A property manager of single-family residence was showing a unit to prospective tenants and asking the usual questions.
“Professionally employed?" he asked.
“We’re a military family," the wife answered.
“Oh, yes, ages nine and twelve," she answered proudly.
“Oh, no," she said earnestly. “They’re very well behaved."
Don’t Be Mad
Late one Saturday evening, I was awakened by the ringing of my phone. In a sleepy grumpy voice I said hello. The party on the other end of the line paused for a moment before rushing breathlessly into a lengthy speech.
"Mom, this is Susan and I'm sorry I woke you up, but I had to call because I'm going to be a little late getting home. See, Dad's car has a flat but it's not my fault. Honest! I don't know what happened. The tire just went flat while we were inside the theater. Please don't be mad, okay?"
Since I don't have any daughters, I knew the person had dialed my number by mistake.
"I'm sorry dear," I replied, "but you've reached the wrong number. I don't have a daughter named Susan."
"Gosh, Mom," the young woman's voice replied, "I didn't think you'd be this mad."
Our four children, always on the go, frequently communicate with each other by leaving notes
around the house telling where they’ve gone, what they’re doing, or whatever.
Recently, we came across the following written exchange between Michael, 18, and Steve, his
12-year-old brother: “Steve–borrowed your hairbrush.
I’ll return it when I get back. If you need one, mine is in Mom’s car (which is why I had to borrow yours). –Mike"
Steve’s response, written on the same note was:
“Mike–It’s not mine. It’s the dog’s. –Steve"
One Out Of Nine Mexican
The doctor gladly started the required procedure and asked them what finally made them make the decision do this. Why after nine children.
The husband replied that they had read in a recent article that one out of every ten children being born in the United States was Mexican, and they didn't want to take a chance on having a Mexican baby because neither of them could speak Spanish.
Tying Up My Shoes
There is an old story about a mother who walks in on her six-year-old son and finds him sobbing. “What’s the matter?" she asks.
“I’ve just figured out how to tie my shoes."
“Well, honey, that’s wonderful. You’re growing up, but why are you crying?"
“Because," he says, “now I’ll have to do it every day for the rest of my life."