Where’s My Weasel?

I’m going to get a little mommy blogalicious for a second and talk about cutesy stuff my daughter says. If that sort of thing annoys you, then maybe come back for a **fantastic X post tomorrow. (I’ll understand. I don’t like cutesy mommy stuff either, really.)

The Weasel Disorder

In Kindergarten my daughter told me she had to get some brass pants to wear to school. Apparently it was going to be spirit day and the teacher said they had to wear brass pants. (per my daughter.) The school colors are maroon and gold but she swore she had to wear brass pants. I gave her a pair of regular pants and told her they were brass pants. Which pissed off mini-me because they were clearly not brass pants. I still don’t have any idea what she was talking about. I do know that it would be a crying damn shame if my daughter grows up thinking brass and gold are the same things.

I let her say “liturdy” instead of literally. As in, “I liturdy almost broke my head.” “He liturdy pulled his tooth out with his bare hands.” I secretly hope she says it like that forever.

“Mom, why is my weasel in the basement?”

“Huh?” Damn. When did we get a weasel.

“You know,” and here she talks to me really slow like I’m handicapped. “My WEEEEE–ZEL. I want to paint.”

I would ask her if she wanted to paint just to hear her say “Uh yeah, but you put my painting weasel in the basement.” I let her call that thing a weasel until someone ruined it and told her it was an easel. It was a sad day for me because not only did the weasel painting stop, but daughter was mad at me for not telling her. Again.

I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t do that. I know I should correct her, but it’s a sickness which deserves compassion. Just the word “weasel” by itself almost makes me pee on myself.

Now a Serious Matter

One thing that’s a little disturbing and not funny though is that Pop Goes the Weasel song.

All around the cobbler’s bench
The monkey chased the weasel.
The monkey thought it all in fun,
POP, goes the weasel.

The lyrics vary, but all versions end in the same way. The monkey clearly busts a cap in the weasel’s ass for some reason.

So unfortunately, not all weasel stories have happy endings. We should put aside our differences and think about that for a second.

In case you’re wondering, W is not for Weasel or WTF are you talking about. W is for all of the Wisdom I accidentally stumbled upon while writing this post:

• Never try to pass regular pants as brass pants.
• Hide your weasel from outsiders.
• Beware of monkeys with pistols.

**I take back fantastic. I have no idea what I’m blogging about for X.