. Frosted with my Aunt Dorothy’s fudge icing.

BOOM.

I know, right? Nothing says

LAST DAYS OF SUMMER

like that fudge frosting, ya’ll. That fudge frosting could straight up fix everything. We could mail it to Afghanistan and it would all get ironed out, with some cold glasses of milk and a lot of spoons.

Also? If you come up with something that involves chalkboard signs and some balloons and maybe some stray washi tape or anything, ANYTHING from Hobby Lobby re this end of summer business???  Well, you make me go, “Pfft.”

PFFT, I say!

And now I shall take my children to the dry cleaners and it’ll be FUN. Just you watch.

Well, ok. Honestly, the dry cleaners isn’t ever gonna be fun but at least we can listen to Abba while we’re in the car.

Happy Summering!

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The Force is With Me. Sometimes.

This post was brought to you by:

ALL CAPS and Overdramatization!!! Wheeeeee!!!

Ok. I gotta warn you.  I am going to do something on Momsie I’ve never done before.

I’m going to blame it all on Star Wars.

I have to. It’s the only way.

Let’s start at the very beginning. A very good place to start.

Yesterday I:

1. Ran three miles. Ok, two and a quarter and then kinda lurched the rest, but I’ll call if running if you will? Ok? We good on that? Ok.

2. Then, I made breakfast for two kids and actually managed to CLEAN UP THE KITCHEN BEFORE WE LEFT THE HOUSE.

3. And do you know what we did when we left the house.? I put TWO MORE children in my car (they are friends. I didn’t just grab random children, ok?) and we all went BOWLING.

4. And THEN we went and had a very healthy lunch at McDonalds. I sat on the other side of the glass and watched them run around like little rats in ratty Thunderdome. I ate my salad and contemplated my life choices, but you know.

5. And THEN: I decided to take them all shopping for back to school stuff. Well, I just bought stuff for my actual children, but you know.

Backpacks and shoes. So, now that our college fund is totally depleted, I bring them all home and make them snacks (healthy! I promise!) and by heavens I DESERVE A FLIPPING PARADE OK?

Where is my parade? Where? Maybe just a small one? Couple Shriners? One politician in a car much cooler than he is? PLEASE?

Nope. What happened instead:

There seemed to be a problem with one of the backpacks. And by “problem” I mean:

R2-D2 STOPPED WORKING. (“MOM. He’s upposed to light UP and blink at me! He is JUST LIGHTING UP. DER IS NO BLINKING. WHERE ID DA BLINKINNNNNNNGG?” And then he just looked at me as if I could just WAVE my hands over the thing and WAZAAM the blinking back in the backpack. Say that fast three times. And, by the way,  I so wish that was wazamm thing was a thing. Moms could use that thing, sometimes. But I guess that would make me Harry Potter, and it is kinda tricky, that. I mean, I liked the books and all but not sure Jesus would truck with me becoming a wizard. Anyhow. I’m kinda swerving on this, right?

Right. Anyhow. Back to R2.
IMG_5677.jpgLet me also explain that BOTH boys brought home the SAME backpack. And now ONE is not working. And, as you know, that means that ONE kid is now really REALLY Def Con 5 UPSET. The other one is smirking. And then you know that thing that you do, you moms? Where you try to comfort and pat one AND glare at the other one? Well. This maneuver is complex and I MIGHT have fumbled the ball a bit.

Oy vey.

I had figured to just do what Solomon did. Just cut the other one in half and it’s all good. I mean, it’s just STARING at me.

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Help.

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Is it just me, or??

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I dunno. Maybe it’s just me.

Anyhow, I settled the backpack issue. Don’t ask. It might have involved the negotiation skills of Atticus Finch. And also a Nutter Butter. But you know.

And THEN, the husband got home from an after-work-go-have-a-beer-with-the-colleagues thing (he’s a total normie and for that I am so grateful and he really did probably have at most a BEER or TWO like he said) but holy Corona, he leaned in to kiss me and I smelled it. Alcohol. And my eyes narrowed to tiny snakey slits of anger and judgement and I swear we both heard a rattle. Because I CAN judge at this point. Do you know WHY?

Do ya? Do you know WHY I CAN JUDGE NOW?

Because it’s past five o’clock and it’s been a DAY and I NEVER GOT THAT PARADE.

Also, I made tuna and stirfry for dinner because my children wanted to act like I was feeding them plague food again tonight.

So, the husband tells me, after a nice, healthy dinner paired with a side serving of snake, and a lottttt of soy sauce,

“Dear. I love you.”

And I responded with:

“That’s because you HAVE to. You’re MARRIED to me. That’s, right, Drinkie McDrinkerson. You are STUCK. WITH. ME.” (rattle, rattle)

AND then. As he slowly trudged up the stairs he called down, “Yes. I am. And I am blessed.”

“YES YOU ARE MR. DRINKY-PANTS. YOU ARE SO BLESSED.”

Like I said. This behavior was all R2-D2’s fault. Perhaps, if we had gotten the Captain America backpacks like I had SUGGESTED NONE of this would have EVER happened.

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AND WEAR MY BACKPACK. MINE. NOT THE ROBOT ONE.

 

“Hey, did you know that goats don’t like leashes?”

This is my vantage point:

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Look closely. The cat is also helping.

 

Chair. Coffee. Lots of coffee. Oatmeal. Computer. Listening.

Four small boys are circling the table in dining room. The table looks like Lego Land walked by and puked all over the table. Like, all over it. Also on the floor. Maybe also in the living room too. A bit.

They are discussing various things. It’s pretty technical at times. “No! I LOSTED MY HEAD! Do you guys see my head anywhere? It’s ok, though I still have powers. *whispers* In my tiny hands.

Then the conversation takes a rather interesting twist:

“GUYS. GUYS. Did you know? If you put a leash on a goat and try to walk him? He’ll chew your face off.”

I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting that either.

I don’t know how the goat thing started. Is there a Lego goat? Is there a teeny tiny leash in there that can of course get lost and then become REALLY IMPORTANT?

Then, one poor soul says: “Cats. Cats don’t like leashes either.”

They all look, as if on cue, at Steve, Mr. Sweet Fluffypants, who is lounging by the table in all his furry glory. He eyes them with the cool confidence. “Bring it, small people,” he says.

And so, they put a leash on him. I am still watching from the chair, wondering at which point I should get involved. Prior to the face chewing? Or maybe after just a small nibble?

And then Steve allowed himself to be drug across our wood floors, like a kitty Swiffer. It should have been on film. Instead, I watched in awe as he actually put one paw up to groom his ears while being dragged around.

Like a boss.

I did put a stop to the dragging after one full rotation of the room. For one, poor Steve’s fur was now coated in dust bunnies and I needed to squeegee him off. I did consider taking him upstairs and throwing him under our bed a couple times, though. He really picks up dirt and lint with amazing finesse!

I could market this.

Anyhow, also, the leash thing was morphing into, “Hey! Lemme put this on you! I’ll take YOU for a walk! Around the block! Outside!” to the littlest brother and we have enough rumors, about general parenting practices at our house, thank you. We don’t really need leashes added to that mix.

Also, safety. Basic safety. Don’t email me. I shut the whole leash thing down, I promise.

And then, the boys just kinda stared at each other. Bereft. Their weird game had been snuffed out and what to do? I, always helpful, pointed out there was basically the population of China in Legos within two feet of them. One of the boys melted to the floor in despair. The Legos were old and tired. They had just drug a cat across the FLOOR, woman. You CAN’T GO BACK FROM THAT.

Until one of them* said,

“Hey, I can make a bubble with my own saliva.” And they were off to find a mirror and set up the Disgusting Saliva Bubble Olympics 2016.

I would like to say, just for the record, that usually I would intervene on this because EW and We are a Nice Family, and we Don’t Do That. Etc.

But it’s been raining for the past two hours and it’s August. You get the idea, you moms of huddled children at the End Times of Summer. You know.

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Notice the way this cat likes, literally, to live in the edge.

*This was not my kid, who said that, about the saliva thing.

*Well, it might have been.

*Not sure. I can’t recall exactly.

The More You Know.

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Here are the Things I Learned On Netflix:

  1. British television is superior to American, in every way. All the time. It’s the law.
  2. When I am tired I seem to want to watch cooking shows. They soothe me, somehow. All is right in the world when you watch someone whip up a maple creme filled zeppole. Also, I learned Italian right there! So double bonus!
  3. Nurse Jackie can be watched until 1 am and then the next morning you kind of feel hungover but NO REGRETS.
  4. THE PEREGRINE FALCON CAN DIVE AT A SPEED OF 143 MILES AN HOUR. FOR REALS. YOU HAVE TO WONDER IF THEY FREAK OUT WHEN THEY DO IT.

Ok, I’m not exactly sure on that last one, as a seven year old was the dispenser of the information there, but he would know. Why? Because the boys watch these cuties:

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They love the Brothers Kratt. And, did you know? Chris and Martin are ACTUALLY BROTHERS. And, Chris and Martin LIKE EACH OTHER, at the SAME TIME, WHILE BEING BROTHERS. Amazing.

And so, whenever we watch them, I tend to add my Mom Two Cents after each live-action segment with the Kratts with something like, “Oh look, Martin just let Chris fall and slip in the muddy gator pit but yet THEY ARE NOT FIGHTING ABOUT IT! AT ALL!. Instead, they are smiling and attempting to befriend a gator! And we know there won’t be any blood because children’s programming! Brotherly love!”

Now, Blonde and Red follow me around like a mini Kratts, spouting facts about animals, in a very endearing, if not slightly nutty Kratt-ian way. I’ll be making dinner and one will fly by, and spout at me, in all caps, because that’s their volume setting at all times:

MOM? MOM??? DID YOU KNOW THAT GORILLAS CAN CATCH COLDS?

Or later, in the bath:

ALSO. MOM? A LION ONLY KILLS ABOUT TWENTY TIMES A YEAR.

Or, while drifting off to sleep:

AND? DID YOU KNOW? RATS CAN LAUGH. THEY CAN! WE NEED TO GET ONE AND SEE.

Ok, it’s possible that last fact was not learned through the Kratts. I just always remember my college roommate’s creepy boyfriend who liked to carry his pet around on his shoulder telling me that. It stuck with me, somehow. Things like that do.

This summer on The Netflixes we are learning. All the time. Like, I just learned this from one of my beloved cooking shows, Cupcake Wars:

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I KNOW, RIGHT????

If for some reason, summer is starting to wear a little thin and you would like your children to USE THEIR NOGGINS FOR SOMETHING OTHER THAN WHACKING EACH OTHER WITH LIGHT SABERS AND FIGHTING OVER TEENY TINY LEGOS, then I suggest Wild Kratts.

Or, this option:

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This is also on the mighty Netflixes. AND the narrator? BRITISH. BOOM. DOUBLE BONUS!

Hey, did you know? Ring-tailed Lemurs actually purr when they are content.

YEP, I LEARNED IT FROM THAT SHOW.

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Thank you, Netflix, for all the learning!