The Schmitty house (aka the Schmitt house, which we will use solely for this post) has been pretty stressful lately.
Mr. Schmitty has been stressed with work. W. has been stressed with homework and studying. T. and R. have been stressed with each other. And I? Well, I've been stressed about EVERYTHING.
There have been few laughs exchanged with one another. We have been at each other's throats and it's really getting on my last nerve.
Dinners around here are a nightmare. I hate planning meals because SOMEONE will always complain about the menu. R. can't sit long enough to eat her food while it's still warm. The boys can't stop being obnoxious and rambunctious.
Its enough to make me want to scream. Well, I do scream. A Lot.
So last night I sat down, determined to have a nice conversation with my family, while we ate.
"Mom," said W., "Guess what I'm reading about for school."
I took a few guesses and then asked him to tell me.
"The witch trials!"
"Very cool!" I said.
He talked a little more and somehow the conversation lead into whether or not we might have ancestors that lived through the witch trials.
T. asked who our ancestors were. Mr. Schmitty and I grinned at each other.
"Well, there was our American Indian ancestor "Igottataka," I replied.
"And don't forget we had some really tall ancestors, one was nicknamed Big," Mr. Schmitty added.
"Oh, and there was the guy who owned a farm and cleaned up after the animals, they called him Stinky!" I said as I winked at my immature partner in crime.
My children looked baffled. You could see the wheels turning in W.'s head. Finally a small smirk emerged on his lips.
"OH!! I get it!!" And he began to laugh.
T. and R. still looked puzzled.
W. explained, "Get it? Igottataka Schmitt, Big Schmitt, Stinky Schmitt?"
There was laughter all around. But then, as par for the course, we realized we had opened a can of worms.
"Hot Schmitt!" "Little Schmitt!" "Fat Schmitt!" Was being shouted out by W. and each time a new name was exclaimed, T. and R. would pause, think, and then laugh. They must have been repeating it in their heads, but instead of using Schmitt, they were using the "inappropriate" word.
Suddenly, R. climbed up my chair and whispered loudly in my ear. Apparently she wanted to add to our collection of names.
"Mommy, what about the man who worked at the zoo?"
I looked at her waiting for the punchline.
"His name was Elephant Schmitt!"
I almost peed my pants.