Scary Words

Scary things I’ve heard coming out of my kids’ mouths:

To a messy neighbor:  “My daddy said you need to clean that mess up!”

To my dad: “Climb a weed, Papa!”

Comment as portly lady turns to leave checkout line:  “I was good not to call her a great big old fat lady, wasn’t I Mommy?”

To the dentist who encouraged her to floss:  My mommy won’t buy me any floss.”

Loud protest when I tried to shush my daughter in a restaurant: “He is so a fat man!”

In a grocery store:  “My mommy took my money to buy groceries.”

To the neighbor man:  “My mama’s ta tas are bigger than yours.”  Go figure.

To a kid who had been hitting him:  “My mama said I have to hit you.”  Whack!   There was a little story behind this.

To a visiting relative:  “My mama is tired of you sleeping here.”

To an elderly relative: “You smell like pee.”

To a relative:  “My mama hates your mean little dog.”

My young son to his grandma:  “Not by the hair on YOUR chinny-chin-chin!”

Worst of all:  “My mama said…….”

You Used to Be Beautiful!

One warm afternoon in late May, 1960, Billy and I were lying on the living room floor as Mother reclined a few minutes with her feet up wearing the heavy surgical weight stockings the doctor had ordered. She was six months into a difficult pregnancy with her last child,and was supposed to be off her feet. She had spent a good portion of the morning tying to keep an eye on her fourteen-month-old, Connie, while trying to coax twelve-year old Phyllis and me at ten to do a little housework, help with Connie, and even get a little work out of seven year old Billy, while keeping him out of trouble. Phyllis was watching Connie. We were all terminally lazy, slacking off at the first excuse. None of us had any intention of doing anything we could avoid.

As we dawdled at her feet on the floor in the draft of the attic fan, one of us pulled out an old photo album. I quickly found a picture of her made her senior year of high school, the peak of her youth and beauty. “I graduated thirteen years ago today,” she remarked smilingly.

In my infinite wisdom, I proclaimed, “Oh Mother, you used to be beautiful!”

I turned for her smile, only to see a snarling, slobbering, swollen beast ready to pounce on me in rage! “”Used to be beautiful! Let’s see what you look like when you have five kids in twelve years! Put this stuff up, right now. Linda, you take your smart mouth and get those dishes washed. Phyllis, you put a pot of beans on for supper. Billy, you…”

By the way, this is not the picture in question. That one mysteriously disappeared

Big Mouth

I tried very hard to teach my kids to be sensitive, but it was a challenge.  When my little one was about three, I was stopped in a store by a friend for a few words.  The lovely lady was quite portly.  I knew my little one was dying to remark upon the unfortunate lady’s girth, so I shushed her and hurried to get away before her mouth went off.  As soon as we turned to walk away, she announced, “I sure was nice not to call her a big, old fat lady, wasn’t I?”

The Dead Pony, the Warped Kid, and the World’s Most Horrible Mother

The phone rang one day.  Without introduction, I heard the familiar, deep voice of one of my son’s friends.  “Miss Linda, is that story about the pony true?”

“Yep!”  The last thing I heard was gales of laughter as I hung up.

If you are the sensitive type, skip this story.

Many years ago when my son was young, we were hauling a load of tree trimmings to the landfill.  As my husband backed the truck up to unload, I spotted a dead pony, bloated with all four legs stuck up in the air.  Without thinking, I said, “Hey, John.  Do you want a pony?”

Of course he said, “Yes!”

“Well, there’s one right over there!”

“Wahhh!!!!!”

I swear it was not intentional.  Sometimes I think there is a disconnect between my brain and my mouth!

 

This is for you, Lee Perkins

You Used to Be Beautiful!

One warm afternoon in late May, 1960, Billy and I were lying on the living room floor as Mother reclined a few minutes with her feet up wearing the heavy surgical weight stockings the doctor had ordered.  She was  six months into a difficult pregnancy with her last child,and was supposed to be off her feet.  She had spent a good portion of the morning tying to keep an eye on her fourteen-month-old, Connie, while trying to coax twelve-year old Phyllis and me at ten to do a little housework, help with Connie, and even get a little work out of seven year old Billy, while keeping him out of trouble.  Phyllis was watching Connie.  We were all terminally lazy, slacking off at the first excuse.  None of us had any intention of doing anything we could avoid.

As we dawdled at her feet on the floor in the draft of the attic fan, one of us pulled out an old photo album.  I quickly found a picture of her made her senior year of high school, the peak of her youth and beauty.  “I graduated thirteen years ago today,” she remarked smilingly.

In my infinite wisdom, I proclaimed, “Oh Mother, you used to be beautiful!”

I turned for her smile, only to see a snarling, slobbering, swollen beast ready to pounce on me in rage! “”Used to be beautiful!  Let’s see what you look like when you have five kids in twelve years!  Put this stuff up, right now.  Linda, you take your smart mouth and get those dishes washed.  Phyllis, you put a pot of beans on for supper.   Billy, you…”

By the way, this is not the picture in question.  That one mysteriously disappeared

Big Mouth

When my brother Billy was a kid, my parents dreaded hearing whatever might come out of  his mouth.  Daddy took him to the store with him one day.  As Billy stood on the top step, Daddy and his friend Mr. Shorty stood on the ground talking.  Billy happily reached over, patted Mr. Shorty affectionately on his bald head, and said, “Well hello, little, short fat man.”

Not long afterward, Mother looked out the kitchen window to see Daddy’s friend with one leg, Mr. Charley headed to the front door.  She rushed to the living room, trying to get there before Billy, could ask what happened to his other leg.  She was too late.  As she walked into the room, Biily turned from Mr. Charley at the door to tell her, “Mama, a skeeter bit his leg off!”

My cousin kept hitting Billy.  Mother told Billy to “hit hit back.”  The next time that kid showed up, Billy kept asking Mother, “Can I hit him now, Mama?  Can I hit him now?”

Doo Doo Bossier

In college, I suppose I was just a bit slow to catch on when Bud and his cousin Freddie kept talking about a guy in one of their classes named “Doo Doo Bossier.”  I was always hearing, “Doo Doo did so and so.” or “Wait till you hear what Doo Doo did now!”

Time Out for Smart Alecks

My dad was more creative than factual when making a point.  When there was no dessert, he pointed out.  “My mother or sisters made a cake every day.”

Other times, when we were ungrateful for how great we had it, he’d tell us his family sometimes went three days with nothing to eat but peas.

i piped up.  “Why didn’t y’all eat one of those cakes your mama or sisters made every day?”

He took time out his busy day to teach me the difference in smart and smart aleck.

She Ain’t Got on No Panties!

First Grade School Picture

 

I just loved Katie, Mother’s first cousin, though she only visited once, even naming my only daughter for her. Maybe that will make up for this horrible story I’m about to tell. Katie and Glenn came by for a few days after visiting my grandparents in Texas. Like all three-year-olds, I assumed they were my exclusive guests. Glenn was overshadowed by the lovely,