Our little Tom Sawyer

Mom: "Hey Smith, can you go pick up the Lincoln Logs and put them back in their tin, please?"

Smith (in the other room): "Hey Poppy. Could you carefully put these in there?"

Not so nice.

Poppy: "Smith, are you excited to see Poppy and Geeps?"

Smith: "I'm excited to see Graydon."

California Dreamin'

Mom: "You need to get ready for the beach Smitty."

Smith: "Wait. You mean Aunt Shanon lives by Disneyland and the beach?! Whoa. That is awesome. . . ."

Easter Egg Hunt

Smith's best buddy Ethan Stout

Smitty's Snowman

March in Colorado...still a bit chilly!

Heart to Heart Talks between Smith and Mom

#1
Smith: "Mom, I pray to the superheroes everyday. At breakfast, lunch, dinner and at bed."
Mom: "What about Heavenly Father, do you pray to him?"
Smith: "No . . . only superheros."

#2
When Smith told Mom that his girlfriend was going to marry another four-year-old, Mom told him that Ellie wouldn't marry anyone unless the boy got her dad's permission. Smith's reply: "If he says okay, then Ellie will marry me? Let's call him right now. What's his number?"

#3
"Mom, do you know that so many girls like me? Like all of them. Girls just stop and stare and smile at me. They do it all the time. They think I'm cute or something."

#4
Smith: "Mom, tell me a superhero story."
Mom: "Smith, I don't have one in my head right now.
Smith: "Then I'll put my brain in your head, and my brain will tell your brain a superhero story, and then you can tell it to me . . . okay?"

#5
[While practicing saying his scripture for primary sharing time]
"'. . . For my soul delighteth in the scriptures, and my heart pondereth them. . . .' But Mom, my heart isn't shaped like a brain. . . ."

Guilty until proven innocent

After school yesterday, I was informed by a third party that Smitty was not on his best behavior at school...something about listening or something. So, I sat Smith down to ask him what happened at school.

Mom: "Smith, how was school?"
Smith: "Good. Fun."
Mom: "Oh."
Smith: "Mom. It's just that I cheated when we were playing tag outside. So, that's all."

This was all that he could come up with. I of course believed the parent and not Smith and assumed that he had done something horrible at school. He was sent to his room without a play-date for the day.

Well, today when I showed up at school, one of the other parents profusely apologized to me for her son's behavior. She was mortified that her son had hurt Smith at school yesterday. SMITH WAS INNOCENT! He was completely innocent and I feel so bad that I didn't believe him! Guess I have some major kissing up to do....

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?"

Sour Straw Gross Out

Congratulations to Smith's mom for posting her first Smittyism. Hopefully, it will be the first of many.

This next post is not for the faint of stomach. I suggest that many of you should put down your mouse, back away from the keyboard, and go on with your day. Only if you fit into one of the following categories should you continue reading:

a) You are not my mother or mother-in-law;
b) You are not offended by any Will Ferrell movie;
c) In your opinion, Joe Namath looks better with his shirt off than Brad Pitt; or
d) If you remember Senator Orrin Hatch's questions to Clarence Thomas during his confirmation hearing, you thought they were funny, not disgusting.

Scroll down, if you dare.



Are you sure you want to do this?


Okay, I warned you.

Smitty and I are kindred spirits in many ways. One such way is that we both are candy lovers; but we won't just eat any kind of candy. We love the gummy, the sour, the chewy and the sugary candy. We pass on M&M's for sour skittles. We scoff at licorice in favor of airheads. For my birthday, I got a three pound bag of gummy bears from someone at work. Smith gave me a jumbo-sized bag of gummy cola bottles (my gummy of choice) and a bag of sour gummy worms. We are set until spring.

This particular day, we were shopping for a birthday present and happened to go to Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart sells big boxes of sour straws (and other various types of good sugar candy) for $0.88. That is a screaming deal. Lately, I've seen boxes half that size at convenient stores for $1.29. We purchased one box of green apple sour straws, and had it open before we got to the car.

We continued our errands, when I heard an "uh-oh" from the back seat. Smith had dropped a sour straw. No biggie. At the next stop light, I picked it up and handed it too him. I soon heard a faint whimper from the back seat. He sounded like a wounded dog. "What's wrong?" I asked. "There is a hair on my sour straw," Smith moaned. "Just pull it off. It will be fine." I assured him. This time, in a frail and shaky voice, Smith uttered, "But I'm scared." "Why are you scared?" I wondered. Smith replied, "Because it is a twisty dad hair!"

Sharp or Swiss?

Mom: "Smith check out the moon...it's huge."

Smith: "Um, Mom, that's because of the cheese. And, it's so yellow since it's just cheese."

Mom: "Oh. I thought it was just a full moon."

Smith: "You should know this. Tonight the moon is big because it's the cheesiest."

Thanks to Smitty's wonderful Uncles, I guess he still thinks that the moon is made of cheese.

Future Pundit?

You may know of my past attempts to indoctrinate Smith with my own preferences and opinions. Those attempts have not gone well. Last night was no different.

After dinner, I lead Smith into the family room and asked if he wanted to watch a little TV with his daddy. "Yes! Let's do it!" exclaimed Smith. (It doesn't take much to excite him.) Little did he know he was about to get his first lesson in presidential primary politics. We sat on the couch and I began flipping through the channels. I happened to land on MSNBC. "What could this be?" I feigned. Smith looked up and actually seemed interested. I explained to Smith that these people wanted to be the next president and they are on TV to tell everyone why we should vote for them. "They want to be President Hinckley?" Smith asked. No, and I explained that there are two presidents: one for the church and one for the country. I felt an urge to discuss Thomas Jefferson and the separation of church and state, but I resisted.

We watched together for a couple of minutes when Smith asked the golden question. "Dad, which one do you like?" I thought to myself, 'This is it! Here is my opportunity!' I proceeded cautiously. "Well, that guy is Barack Obama. I kind of like him right now." Smith sensed my poor attempt at subtle persuasion, smirked, and said, "That guy looks like a doo-doo bird, or something." Then he laughed at me.

Next, the camera panned to John Edwards. "Well what does that guy look like?" I asked. Smith studied the TV. "His face looks like a toy. Maybe like a toy superhero."

I next asked Smith if he liked the woman candidate. "What woman?" he asked. "The one in the middle," I answered. "Where? There's no woman," he insisted. "Yes there is. She is next to Barack Obama." The camera zeroed in on Hillary. "That looks like a man with a necklace. And he's wearing earrings."

I'm Adam Romney and I do not approve this message.

"My brain and my heart. . . ."

Me: "The End." Okay Smith, let me tuck you in.

Smith: Dad, do I have soccer again tomorrow?

Me: No . . . not until next week.

Smith: Oh. [Conceding, he lies head back onto pillow.] Dad, soccer is my favorite sport. Right now, my body is sleepy, but my brain and my heart are still playing soccer.

Smith's Approach to Life

Smith: "On my first birthday, I was two."

Mom: "No you weren't, you were one."

Smith: "Then on my second birthday, I was four."

You might have gotten your kid too much for Christmas if. . .

when he opens a gift that contains clothes, he reacts by turning around and throwing the item into the corner of the room while exclaiming, "NOT A TOY!" and then he turns around and says, in a way that is more of an assertion than a request, "I can open the big one now?" Next year, I'm taking him to the soup kitchen.

Smith's Brain Cells

For Thanksgiving, the Colorado-Romneys road-tripped to Utah. It was relatively painless, even though Highway 6 was closed, forcing us to take a long and winding road from Helper to Duschesne. Before that detour, we stopped for gas in Price. It was bitterly cold outside, so when I got out of the car, I tried to work fast. Once I hurried to get the credit card worked out, informed Chevron that I did not want a car wash, and got the pump into the car, I leaned back and waited with my hands in my pockets, trying to keep warm.

At that point, I heard a wistful voice from behind me say, "I love this smell. . . ." I looked over my shoulder and saw Smith sniffing gas. By "sniffing gas" I mean his nose was pressed up against the metal nozzle of the gas pump, right next to the hole in the car where the pump is inserted, while he inhaled deeply through his nose. "Smith, STOP!" I yelled. I was expecting his eyes to roll back, and for his body to go limp. Instead, he grinned and said to me, "Dad, I really . . . like the smell of gas."

Smith was pretty quiet for the remaining few hours of the drive.