Sometimes, in a fit of motherly passion, I”ll scoop Sean up and smother him with kisses, telling him he’s so cute that I can’t stand it.  And then he squiggles and wiggles out of my arms and runs off, laughing and yelling “Yucky!”

Last week, we were at the grocery store, and as we were checking out, he was chatting up the cashier, a grandmotherly type. 

“You’re cute!” she cooed at him as I ran my credit card through the machine.

“Yeah but my mom can’t stand me,” he told her.  “She says that all the time.”  And then for some reason,  he offered her this weird, crooked, sad little smile.

The cashier narrowed her eyes and looked at me suspiciously.

It probably didn’t help that Sean had a dirty face and had dressed himself that morning as a Hip Hop Rap artist on a golf outing.

I shut my eyes and shook my head ever so slightly. 

The effort it was going to take to explain that it was the level of his cuteness that I can’t stand vs. him which I can stand very tolerably (sigh), exceeded my mental bandwidth at that particular moment.  So I didn’t even try. 

I think I exceeded my mental bandwidth just typing that sentence.

In some local ladies Bible study, there’s a Wal-Mart cashier asking for prayers for the little boy whose mother can’t stand him.  

Earlier in the week, Sean and I were in Target.  He was being loud.  Happy loud, but loud.  Happy loud is annoying, but not nearly annoying as Unhappy Loud. Still, it was LOUD.

I told him that he needed to pipe down so that we didn’t get kicked out of the store.

“Kicked out?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.  “You are disturbing the other customers and the store manager might kick us out of here.”

“Kicked?” he asked incredulously. “Out?”  His eyes widened in disbelief.

He stopped along side the cart, and with a worried and questioning expression, demonstrated a swift little soccer kick for verification.

I nodded.

“Well that wouldn’t be very nice,” he declared, quietly.

Perhaps I should have stopped here and taken the time to explain the concept of metaphorical speech, but I was too busy enjoying the not loud.  And what do I know, the manager of Target could very well be literally kicking people out of the store.

I know there was a lady in the Christmas aisle talking loudly on her cell phone that I wanted to kick. Out.

Three-year-old ears hear everything. Every. Thing. They are omnipotent little creatures.

No matter how preoccupied you may think they are with your contrived distractions, they are listening and taking in every word, mentally crouching like a hungry tiger, waiting to pounce at just the right opportunity to gobble up your tender juicy pride.

Sunday morning at church, Sean was busy racing his Lightning McQueen matchbox car up and down my arm and gobbling up Goldfish by the fistful –  seemingly oblivious to the inspired and impassioned sermon about hell, fire and brimstone.

Just as the preacher paused for dramatic effect, Sean comments rather loudly, “Well THAT doesn’t sound good!”

And indeed it did not.

When Sean was just a little guy, maybe around 18-months-old, we were sitting on the floor by the door that looks out into our back yard, watching the squirrels play hide and seek and flit and zip around.

One squirrel had regrettably decided to bury an acorn in a fire ant pile. When he discovered his mistake, the poor little fella began erratically flipping and flopping like a crazed acrobat trying to shake off the angry ants. Having been bitten by my fair share of fire ants, I felt sorry for him, but at the same time it was quite amusing to watch.

“Sean, look at the squirrel flip flopping!” I said. He began laughing hysterically until tears rolled down his cheeks. “Fwip fwops!” he repeated over and over as he pointed to the back yard. It was the funniest two words he had ever heard and the more he said it, the funnier it got. And the more he laughed, the more I laughed at him laughing.

And to this day, he still calls squirrels flip flops. It has become part of our family’s own unique vernacular that makes absolutely no sense to anyone else.

The other day at the playground, Sean exclaimed, “Mommy! Look at the flip flops!” Confused, all the other mothers looked at their feet.

I didn’t even try to explain.

Does your family have any “special” words?

What I said:  Done with the milk?
What I meant:  Would you pleeeez not leave the milk out?
What I wanted to say:  Stop leaving the damn milk out.

What I said:  I need to go to the store (sigh).
What I meant:  I have to defrost or chop something for dinner and I don’t feel like it.
What I wanted to say:  I’m not really hungry. Y’all are on your own for dinner.

What I said:  Are these papers important?
What I meant:  These papers have been on my kitchen counter for a week and you need to move them. Now.
What I wanted to say:  I’m throwing these papers away.

What I said:  Can I make you a sandwich?
What I meant:  Do you have to spread the contents of the fridge and pantry across the entire kitchen to make a measly sandwich?
What I wanted to say:  Get out of my kitchen before I turn on you with a spatula.

What I said:  Thanks for fixing my computer.
What I meant:   I love how you take care of me.
What I wanted to say:  I’m glad I married you even if you leave the milk out.