My mom even thinks they're weird

What does it say about my children that my own mother calls them weird?

We were hanging out at her house yesterday, doing some chores for her and visiting. My mom was quiet, which is unusual for her. I watched her for a while and realized she was just watching the kids. The girls have recently learned the chicken dance, and they do it often. Their version of it is a little different from what you may know as the chicken dance. What they do is much more like the way real chickens would dance, if they were inclined to do so. There is no order to it. They tuck their hands up in their armpits, then do this combination of jumping and running all over the room. They do, however, have the most annoying part of the whole thing down pat - the song. They know every note of it, and they sing it loudly while they do their crazy flapping thing.

It's my own fault that they know the song. I bought Molly this stupid dancing chicken at Easter, and it's been played until the batteries died. Someone replaced them, instantly putting him at the very top of my list. He spends a lot of time at the top of The List. I still haven't forgiven you for it, honey.

The girls chicken danced for pretty darn near an hour without stopping, then they lined up directly in front of my mother and launched into a rousing chorus of "It's a Small World." I let them have at it. It's not fair that I'm the only one who is subjected - I mean treated - to this kind of entertainment daily, so I let them sing for her. They sang for a long time. When mom's eyes started to cross, I sent them to find something else to do.

When the girls left the room to find something to destroy, we noticed Bryan. He was laying on the couch with his head hanging over the side, iPod headphones firmly in place, bobbing his head back and forth. He plays his music loud, like a good teenager. It was loud enough that when the song ended and a new one began, we clearly heard it switch. Two seconds into the next song, his eyes popped open and he jumped off the couch like something bit him in the butt. He yelled like I wasn't sitting directly in front of him, 6 feet away. "MOOOOOMMMM!"

He stood in front of me, mouth working like a codfish, which reminded me of Mary Poppins. Close your mouth, Michael, you are not a codfish. When he finally found the ability to form words, a torrent flew forth from his mouth.

"Moooommmmm, I can not believe you put this song in my iTunes! I hate the Little Mermaid! I don't want to be a part of her world! I am so going to kill you! WHY would you do that, and WHY didn't you tell me? If my friends see this song on my iPod I will never live it down! Grrrrrrrrrrrr!"

Oops. I can see how that might be a little embarrassing for him. In spite of the fact that he was obviously traumatized, I couldn't help but sing the song.

"Look at this stuff..."

"Mom, no."

"Isn't it neat?"

"Oh, mom. Really?"

"Wouldn't you think my collection's complete?"

"Mom, I swear, if you do that in front of my friends on Tuesday I'll die."

"Wouldn't you think I'm a girl, girl who has everyyyythinggggg...."

He left the room, grumbling under his breath, wondering if it was possible to actually die from embarrassment. Mission accomplished.

Because I'm easily distracted (oooh, shiny!), I didn't notice that the girls never came back in the room. I called them, wondering what they found to do that entertained them for a full ten minutes. They came running, and I found out. Toilet paper. They were playing with toilet paper. Abby was wearing a long TP scarf, flipping it over her shoulder with the skill of a madam. Molly decorated herself a little differently with her TP. She had two footlong lengths of it, each twisted tightly at one end, stuffed firmly up each nostril and trailing out of her nose. It was like the worst possible case of nose hair gone wrong. She stood in front of me, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

I looked at my mom. She was shaking her head, a look of amazement on her face. "Your kids are SO weird."

Yeah, they are, and I love them for it. I can't imagine where they get that from. ;-)