Bringing Home Bees

So I'm reading Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother.  It's a fascinating read, scathingly critical of American parenting and I was surprised at how much I enjoyed the book considering the fact that my parenting was insulted on every other page.

I read aloud a line to Daniel:  If a Chinese child brought home a B, there would be a hair pulling explosion.  But then, you just don't bring home a B.

Jacob overhears. I bet I could bring home a *bee* without getting stung.

Hee hee hee. . . I can just hear Amy Chua. . . see, these American children. . . they just don't get it.



In the midst of craziness and stress and life, I choose tonight to just remember some funny stuff from the summer. . .



Me:  Plan A didn't work.  On to plan B.

JD:  There's always plan C, plan D, plan E, plan F, and plan G!



We ran into a dear lady who babysat each of my three little people at one time or another today;  her name is Roberta.  As we walked away, Cambria mused:  I foah-get.  Is her name Root-beard?



Me:  Jacob, you would love this picture dictionary. It has the word for each picture in five different languages.

This is exactly the sort of thing he thrives on and he relaxes with the book.

I glance back at him, proud of my little man's intelligence.  I stop, a little shocked to see him wide eyed, taking in a full page spread of naked bodies. (Of course, with each part explained in five different languages.)

Eh, well, maybe let's not start with that page?  Why on earth is this in the picture dictionary?  To hurdle poor unsuspecting parents into the birds and bees chat?



I sit, squinting at my laptop, trying to check the correct boxes and order the correct workbooks for the upcoming school year.  Jacob, no, I cannot help you right now.  Do not interrupt.

Jacob, crestfallen:  Mom, this is one of the times when you do not make my life fun.



Cambria:  After the jobs, can we dance?