Moths and Screaming Beagles

My eight-year old son has my heart.  From the day I found out I was having a little boy, to the first time I laid eyes on his chubby little cherub face, through the past several years of growing pains, and even today when leaving for work: he had to give me an extra hug, “just because Ma!”  <Awwww>  There is just something, almost unexplainable, about the love a mother has for her son.  Jameson is my little comedian, and deliberately or not there isn’t a day that goes by that he doesn’t make me smile.  His laughs are contagious, and usually once he starts, the whole family is falling in right behind him.  My favorite is when he throws his head back in a belly laugh so hard, that the sound emitted becomes a shell of an “ah ah ah“.  He looks exactly what I expect the mischievous eight-year old version of my dad looked like.  He acts a bit like him too.

BUT, my little turd of a son cannot hear.  Oh, don’t worry, there is nothing medically wrong.  He just chooses to pay attention when he wants to.  It’s most likely a combination of a short attention span and his active eight-year old mind’s interpretation of what he thinks he just heard, but the shit that comes out of his mouth?  It is freaking hilarious.  I would give anything to be inside his brain for one short week.

Our family has coined the term ‘Jameson-isms’, and I have decided to dedicate an entire category to the things my son says……..

I’ll start this first ‘Jameson-isms’ post with two of my favorites:

At the end of last summer, my husband and I took the kids to Six Flags.  We were quite impressed with James; he seemed to have far less fear of the roller coasters than the 17-year old, jumping up and down at the chance to go again.  And again.  And again.

After riding several rides and then finally taking a break for some treats, our family sat around discussing what our favorite part of the day had been so far.

“I wike da caws,” my three-year old exclaimed.  Interpretation = ‘I like driving the Moon Antique Cars.’

“Uh, I don’t know, like, uh, the Mine Train, or whatever,” my 17-year old mumbled, glancing around nervously.  Interpretation = ‘Please, please, please don’t let anyone see me here with my parents.’

“James, buddy?  What have you liked the best?” I asked.

“Um, let’s see,” he thinks, his little nose scrunching up during the thought process.  “The Moth was cool, but I really liked The Screaming Beagle the best!!”  Interpretation = ‘The roller coaster The Boss was cool, but I really liked The Screaming Eagle the best’.

We haven’t let the boy live those two down yet.  And if you can believe it, this is only the beginning…….

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