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Quotable 2014

I’ve made a real effort these past two weeks to clear off my literal and metaphorical desk so I can begin 2015 fresh. The end of 2014 was busier than most and left me with a disordered house and scattered mind. So in between cooking and cleaning and entertaining and visiting these past two weeks there has also been a spate of filing, recycling, polishing, and arranging. It feels good: When I look around my house, fewer cluttered corners and untended items greet me with a silent rebuke.

Along those lines, and in line with last year, I have a compendium of some of the funnier or odder things Simon said throughout last year that somehow didn’t make it into a post. Hit it!


In which he demonstrates self knowledge:

“My New Year’s resolutions are to keep playing soccer and tennis, finish learning to ride my bike and swim, and eat vegetables.”


In which he demonstrates superior math skills:

Me: “Ulysses S. Grant was born in 1822. It says here that if he were still alive he’d be 188 years old!”

Simon: “That can’t be right, Mommy. They got the math wrong.”

He was right, and he noticed it when I didn’t. The online resource we were reading had not been updated. This was the beginning of Simon’s consistently doing math in his head faster than I do.


In which he demonstrates an overly literal mind:

“Mommy, today in PE Mrs. Ragsdale said that a 5K was three miles. I think she doesn’t know about the .1 part. Should I tell her?”


In which he reveals limits to his soccer devotion:

Me:”Simon, what do you like more, soccer or tennis?”

Simon: “Soccer.”

Me: “Soccer or swimming?”

Simon: “Soccer.”

Me: “Soccer or school?”

Simon: “Soccer.”

Me: “Soccer or candy?”

Simon: “Soccer.”

Me: “Soccer or Caroline?”

Simon: “Caroline. But I don’t want to hurt soccer’s feelings, so don’t say anything.”

I file this one under funny, sweet, and quite possibly true. Which, if you have read this blog over the past year or checked out my Facebook page, you know is saying A LOT.


In which he reveals that small-talk is still a work in progress:

“Hey, Mom, I just realized something cool. Nine plus nine and nine times nine have the same numbers in them, just in a different order. The digits are the same, but the place value is different.”


In which he demonstrates a desire to incorporate new, scientific information into casual speech:

“Don’t move a Planck space!”


In which he demonstrates that we have neglected his Kentucky-specific education:

“Are five fouls like a red card? …. Man, I think that guy is man of the match.”


In which he demonstrates that everything related to soccer, even Foosball, must be analyzed:

“So I’ve got a trick with my two front players. They’ve formed a strike partnership.”


In which he demonstrates the entwined instinct to make boyish fart jokes and also be super polite:

“Oh! That toot was terrible. Curse you, butt! No, wait, butt isn’t a very nice word. Curse you, tushie!”


In which he demonstrates that he has got his father’s number:

“Don’t leave my Easter candy out where Daddy can get it. Papa has a relationship with chocolate.”


In which he demonstrates a habit that won’t make him new friends in high school:

“Today Ms. Thomas asked us what we saw in the night sky. I said I saw a waxing gibbous. She had to give the class a little lecture about that.”


In which the current Dolphie fixation gets started:

Me: “Where’s Dolphie?”

Simon: “Oops, I left him downstairs. I must be the worst parent in the world.”


In which my dear, sweet boy threatens his own mother:

“Simon, sometimes I think we should just get rid of TV.”

“That’s not a good idea unless you want to buy a new dining room table after, like, three days.”


In which he demonstrates that he knows on which side his bread is buttered:

“Ask Mama. Mama knows everything. Mama is in charge of this house.”


In which self-interest wins out over doing things the right way and cheering the underdog:

“I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going to play for Southampton; I’m going to Atletico Madrid. I want a shot at Champions League.”


In which he is obnoxiously self-aware and just plain obnoxious on the tennis court:

“I think it’s time for me to haul out my spins. It’s pretty hard to beat me at the net. Now I’m just being obnoxious.”


In which he does not make a new friend at school:

“J— is disgusting even for a boy.”


In which he hilariously insults his own pet:

Me: “Wow, that Sammy (relative’s cat we are taking care of) is a one-in-a-million cat.”

Simon: “What’s Cambria? About a one-in-ten cat?”


In which he further explores figurative language:

“Mama, I’m really hungry. My stomach feels like an empty river.”


In which he demonstrates that that word does not mean what he thinks it means:

“Today we had to write down on a little piece of paper whether we liked our name or not. I wrote ‘no’. I wish my name were more exciting—something like ‘Jacob’.”


In which he continues a family trend of overly investing emotionally with food:

“Graeter’s has never disappointed me. Their shakes have never disappointed me, their ice cream has never disappointed me . . .”


In which an attempt at figurative language gets disturbing:

“For a while today when I was playing tennis I couldn’t feel my feet. It was like I was sleeping . . . in heaven.”


In which he discovers the limits of gender-typing:

Me: “What do you think Simon? When you are a grown-up do you want a son, a daughter, or both?”

Simon: “I think boys are easier. With girls, the shopping is harder. You’ve got the clothes, the make-up, the hair stuff, the Barbies, the girl-of-the-year dolls. Boys are simpler; they just like Legos. Well, most boys anyway . . . ”


In which he demonstrates athletic drive foreign to both his parents:

“My legs kind of hurt at the 2.5 mile mark, but I wanted a trophy and pushed through.”


In which he again demonstrates an overly literal mind:

“Tomorrow I’m going to be 7 and 364 365ths.”


In which he demonstrates a deep truth that will serve him well as an adult:

Simon: “How do you do this!” [He’s struggling to put on tights that are part of his Halloween costume.]

Me: “When putting on tights, you have to roll them up just a few inches at a time. It takes a while.”

Simon: “Wow, it’s hard being a girl.”


In which he reveals the stuff that little kid fantasies are made of:

Matt: “So Simon, how did it feel out there [at the soccer tournament] playing on a lighted pitch?”

Simon: “Honestly, it made me feel like a hot-shot.”


In which he reveals a resistance to parental insistence that he will go to college and prepare for a long-standing career:

“After I retire from being a professional soccer player, you know, when I have a few million dollars, do I have to find another job or can I just hang out?”


In which he reveals the sometimes odd juxtaposition of being (partly) Jewish in a mostly gentile country:

“I want to wear my Rosh Hashanah outfit to The Nutcracker—only without the kippah.”

That’s all folks! Now I’m ready to start afresh with whatever 2015 brings our little family.


One Response to “Quotable 2014”

  1. goldsteinrita says:

    I am ashamed to admit that I did not know the meaning of “waxing gibbous”, but I do now. Thank you Simon. You are an education in so many ways.

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