Dinner Quips Encore

"If I swallowed my eyeball, I could look down at the food in my stomach."

Dinner Quips

"That smells so good my eyes are watering."

"I don't want to say the prayer . . . EE-I EE-I OH."

"The good food goes in my mouth and then it goes over here in my body to give me energy. The bad food goes down here and into here, and then over here where there are axes and swords and stuff that chop it up and then it turns into poop."

Rock-Paper-Scissors

Yesterday, Smith and I were sitting on the couch relaxing, when we decided to play Rock-Paper-Scissors. Like everything in Smith's life, it soon became competitive. After the second game, Smith was already cheating. I scolded him, but he was relentless. He was doing anything and everything he could to catch a break.

He tried "The Delay" (When one player delays committing to a hand formation until the last second in an attempt to glimpse the opponent's hand maneuvering). He tried "The Countdown Malfunction" (When one player throws down on four instead of three after the opponent has already shown his formation). And in a last-ditch, pitiful attempt, he tried "The Switcheroo" (After both players have thrown down, one player changes formations to whatever defeats the opponent and explains, "I forgot I wanted to be rock"). That was the last straw.

"Smith, I'm not going to keep playing if you're going to cheat." I warned paternally. Smith dropped his hands defiantly, pursed his lips, and gave me a menacing stare. After a moment, he silently extended his left hand, palm facing up, with his right hand in a fist. I interpreted this gesture to mean: This one is for the game. "Okay, one more." I said. "You're not going to cheat?" Smith shook his head. I accepted. Then just before we started the countdown, I saw the corner of his mouth turn up.

"One, two, three!" we said in unison. I threw down paper. I looked at Smith's hand. His index finger was pointed directly at me and his thumb stood up vertically. "Gun beats paper. I win. BANG!"

Finally, he wants to be like Jesus . . . sort of.

Followers of Smittyisms know that Smith hasn't always been best buddies with Jesus. Last night, I was reading an article in Newsweek about President Hinckley. Adjacent to the article, was something about Christian artifacts with a large picture of a golden crucifix. Smitty stood up on his chair and began to show me how Jesus died on the cross. He must have just learned about it in primary, because he went into a five minute ordeal about how they put him up there with nails and on and on and on. I stopped him, thinking I could turn this into a "teaching moment." I posed a few questions and told him why Jesus died and that after he died he was resurrected and what that meant.

Smith: Whoa, wait. Stop. Is that what they did to President Hinckley too?

Mom: Umm, No.

Smith: Well. I want to be like Jesus. That would be so cool . . . then I can die and then come back to life. Mom don't you want to die so that you can come back to life? That is like the best magic trick!

This isn't as bad as it sounds, but. . .

Yesterday we were on our way to a Super Bowl party, when I told Smith which kids his age would be there. Ethan, Asher and Abe were those we expected. Smith's reply was:

"Good. They like me. And they follow me."

Yikes.

Not a Pundit yet

Last night was another democratic party debate. I wanted to test Smith's retention of the candidates and the issues.

Me: "Smith, who is that guy"
Smith: "Barack OBAMA!"
Me: "Very good! Now, who is the woman?"
Smith: "Barack . . . O'Mama?"