What’s trippy to me is that she colored around the white areas and added to it later.  I wouldn’t even think to do that! Maybe one day she’ll be some kind of artist who sells her masterpieces to people around the world… who knows? All I know is Spygoose (called that because he’s wearing glasses) will be waiting for his next covert mission in a scrapbook until then.

Says the dragon. Here’s to a healthy, fun & prosperous year, everyone!

“Wait ’til we get to the beach.”  My husband and I say in unison, smiling at each other because we’re so darned in sync.

Then our 5-year-old princess starts.  “Dadddddyyy, I have to go very badly too.”

“Yeah, we’re almost there.”  He says, and looks at me with disappointment because I didn’t start a chorus with him.

All is quiet.  We’re sitting at a traffic light and then the 7-year-old boy says, “mom, dad, I gotta use the bathroom.”

“Me too!” my 8-year-old honey-girl whimpers.

“Are you serious?” I’m scolding the small guy and little mama because those two are old enough to know that they should go before we leave the danged house.  They ignore my tone and nod their heads slowly.

“We’re almost there.”  I say, because we really, really are.

We pull into the park area, but you know how it is at the beach on a Sunday.  That’s right.  No parking.  So we’re driving, and we’re driving and we’re driving and the kids are whimpering in the back.

“Ask God to make it so you won’t pee in your pants!” My 12-year-old son suggests to his siblings, and they all start praying out loud.

We circle and circle and just when I think they won’t make it, hubby finds a parking.  Guy walking to his car with a towel ’round his waist and a smile on his face.  (Hey, that rhymes!) Anyway, we get the stall and we’re outtie 5.  (Just learned that phrase.  Yeah, I’m groovy like that.)  Only, there are no bathrooms where we parked. Kids are dancing frantically now, and we’re still trying to unpack the car.

Hubby and I look toward the ocean.  “There’s the bathroom, kids.  Get to it!” Hubby yells, and I ask our oldest to watch them good while they ‘pretend play’ in the water.

We unpack pretty quickly; wave off the buzzards who are trying to steal our parking and head toward the ocean only to see disturbed faces looking back at us.  Four out of five kids are walking back looking relieved and the oldest is laughing his head off.

“What?” I ask, and give the stupid woman who is pointing at me the stink eye.  (She probably couldn’t tell though, because it was super bright at the time and my eyes are Asian and everything.)

“Mom! That was so funny!” He’s guffawing so hard he can’t talk.  I tell him to calm down, take a deep breath and start again.  He does, and then he continues.  “Sis got in the water and started splashing around like she was playing, and then she gets out and starts yelling at the two babies to stop playing and just hurry up and use the bathroom already! And brother was standing there, and he pulled his pants down and started peeing in the water!”

Being who I am, my first reaction was to laugh.  Second was to scold the guilty, and third was to play stupid.

When we hit the water, I could see people who witnessed my husband’s weird children staring at us– I know I’d want to know who the heck’s kids they were too– and I started to feel a little embarrassed (and believe me, after having these kids it takes a lot for me to feel embarrassed) until I saw a girl, who was probably as old as my oldest son walk right into the water, pull her bikini bottom down and squat.  It was obvious by her face that she was doing her business right there, next to the Japanese tourists and the kids who were jumping off their daddy’s surfboard.

The same people were staring at the pre-teen girl with the same grossed-out looks that they were giving me only seconds before, and I found myself searching for her parents– not out of hate, but because I took comfort in knowing that I’m not the only mom out there who is soooo going to bust out the butt pictures and the embarrassing stories at their weddings made to feel ashamed by their kids.

We get home, and the kids are helping us put the groceries away.  Our 12-year-old son grabs the bean bags and shakes his head.  “Mom,” he says, his voice filled with seriousness.  “These are so racist.”

“Hah?” I caw.

“These are some racist beans.”  His eyes widen and he explains, “see? The brown beans are called ‘pinto beans’ you know, like they’re all Mexican sounding.  The black beans are just called ‘black beans’ but the white ones are called ‘GREAT NORTHERN BEANS’ instead of ‘white beans’.  That’s racist, don’t you think? I mean, they’re all beans, shouldn’t they all be equal?”

We had a good laugh because he definitely has his own way of seeing things, but y’know what? Part of me thinks that he may have a point…

Like this one:

My youngest, who is now 3, wanted to go to the bathroom bad.  We were in the middle of a nice brunch with the family and everything, my food was nice and hot and all yummy looking, and even though I took her just before we sat down, she had to go, had to go, had to go!  But it was okay that day, because I figured, I needed to change my pad (yes I went there) anyway.  I asked the other ones if they needed to go (they didn’t) before I took her to the bathroom.

As usual, there was a long line to use three stalls.  When me and mini-me finally got into one, she exploded and a huge smile of relief covered her face.  After her, it was my turn so I pull my pants down and she yells, “mommy! You made poopies in your panties!”

“SHHHHHHHH!” I start off slow and hiss louder and louder, trying to cover her shrieks.

“mommy…” she whispers as loud as any human could possibly whisper.  “you made poopies in your panties!”

“Go look over there.”  I say, pointing at a spot on the wall that she could poke at.

Quick change, wipe, yadayada and ta-da! I stand up to flush, and she’s screaming again.  But this time, it’s “Mommy! You made fire in the toilet! That was so cool!”

She’s staring at my lower half and I’m struggling to open the door.  The line of women are chuckling to themselves and I avoid all eye-contact while I wash her hands and my hands together in the faucet.  Enough time went by, so I relax a little and head to the paper towels.  A sweet old lady, probably thinking that I had my hands full with the small one was nice enough to offer the two of us paper towels.

“Thank you!” I smile, and look at my 3-year-old.  “What do you say?”

She wipes her hands off like a eloquent little lady and exclaims, “My mommy made poopies in her panties and fire in the toilet!”

Ohmigod right?

I know.

And I’m feeling sarcastic so I go, “that’s because I am Buddha.” And point at my belly.

“You are?” He asks.  “Seriously?”

I nod, with my eyebrows raised and a plastic smile on my face.  And without missing a beat, he says, “the Chinese Government’s looking for you then.”