The problem with being invited to a family wedding is they want you to bring your children. Or worst yet, have your children participate in the wedding. Chances are you will have the toddler who is engaging in rampantly socially unacceptable behavior that requires the arm strength of an NLF wide receiver to contain as the toddler in question is the size of a linebacker. You only think I exaggerate.

Furthermore, if you are at a family wedding, family members will steal your little well behaved infant. Which leaves you toddler-less and infant-less and forced to focus solely on the ceremony. Now this doesn’t seem like bad a scenario, and it isn’t, provided it isn’t your daughter serving as the flower girl and it’s an outdoor wedding and it’s pushing 100 degrees.

Baby doesn’t suffer much well, and heat is no exception. She was thrilled to death to be included in the wedding and her cousin certainly made her feel special and very much included. Baby’s first job required her to escort the ring bearer down the aisle. He was two and very uncertain. This is where Baby shines.  But then it came time to stand still and observe the ceremony. That’s where Baby’s talent ended. She shuffled, squirmed and looked generally unimpressed with the heat and lack of water features. We repeatedly made eye contact and I knew I was radiating disapproval. I even mouthed “Be still” “pay attention”, she would comply for fifteen seconds or so and then realize that she was standing next to a tree and investigate it instead. She counted the remaining petals in her basket. She attempted to remove her wreath, due to sweat issues but only ended up with her hair tangled. She played with the maid of honor’s dress.  The clincher came as she was balancing on the edge around the tree and feel down. During the final prayer.  I would have been embarrassed if I hadn’t been on my way to confirm that X-Man wasn’t actually being eaten alive by hyenas.

There’s a fine line between sweet and not sweet. Baby walks that line. She lives on the line. But she’s yet to actually cross it. I suppose she’s saving that for her teenage years.

At the risk of appearing to be very insensitive, last week was an excellent time to visit Six Flags. There was some pretty bad publicity the week earlier so all the park staff were on their best behavior. In addition, no one else thought it was a good idea to head to a theme park where dying was apparently an option.

So the father figure took it upon himself to plan a family adventure day. Most likely due to the fact that the day in question was both X-Man and my birthday. And we were in California for his cousin’s wedding the next day. So he unilaterally decided to take the family to a Six Flags park. It goes without saying that the father figure is not the consumer of news in our family. And as it was to celebrate my birthday, he spent three hours hunting down various discount codes before purchasing tickets.

So there we were, in an empty theme park, I kid you not, as rides came to an end the attendants would ask “wanna go again?” So a good day was had by all. Although it was not without drama.

X-Man was unimpressed with the whole getting off the rides thing. After his first kiddie ride, I found myself requesting a crowbar with which to pry his chubby little two year old fingers off of the ride bar. He responded by trying to bite me and shrieking “No mama no nice!” Our first attempted solution was to try to rush him as quickly as possible to the next ride, where there was little to no line. However it only caused the hysteria to momentarily subside. For a few moments, I thought that X-Man and I should engage in quality mother/son birthday bonding time by enjoying low key baby rides. But seeing as I get enough toddler wrestling time on a daily basis, the father figure stepped in and I went off with Mac. By the time we were reunited, X-Man had the drill down and was no longer creating international incidents when the time to debark rides came.

Mac had an enjoyable time. I had to force him to ride a big roller coaster, because that’s what good moms do. He complained “I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to this….aaaaahhhhh……can we go again?” Of course, the downside to this was that most of the larger rides required an adult to ride along with Mac. The father figure was feeling very magnanimous and insisted I enjoy the experience, each and every time.  Baba was similar. She wanted to try many of the rides, but she certainly had her limits and she wasn’t flexible with them.

Baby, on the other hand, was a roller coaster fiend. She took personal offence to the height requirements which kept her off a grand total of two coasters.  She consoled herself by multiple rides on each of the major coasters that she could ride. And only in the front. She too found herself in need of an adult riding with her. While Baba was tall enough to be the adult, Baba was uninterested in the coasters that called Baby’s name. Which is how I found myself getting off the front seat of a ride listening to Baba say “can we go again? This time I’ll keep my eyes open!”

So for my birthday, I was spun, flipped, and flung for the amusement of my children. I found myself wishing for lines so I could catch my breath. Or talk my kids down to more reasonable experiences. But no such luck, rather I found myself having to explain why we couldn’t come back the following day.

I think that I need to re-examine my responses to people who ask me if Gestated Cinco is my first. The whole "Nope, she's my fifth" basically results in shock and horrified looks and I sympathetic comments. Or just odd comments like "Well, I'M NOT having five kids." Well booyah for you, I'm not having lobster for dinner, what's your point?

I think I'll just start saying "She's my first......THIS YEAR!" That might stall some of the shock and horror.

I get big families are unusual. But I am working really hard not to appear as a circus side show and I would really appreciate the rest of the world just working with me in this area. They are all actually humans, I just have three more than you do. That's all. None of them have extra appendages or superpowers. Yes some of them do have red hair, thank you for pointing that out.

Yes, Gestated Cinco is still a little one. And she just happened to be sleeping when you exclaimed "Five kids! Why would you do that to yourself?" But guess what, babies three and four weren't sleeping you multipariousphobe. I just made that word up, but it fits.


And I really don't get why you get to say whatever rude thing pops into your three sizes too small head, but when I answer your absurd question about why I have the number of children I do with "Because my kids are cooler than yours" you get all offended. Hey, I call it like I see it. But thanks for helping me feel like a damn good mom, because I actually seem to like my kids.

And that's all I have to say about that. I think I need another vacation. I'm alarmingly cranky already.

So Baby Royal left the hospital today. He was erroneously strapped into his car seat. Moms actually notice these things. Even me. Mostly because I had to unswaddle a very content Cinco numerous times in order to properly buckle her up. So yeah, YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG!!!!

Mac wandered into his grandmother’s walk in closet today and bellowed “Well here’s where grandma keeps all the stuff she stole!” Now his paternal grandparents (God love them) run a tad bit on the hoarder side of things, so I’m not sure if his observations were based upon how full the closet was or on some other aspect of his grandmother’s life that I am unaware of.

My nose still hurts where X-Man head butted me. He did so because I told him that he was not allowed to play in drinking fountains. It’s not that I started out with him in a sleeper hold, while trying to keep him in timeout, but somehow his contortions resulted in just that. A mother holding a toddler in a sleeper hold. In public. Well played young man.

 Oh well, I could be THIS MOM. 

Well, I wasn’t the mom whose kid blew his nose on her skirt during church. So there’s that.

                             

Church was particularly challenging. I need to change churches; it’s as simple as that. I need to be at a church that has chairs and not benches because, dang nab it I NEED MY SPACE!!!!!!  My children are trying to share my skin. Not it a “you ruined my life and now I’m a serial killer” sort of way.  But the “I luv you SOOOOO much and am pretty sure that I am pushing the boundaries of socially acceptable behavior and so I will try to cuddle with you and hope you forget” kinda way.  At least the serial killers take your head and then leave you alone.

I begrudge Cinco nothing. Mostly because she’s a baby, but also because she’s consistently my best behaved child. She sat pleasantly on my lap and observed the antics of her older siblings.  Mac wrapped his arms around one of my arms and batted his eyes angelically. “Aren’t I doing a good job mom?” “Uh, man did you brush your teeth today?” “Uh no, I forgot.” “How did you forget? I told you three times.” “Well I forgot because I didn’t want to. And I had to do my haircut”

Ah yes, Mac’s haircut. Until last Friday, Mac’s personal stylist was Calvin of Hobbes. I would comb his hair and then find him hiding behind doors messing it back up. As we have a family wedding this weekend, I found it necessary to take him to the barber. She cut it short, after observing that his hair grew in every direction. The little that left lays very flat, much to Mac’s delight. Which is very new. But whatever, he combs his hair three times a day.

So there was Mac on one side, carrying on a conversation with me, while Baba had her arms wrapped around me. She was actively trying to bury into me with her head. There was about seventeen acres of real estate between me and the father figure, who  was sitting calmly as X-Man chanted “No, no, no. no.” Which is his general attitude towards church. That is until the doughnuts come out.  Meanwhile I was actually wearing three other people.

Baby wearing’s for slacker moms. Grade schooler wearing is where it’s at.

It’s rare that I am grateful for X-Man’s heretical attitudes towards organized religions and the buildings in which they gather. But eventually his vocal objections grew unignorable and his overwhelming desire to be removed from the premises by non-other than his mother actually played to my advantage. It’s one thing for a toddler to scream “Put me down, leave me alone, no, no, no.” Quite another when it’s the mother. 

In a moment of superb fail, Baby walked in on the father figure and I engaged in a heated exchanged of varying opinions. She looked askance, so I had to reassure her “don’t worry honey, there’s no one else I’d rather fight with than daddy.” The father figure helpfully added “It’s true.” I’m not sure what he was referring to, my pleasure in proving him wrong or his obstinate wrongness. Either way, she responded “But when do I get to watch THOR?” Because in the end it wasn’t the disagreement that concerned her, it was the interfering with her evening plans.

Watching Mac and X-Man take a bath together is like watching Jack Sprat and his wife.  X-Man takes the wifely honors in this one. He’s within seven pounds of his brother, who is older by for years. He’s also getting more frustrated by his almost ability to communicate. Or at least he assumes that’s why I don’t feed him constantly. Which is his preferred state of existence. Recently he found himself lying on the floor wailing. I had things to do, places I needed him to be and a baby in my arms. So I started rolling him with my foot. X-Man was so astonished that he was unable to stop his motion for a few moments. The result was he was outraged even more than before, especially since he had to get up off the floor in order to return to his previous location. But as his audience had moved on, he was quickly distracted by sunlight.

All the children have been enjoying visiting their future aunt and uncle. Mac knows future aunt Lolly’s name but still refers to his uncle, my brother, as “that guy.” He also has taken a particular delight in the future husband of his aunt, my sister.

What began as a game of chess devolved into a wrestling match, with Mac bellowing “I love playing with you and doing this and when you aren’t here I pretend you are” to his future uncle. And so the wild shenanigans continued. At one point Mac announced that he needed the future uncle to stay still so that Mac could slay him. Which is fine because he will be able to live forever……IN HEAVEN!!!!!  But Mac did have a qualification “Well, you could go to hell also, but I don’t want you to do that because then I can’t play with you.” According to Mac the way to get to Heaven is to give money to the poor, but only when no other rich people are. Also, he doesn’t know any prayers. He told his aunt “I am not joking,”  

And so, Mac will kill his uncle to be in order to wrestle with him in Heaven, where Mac entered because he gave money to the poor while not praying.

Who needs a rubix cube, actually who does need one? Ever?  But should you find yourself hankering for one, simply try to remove the liner of a modern car seat. Same thing, only harder. I would recommend that you not remove the liner ever, but that requires being on the same page with your daughter as to the proper use of a diaper.

I believe that diapers are for holding poo. Cinco does not. Because then the icky poo would touch her delicate hindquarters and that’s just unacceptable. There is no need for poo to reside in any of the crevasses developing on her thighs when there are plenty of crevasses to deposit any bodily fluid—poo, spit up—in her very nice car seat. We have tried to come to an understanding on this issue, and all I understand at the moment is that I will have to get up fifteen minutes earlier tomorrow in order to ensure that her car seat is street legal before we leave for the ridiculous speed camp on the other side of the galaxy.

On the dingo wrestling front, X-Man had to have an x-ray of his adenoids today. The medication he was put on is most definitely not doing its job. Unless its job is to produce enough snot to lubricate an engine, in which case, I’m going to cancel the oil change I have scheduled. The first indication that it was not going as planned was the Niagara flow pouring from his nostrils. The second was that after three days, X-Man sat calmly as I shot ineffective medication up his nose. Clearly, he didn’t feel a thing.

And I have become THAT mother. The mother who prattles on about her children’s bodily fluids. But I have reached the point where I choose my outfits based on how best to accessorize the eventual baby vomit and poo that I will be christened with.

I’m going to call it a night. The father figure sauntered into the bedroom at 3:30am this morning and asked “Hey, you wanna take me to work?” I suppose there was a choice involved; Of course my choice would be to ditch the ridiculous temperamental car of his, that doesn’t even hold a reasonable percentage of our children. But somehow that wasn’t in the cards.

And as this post has been nothing but a litany of first world problems, I should quit while I’m ahead. 

Everything went well until the car was parked. The father figure removed X-Man from his carseat and asked "ready to go to church?" X-Man was definitely in the not so church going sort of mood. And that's how I came to be outside the church with a wailing X-Man. Fortunately it hadn't rained recently, so I didn't have to keep him from trying to drink the rain water accumulated on the railing. Not that he didn't go looking for it. I got to lug the 40 lb heathen around because he hadn't forgiven the father figure for driving him there. How he knew there were no doughnuts, I have no idea, but it would have been nice for him to spread the word to his siblings. Fewer questions for me to field. 

Mac has a new game he plays with his cousins. It’s called the “Cutie Game.” No wait, it gets better. He shoots candy and rainbows. When I heard this, I admit it was with trepidation that I asked “from where?” “From my stomach. I do it like this.” He then punched himself in the stomach.

From what I could tell, this game was an excuse to make retching and barfing noises for his cousins. Occasionally I would look over and he’d reassure me “It’s ok, I’m just shooting rainbows.”  I guess this is what comes of playing “kid friendly” Wii games. You decide to vanquish spiders with kit kats.

Or, it’s how you play weird violent games with your cousins while holding your mom at bay. Your guess is as good as mine. 

Sure glad I consign children’s clothing. That $.40 sure came in handy.

Today was another day with the speed and agility camp forty minutes from home. And as it is closer to the pediatrician’s office than the house, I went ahead and scheduled checkups for random kids. Well actually not so random. The ones who needed their vaccines. Of course there was time to kill between camp ending and appointments beginning, so errand running commenced.

First stop was at the consignment store that I am particularly fond of. In a fit of purging and organizing I gave away all my baby girl items. It made sense at the time. But Cinco likes to poop and puke and so my attempts to keep her wardrobe to the bare basics were backfiring on me. As was the heat.  So cute summer baby items were accrued. With several put back because I’m still trying to keep it simple. Baba found a skirt she clearly like and told me that it reminded her of me. It was a valiant effort. Baby  found several items she wanted and cried when I broke it to her that she was not actually the daughter I was shopping for. X-Man found Lightening McQueen and had a complete a total meltdown when it came time to leave. He was so effective in his screaming that he was offered a lollipop to leave.  Maybe that’s why the clerk asked me if I had tied my tubes.

Then off to the library. Other than failing to return one overdue book, the visit went well. That is until it was time to leave. Again with the objections X-Man! He upped his level of resistance however, including collapsing and flopping and screaming and running opposite directions. Somehow I looked like the bad guy, here was a child, clearly wanting to stay surrounded by books and the opportunity to learn and I was literally dragging him kicking and screaming away.  I gave up on looking like a good mother around the time I became a mother, so I just went with it. But ten steps from building of silence and it became clear that X-Man was aiming for his own trip to the doctor with a dislocated shoulder, elbow and or wrist. He didn’t care. It would prove his point.

About then I reached my limit. I decided enough was enough. I removed Cinco from the baby carrier, had Baby hold her while Baba held a spazzing X-Man, Mac had enough sense to lay low. I adjusted the carrier and in went X-Man. I told him firmly “If you can’t behave, you will have to be carried like a baby.” Big mistake. He grabbed fistfuls of hair and shrieked “Whee!!!” He then attempted to steer me in his preferred direction by my hair. When we got to the car, he figured the jig was up and wrapped his fat little arms, absurdly strong little arms at that, around my neck and bellowed “No I go Mama!”

He now calls the baby carrier “mine.”  I kept him in it at the doctor’s, as it was Mac and Cinco who had to be checked. Mac knew enough not to volunteer to the doctor that his favorite thing to do is play the Wii. He looked at me when asked, I encouraged “you like to play outside don’t you?” “Mostly no." Especially when you make me.” I might I said more, but X-Man was angry that I wasn’t responding to his “whee mommy!!!” Emphatic as they were becoming. He decided to start scratching which resulted in me yelling and Mac opining on which games he liked best on the Wii. And how he didn’t get to play that much. So on the parenting scale, I guess it was a wash.

Because knowing this makes it soooo less embarrassing.

Mac hyperventilated after his vaccines, and the medical assistant was way more sympathetic than I was. Then again, he thought taking off his band-aids hurt. 

Baby was alarmed to find what I was cooking for dinner. Mostly that I was cooking dinner, otherwise known as the last chance of the day to whine and complain about something. Well until it’s bedtime. Anyway, I was cooking beer basted pork chops. She was horrified to discover the secret ingredient.  She immediately questioned my parenting and informed me that dinner didn’t smell good. Her last words to me leaving the table were “I guess I like beer.” Maybe it wasn’t all that a successful meal.

I have frequently mentioned X-Man’s ear, nose and throat issues. As a result of these unresolved issues, he coughs frequently. Cinco, not yet three months, has determined that X-Man’s coughing steals attention from her. Her solution is to cough herself. Echoing her brother each and every time. It’s still cute, and effective as everyone immediately starts cooing at her and reminding her that she is cute.  I harbor no illusions that it will remain cute past this weekend.

 

X-Man’s temper is bursting out. He expresses it mostly by throwing things. Being the bad mother I am, I particularly enjoy watching him try to pick up things too heavy for himself. The added fury is amusing. As are his attempts to save face by quickly becoming fascinated in something else. The boy’s staying power is nonexistent.

Cinco's also forgotten how to sleep. Good times. 

Here are some things that I learned over the weekend:

If Baby and Mac are left alone in a bedroom screaming will commence. It’s not so much that I learned this. But I did learn that one, out of many, things they will fight about involves who will get out of the car first. Keep in mind neither one was in the car at the time. They were, judging by the progress they were making in their chores, hours away from actually getting in the car. However, proximity to the car is not necessary to the hashing out of the proper order of de-caring. Also, apparently I am the only person who finds this behavior absurd.  But there is nothing like a mother trying to point out absurdity of behavior to establish a united front with previous feuding siblings.

If you pick out clothes as a birthday gift for a young girl, make sure to listen to your daughter’s advice, not the mother of the child. This will guarantee that your daughter does not create a birthday card with a PS My mom picked out your gift. Also, I recommend proofreading any and all cards created by your children, to guarantee they contain no bizarre comments, such as “I hope your birthday cake isn’t poison.” Unless you’re the kind of person who enjoys hearing sentiments such as that read aloud in a sea of sweet messages spelled out in pink and glitter.

If you are informing your son that he is not to shout orders to his father, because he is not to tell his father what to do, he will come back with “I’ll tell him what to do if I’m king.” Fair enough.

The only reason why X-Man enjoys pointing out the various facial features is because it gives him an opportunity to stick a finger up my nose. And it is entirely unreasonable for me to forbid him to then stick the finger in my mouth. No matter how much he wants to touch my “teee”. It’s been a struggle to write this blog because he’s obsessed with sticking his finger up Cinco’s nose. Her nostrils are smaller than his finger tip, so there’s plenty of frustration to go around.

Forget the Ice Cream Truck, there’s an Ice Cream Boat. Yup, enjoying a peaceful day at the lake be prepared to be serenaded by muzak versions of Christmas carols piped from a motor boat. Because the only thing more dangerous than your children charging into the street chasing a sketchy truck selling overpriced confections is having them charge into water, in pursuit of frozen delights.

because phoning it in is too hard.

This. Today. And yesterday. And tomorrow.

Yep, because when you try to explain why you hit your brother and he pinched you or vice versa with a pigeon on top. Yeah.

I said that I had no idea what they were talking about or why they were fighting so I was going to go get them a bunny with a flapjack. That made Baby shriek in frustration and Mac say "cool." I didn't really, because I wasn't certain that X-Man wouldn't eat both.

So now when children come screaming to me, trying to out yell each other in order to best air their grievences I simply respond "You look like you need a bunny with a pancake on its head." It still just frustrates Baba, because she's not so much the random humor type of person, it cracks Mac up and Baby just shrieks louder "NO YOU NEED TO YELL AT MAC!" She does not handle it well if you retort "oh, so you need two pancakes on its head."

I blame my father. This is totally a chapter out of his parenting manual. Not so long ago, as Baby was wailing because she had to get Mac a glass of water,  I over heard my father ask her "If this is how you react when you have to give your brother a drink, what are you going to do when the house blows up?"

Food for thought.

again with the titles!

I first saw “Finding Nemo” ten years ago. It made me cry. It still makes me cry. At least I think so.  I was lying on the floor, snuggled up with the kiddos watching it today. Mac and Baby were on either side of me. They were arguing with each other over where the most comfortable place to lay their heads on my body was. And by comfortable they meant squishy.  They had designated several areas. I’m pretty sure it was the movie that was making me cry.

  

I recently switched swim lesson times for Mac. The whole 5:55pm thing wasn’t awesome. We were transitioning acceptably up until the end of the lesson. Mac insists on changing in the boys’ dressing room. I respect his decision, especially since the sign posted above the dressing room says parents may accompany their children under the age of five. So rules being rules Mac gets to use the dressing room while I wait outside.

That doesn’t mean he’s completely unsupervised. I’ve yelled at him to stop bellowing Christmas carols (in March) and to hurry up and get dressed. I’ve loudly suggested that he shut the curtain while changing his clothes. I’ve demanded that he put on underpants before running to the bathroom.  He is most certainly not left to his own devices.

Most of Mac’s antics have occurred during sparsely attended classes mid-day. He seemed to tone them down during the evening class as well. Mostly due to his passionate focus on making it to dinner. But now he’s back to late morning classes and has much to say.

A dad came out of the dressing room and asked me if that was my red headed boy. It is my experience that there is no way this conversation is going to end comfortably for me.  Apparently Mac sauntered out of his changing stall and surveyed the dressing room. Arms akimbo he decreed “Hey, you’re a girl, you’re not supposed to be in here.” Fortunately the dad of the little girl was chuckling as he was retelling the story. Mac reappeared soon after, wearing pants and commented “Hey, you’re still here, good thing I’m wearing pants.”  Good thing indeed.

Fortunately I can still simply say “I blame the red hair” and people seem to understand. Eventually they’ll start blaming the parents though. About that time I’ll start blaming the bossy older sisters he has.

Again, I have to wrap the blog up early. We’re having a major family crisis. The father figure visited Red Box to pick a movie for family movie night. He came back with the new Iron Man. And by new Iron Man, he means new Iron Man from Japan. Animated. And rated PG-13. So the kids are wailing about having to read during family movie night. And I’m alarmed by animation from Japan and what it takes for them to thinks it’s bad enough for a PG-13 rating. And X-Man’s still sitting in the family room, holding the Cars DVD and bellowing in protest.

what's with the title demands blogger?

I was engaged in a passionate discussion with my sister today on the phone. We had strongly held, opposing, viewpoints based upon limited personal experiences. Always a recipe for success. About halfway through I realized she thought I was another sister. Just another day in the life.

I took five children to the river today. I left with five children. It was a successful day.  Because it was successful, I really don’t have much to talk about. I guess that’s the price you pay for having well behaved children.

The day had a rough start. Baby and Baba were back at their speed and agility camp. Apparently  today was “abs day”. This outraged Baby greatly. She left the camp in a huff, since they were “supposed to be running not exercising.”  Meanwhile Mac told me that he “likes God but mostly only on Sundays.”

X-Man has decided that in order to take his nasal medication he needs an audience. And that audience should engage in extended applause, both as a run up to the medication delivery and after the completion.  Hey, whatever gets the medicine in and stops the runny noses.

I have more thoughts, but X-Man has been spinning and dancing, complete with head banging, both figuratively and literally. He’s crashed into the coffee table twice now. I’d like to avoid the ER tonight, so it’s time to pay attention. 

blogger is wigging out and making me title this

Wrestling alligators should be a mandatory part of child birth classes. It’s possible that you won’t use those skills immediately, but you will need those skills. Like say when the ear, nose and throat doctor suggests that nasal spray will be the treatment of choice for your soon to be two year old. I don’t know who in their right mind thinks that a sane course of action involves keeping a toddler in a sleeper hold while shoving things up his nose, but if it avoids general anesthesia.  And if you think asking the pharmacist during his consult for some tips, be prepared for uber helpful suggestions like “uh, ooh, that’s hard. Um yeah, he’s not going to like it. Maybe try bribing him.”

It’s close to 100 degrees here. So Baba’s soccer team thought that a hike would be a good idea. From the reports I heard, it was seven miles up hill. Always up hill. Not that that kept them from swimming for three hours after that. And I was the mean one, calling it a day ten hours in “but we were about to roast marshmallows!” Something tells me that the 8am speed and agility camp is going to be an ugly reality come tomorrow.

Baba’s coach mentioned that she and one other teammate were lagging behind during the hike. They had their arms around each other’s shoulders, helping hold the other’s backpack. They were chattering away. He was pulling up the rear, and strained to listen. He had to redouble his efforts because it sounded like they were talking about division. He was surprised and continued eavesdropping. Yep, division it was and why decimal division was so “not cool.”  He happened upon them later on trying to explain pi to another teammate.  The conversation went something like “no it’s not cobbler, it’s 3.14” “what? What are you talking about?” “Pi” “pie?” “Yeah, in math.” “You mean when you cut it into fractions?” “No, I don’t think so.” “Well where does it come from?” “I don’t know. Who’s your favorite singer?”

Over all it was a decent showing. Now if I just hadn’t heard Baby spelling car with a “k”.