More Everyday Jokes for Kids

Some of these are funnier than others. You have to remember that I have a wide range of kids to give jokes to - from elementary age through high schoolers. So there has to be something for everyone.

How does a scientist freshen her breath?
With experi-mints!

What do you do if you see a spaceman?
You park your car, man.

Where do sheep go to get a haircut?
To the baa-baa shop.

Which dinosaur had the best vocabulary?
The Thesaurus

Where do typists go for a drink?
To the space bar.

When does a joke become a "dad joke"?
When the punchline is apparent.

What award did the dentist receive?
A little plaque.

What are the strongest days of the week?
Saturday and Sunday - the rest are weekdays.

Did you hear about the kidnapping in the park?
He woke up.

What do lawyers wear to court?
Lawsuits.

How does a train eat?
It goes: chew, chew.

How much does it cost a pirate to get his ears pierced?
A buck an ear.

What shoes does a ninja wear?
Sneakers.

What did the mama cow say to the baby cow?
It's pasture bedtime.

Where do rabbits go after they get married?
On a bunnymoon.

Which letters are not in the alphabet?
The ones in the mail.

What's the hardest part of throwing a space party?
You have to planet.

What did the banana say to the dog?
Nothing. Bananas can't talk.

How do you stop an astronaut's baby from crying?
You rocket.

Why is the word "dark" spelled with a 'K' and not a 'C'?
Because you can't see in the dark.

Why are chemists bad at telling jokes?
They lack the element of surprise.

Why is it hard to come up with a chemistry joke?
All the good ones argon.

Why did the octopus beat the shark in a fight?
It was well armed.

What happened to the cow that jumped over the barbed wire fence?
Udder destruction.

How do you make a lemon drop?
Just let it fall.

What do you call a snail on a ship?
A snailer.

What do you do with a sick chemist?
If you can't curium and you can't helium, you may as well barium.

What did the cell say to his sister that stepped on his toe?
Mitosis

Why can't you hear a pterodactyl in the bathroom?
The p is silent.

What do you call a dog magician?
A labracadabrador.

What do you get when you cross a rabbit with a frog?
A bunny ribbit.

When do doctors get mad?
When they run out of patients.

What do you get when you cross a cocker spaniel, a poodle and a rooster?
A Cockerpoodledoo!

What do you call a bee born in May?
A May bee

What do you call an elephant who doesn't matter?
Irrelephant.

How much money does a skunk have?
One scent.

What do you call a fear of giants?
Feefifobia

How do dinosaurs pay for things?
Tyrannosaurus checks.

How do mountains see?
They peak.

What do you call a pile of cats?
A meowtain.

Abiding Love

It was 26 years and 18 days ago
that we got married.
But if you go back a bit further than that,
to a dance in the summer of 1991,
that is where it all started.

When he asked me to join him out on the floor
I remember wondering why someone
who looked like him
wanted to dance with someone
who looked like me.
But I didn't argue.
I remember noticing the way that his arms,
tan and muscled,
contrasted with his shirt.
I remember noticing how he smiled when he spoke,
how that smile made me feel happy and warm
and weak in the knees.
And how when the song ended
I wanted to come up with something to say
to make him stay there
with me
just a little bit longer.

Then yesterday,
somewhere less than 27 years from the day that we met,
as he stood in front of a room and spoke from his heart,
I noticed that his strong hands,
calloused from years of hard work,
evidence of love for his family and his neighbors,
contrasted with his suit and tie.
I noticed that his hair now holds streaks of silver
but his eyes still shine
when he speaks of things
that he holds in his heart.
When he was finished talking,
he sat next to me
and looked at me
and smiled.
And that smile made me feel happy and warm
and weak in the knees.

I have known him close to 7 years longer
than I haven't.
And I'm not sure why,
but I think that 26 years and 18 days
is my favorite anniversary so far.

Today's Random Thoughts

Hey, y'all. This feels like me this summer, this moment right now. I came into my room to eat lunch, consisting of sour cream with salsa and a big bag o' chips. My room, because that is where my books are.

My lunch.

These are the disappointed looks on my children's faces when I told them that I was not taking them to the Rec Center today. The weeping and wailing was consistent. I told them it wasn't helping their cause and it crescendoed. So I ignored them and tried to read my book.

"I hate you."

"You are the worst mom, ever!"

I am trying to teach my kids that they don't get to have everything they want, when they want it. I am sad to report that this is hard, but only because I have made it so. I have tried so hard to give my kids everything I didn't have at their age and now it is expected. It is a problem I have created and one that is not easy to reverse, but I am trying. 

This book is transformative, actually. It makes me want to get back to being authentically me. The me who loves dance-walking and has incredible ideas on how to incorporate ASL into it. The me who loves to be crazy and make others laugh. The me that is, at heart, happiest in a pair of jeans and a pair of Converse and a funny t-shirt. The me that hates make-up and loves my hair long and wild and free.

The me that wants daily dance parties and frequent trips to thrift stores and farmer's markets. The me who loves to make others feel loved and happy.

The me that wants my kids to love me, and instinctively knows they don't really hate me or think I'm the worst mom in the world. 

I used to love to run. Then I thought I hated to run. But I just figured out, this summer, how to love it again. (Hint: I was trying too hard and starting too fast.) I started off with a 13 minute mile a few weeks ago and today I pushed myself on 2 miles and averaged a 9 and a half minute mile. So I'm feeling pretty good about that.

We haven't planned any family trips this summer outside of the usual reunions, so I need to work on that. I would love another backpacking trip like the one we did last year in Oregon. Maybe...

Happy Anniversary-Birthday-Father's Day

Today after church I was thinking about my parents. Probably partly because it was Father's Day and partly because it would have been my mom's 70th birthday yesterday and partly because it would have been their 47th anniversary last Thursday. But mostly just because I miss them both.

I went outside for a few minutes to pick strawberries from our garden. Partly because I love strawberries and partly because I love being in the garden. But mostly because when I'm in the garden I can think.

As I was picking strawberries I was actually trying to think about nothing. Because sometimes that's the easiest thing to think of when I'm feeling sad. I remember at one point thinking, it's a lot hotter out here than I thought. And then the sky started to sprinkle. It was barely even noticeable at first, but over the course of a couple of minutes the rain turned to fat drops and continued to fall for a minute or so before stopping. I set my strawberries down and with my face turned toward the sky and arms outstretched I enjoyed the feeling of the rain falling over me for just a minute. It felt like a gift.

Then, almost as soon as it started, it was over. Just a quick little gift from above. I'm not sure what people get to do in the life after this one, but I imagined my parents watching over me, knowing I was sad, and trying to let me know they were there. Maybe my mom was watering her gladiolas and sunflowers and, for just a minute, sprinkled her watering can over my house. I like to imagine that my dad turned on a hose, stuck his thumb over the nozzle, and sprinkled down his own raindrops. Then dad got that mischievous twinkle in his eye as he pointed the hose at mom, and laughed as she emptied her watering can onto him, causing big, fat drops to fall. 

I create these kinds of stories about my parents in my mind sometimes. Partly because I miss them so much and partly because I like to imagine what they may be doing now that they are together again. But mostly because I know that they are happy and that they want me to be happy, too.

Crying Over Spilt Milk

"Your cancer is back, and it has metastasized", the doctor tells my mom. "We can no longer cure it, but we can treat it and try to slow its growth."

Is there a time frame?

"Up to six months without chemo, 12 to 18 months with chemo."

I take her for a pedicure and massage.

She tries chemo. And she's on oxygen 24/7.

Her stomach bloats and hurts, her neck and face swell, she can't taste food anymore. She doesn't want to eat. She doesn't want to leave her chair. She's too tired. She doesn't feel well. she doesn't feel right.

I take her to the hospital.

They treat her the best they can for a couple of days, then send her home. The oncologist says that she won't make it if she gets that sick again.

She decides that she doesn't want to live her life like this and, after one chemo treatment, decides to stop. We all support this decision. Quality over quantity.

And so we wait.   

Her tumor markers go up, despite the one treatment. Her hair falls out, despite only one treatment.

We go shopping for hats.

"You should be tested for genetic cancer since there's a history of it in your family. Let's get you in to see a counselor," her oncologist suggests. We visit the counselor. We fill in charts of family history and she gives the doctors her saliva, her blood, to be tested.

The results are taking so long to get here.

Her arms and hands and legs swell. She gets cellulitis. They find blood clots in her arm. She is coughing a lot more and sometimes struggles to breathe. She hates wearing the oxygen tubes and carting it everywhere, so she stops using it.

And through all of this, I am able to push back emotion. Every time. There will be a time to cry, I tell myself. But it's not now.

After breakfast this morning I was clearing the table and before I knew what was happening I was juggling cereal bowls, trying not to drop them. I didn't even see it coming. There was some leftover milk in my son's bowl which splattered all over the carpet. Not just in one nice, puddled spot, but in a huge arc of white as I fumbled with the bowl, trying to keep it all inside.

Look at this mess, I thought. And then the tears came.

And I thought it somewhat odd that I found myself weeping over the one thing that we're told not to cry over.