*Mad calling Fynnie "Baby" incessantly*
*Fynnie fussing every single freaking time*
Tom: Maybe Fynnie doesn’t want to be called Baby anymore, Big Jet.
Mad: *blowing raspberries* Pshht! She’s still in the Baby Fynnie seat.
Mad: I have to go potty!
Daddy: We’ll stop at the next off-ramp and find a potty.
Mad: *grunting* I pushed myself and got the poop out.
Mama: *silently laughing in the front passenger seat*
Daddy: Don’t push the poop out. Hold it in.
Mad, proudly and coolly: I’m holding it in my pants.
I'm happy to report it was not a true statement.
Tom: Do you know what she’s doing now when she helps with laundry?
Tom: She’s turning them inside right.
Me: I taught her that.
Tom: Mad, when you’re uh…
Mad: I’m not Madelyn.
Tom: Mad… er… Big Jet… I’m sorry. Big Jet, when you’re six you’re going to take over doing all the laundry for the family. How does that sound?
Mad: That sounds fine.
Tom, as we passed a slow, beat up motorhome: Can you be an outlaw and drive an RV? I mean, really, c’mon!
How to stand out in a hip downtown restaurant, the kind that serves cauliflower soup and potato and leek pizzas? Walk in carrying a potty seat adapter. Nothing says suave and sophisticated like bright white plastic and a foam cushion with Sesame Street characters.
Chris to Matt, pointing at the device that has just done something unexpected less than two feet from me: Are you printing something?
Matt, looking slightly confused: Uh, no. I guess sometimes it just does that. Like a test page or something.
Me: Um, actually, I just photocopied my butt. It'll be printing a while.
Judy, laughing (thank god!): Just like your father. I assume she was talking to her sons about me being just like my father-in-law, but she could have been talking to me, too.
Note to self
Stray eyebrows, no tweezers = bad.