Delicious Goldbitches

Legos don’t top my list for my true mortal nemesis in life, even though right now I’m sporting a pretty fabulous bruise on the bottom of my foot from the last time one of those fuckers attacked me. It’s not even crayons being ground into my vintage kitchen table and dropped all over the floor, or the things with wheels that I swear are threatening my life because they know one wrong move and I’m going for a ride.

snacksThe thing in this house that bothers me the most is snack time. I love snacks. That’s the problem. I love them and I want to inhale them and I swear I get so hungry around snack time that I’m eating like this finger food is covered in crack. If I’m munching, I don’t want to stop munching. Finger foods, man. They’re so mean, being all small and bite sized and making you think that you could eat an entire box of them and it wouldn’t be a bad thing. It’s not like I ate an entire sleeve of crackers or a box of Double Stuft Oreos! It’s not like I’m eating UNHEALTHY things, so why can’t I have just a little bit more?

What?? That’s logical!!

Or.. it was logical, until I ate so many I wasn’t hungry for dinner HOURS later.

Hello, my name is Jenny, and I am addicted to snack time.

I suppose I could be ashamed about this addiction… but it could definitely be worse. Loving snack time means having all kinds of assorted snack-ish things in the house. Though I have to admit those things aren’t just me, we always have a large assortment for Picky Parker, who loves something one day and think it tastes like rectal vomit the next.

Snack crackers, pretzel type thingamajigs, cereals, granola-ish type crap, fruit, dried fruit- there’s a lot going on in our pantry, but ONE snack, no matter the day or what kind of buttholish mood he is in, Parker loves no matter what. He also loves to express that love loudly. Unfortunately, I did not know that was what he was talking about the first few days he was proclaiming his life long dedication to his snack of choice.

It was last week and we had just arrived home from a stock-up trip to Costco. We had all basically filled ourselves beyond capacity with their delicious samples, so the last thing I expected was a request for any kind of food. No way. We even joked that we were SO full of sample-age that we may not even eat dinner that evening.  That was the moment Parker came sauntering into the kitchen.

“I LOVE gold bitches!” he announces proudly.

Look, I have a pervy mind. I can turn nearly everything into a pervy joke. I often say that if it wasn’t for the gutter, my mind would be homeless- so obviously when I heard my sweet little 3 year old say gold… WHAT’S? Bitches? Gold Bitches? Yeah, I did a double take.

“Gold bitches are deeee-licious!”

Okay, no…. really… did he just say what I think he said? What the flying fart is a gold bitch? Was he the owner of Studio 54 in a past life? Did I accidentally put “Austin Powers: Goldmember” on the TV? I have been known to space off long enough for the program to change.

What? I’m supposed to pay attention the mind-numbing kiddie bullshit they watch? I only have so much patience rationed for each day. That would deplete an entire month’s supply! Don’t you put that evil on me!

“Did you just say…. What did you just say?”

“Gold bitch!”– He seemed so sure of himself

“Gold bitch?”


I couldn’t help it. I laughed. A lot. At the same time, I was incredibly thankful we weren’t in public during this situation. A child insisting on having gold painted bitches in his mouth? Not really appropriate for a 3 year old.
He went stomping out of the room, I assumed to plot my demise or to come back with some sort of shank fashioned out of a toothbrush, but instead he appeared back in the room again just a few short minutes later with a giant box of Goldfish crackers.


“GOLDBITCH!!!!” he yells, holding the box out.

Whoops! I mean, I love Goldbitch… I mean… GoldFISH as much as the next person, but I’ll never be able to look at them the same way again!

Mispronunciations. They are, for lack of a better term, a BITCH! This isn’t nearly the worst that has ever occurred- but it reminded me of just how often it does. Not just to me, but to pretty much every other parent on the planet at some point or another- and it’s nice to know I’m not alone, or the only parent who has a child in love with Go Go Dancers.

I want to hear YOUR stories. The most awkward mispronunciations and mishearings of little kid language you have ever experienced! It’s about time for another reader submissions blog. Send me YOUR stories, either via message to my Facebook Page, or via email to holdinholden AT yahoo DOT com. Give me your worst! It can be anonymous, or you can send it to me with your own blog or website. Please keep in mind that I get so many submissions I cannot use them all, but I’ll try to fit as many as possible.

I can’t wait to read about your Gold Bitch like fiasco!

Posted on September 20, 2013 by Holdin' Holden 7 Comments
Holdin' Holden

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  • Owl drink to that September 20, 2013 at 9:50 pm

    My son’s best, worst moment happened while we were potty training. It was one of our first trips out of the house with underpants on. No, pull-up. No back up change of clothes in a diaper bag in tow. I was brave. I was stupid. I refer to him, my son, as Velociraptor. Well. He and I were shopping at JCPenneys when he was about 3.5 years old. We were in ladies intimates department. You know how children like to play in the damn merchandise racks, well Velociraptor is no different. He’s peeking in and out of the displays of bras and panties. I’m getting more and more annoyed. It doesn’t help it’s hotter than the depths of Hell in JCPenneys and I am not finding what I’m looking for. I realizeVelociraptor has become incredibly quiet. And hidden. He has sunk in along a wall of nightgowns. He’s holding very still. A very concerned look on his face. In that instant I knew. He was shitting his pants. Granted, I had asked him 104 times if he needed to go potty. Nope. Nope. nope. Now he’s loading his pants in the lower level at the mall. At first, he refuses to walk. He doesn’t like the feeling of wet warm shit in his underwear. No kidding. I discard my purchases to find the closest restroom. I herd us into a sardine can size stall and I try to disrobe his bottom half. It was everywhere and impossible to maneuver in the stall. Not to mention the ghost toilet paper that turns into confetti in your hand as you unroll it. I was getting nowhere fast. Except now I was sweating, frustrated and had a shit covered, crying 3.5 year old. I get the underwear off and throw them in the trash. I pull the pants back up. And we bolt. I have wipes in the car, we simply must get there. We only parked at the other end of the mall, by the food court. And since he still is squishy between the cheeks, he’s walking like he has a suit of armour on. Stiff legged and slow as molasses. I say “hurry up, let’s GO…walk” 50 times. We walk past the little train ride for kids. He starts with “but mom! I want to ride the train!!!” I respond with “kids that shit their pants don’t ride the train” and got an interesting scowl from the retired conductor. Be glad, Mr. Be glad. Finally, we get back to the car. I open the lift gate and he crawls into the back of the car. Of course it’s busy and someone stops to take my parking spot by turning their blinker on. Really!?! I wave them past, as I strip the bottoms from Velociraptor. Now the poo has started drying. As people begin walking behind our car to the mall entrance, he begins screaming “my skin! My skin! You’re ripping my skin off! Someone get a bandaid! Please help! Help! We are going to need a lot of band aids!” We are both crying hysterically and I’m on the edge of an anxiety attack. As a passerby glanced at the pile of shit covered baby wipes on my bumper, they quickly picked up the pace. And I didn’t blame them one bit.

    I can laugh about it now. But that was a bad day. Probably one of my worst days as a mom. We didn’t leave home in just undies after that. Or at least for a couple more months until he was potty trained better. He still plays in the display racks but I no longer fear seeing the frozen, wide stanced, I’m pooping stare. Whew. Relief.

    Check out my Facebook page. “Owl drink to That”
    Days like this one at JCPenneys, are the reason I drink. 🙂

  • My son is 2 and everything he says is LOUD. Right now he is obsessed with the giant construction vehicles all over our town. Every time we see one he screams “Digger! Digger!” Which, coming from a 2 year old has the very unfortunate resemblance to a very nasty racial slur. I’ve gotten many horrified looks from passersby when we go for a walk and I have to explain he’s not a tiny racist, just happy to see the big backhoe.

  • When my (now 18 year old) daughter was less than two, she had several mispronunciations in her vocab. Bim-bim’s, packpack, and fridgilater. (M&M’s, backpack, refrigerator)
    The only one that made sense and is still used by everyone is “fridgilater”. Why? Well, you put things in the “fridge” for “later”.
    My 2 younger brothers would often want to “sonofabitch”.
    We had three chairs around our dining table and one bench. I will let you figure that one. 😉

  • Ha! What is it with kids and Goldfish?

    I prefer CheezIts myself…

    That’s just about the funniest thing ever though.
    Love it!

  • My 2yr old, Chloe, likes to tell the dogs when and where to sit. Except is sounds more like like the four letter word to tell the dogs to poo. “Sit dogs, SIT SIT! ” She doesn’t like it when they don’t sit either.

  • My youngest when he was about two or so, was in the car with my husband who had made a CD of music for the car ride. We had just picked him up from his mom’s for a weekend visitation. When the song “In The Navy” came on things were going well, he was in his car seat singing along and when the chorus came on instead of singing “in the navy” it came out: “I’m the baby” to which we still laugh about it. Our oldest and his cousin when they were 5 and 3 respectively were our with my sister and myself. My nephew had received a “Woody” (from toy story) doll for Christmas which he took EVERYWHERE. We left it in the car, and in the restaurant he blurts out “Mommy I can’t find my woody”, needless to say my sister and I bust out laughing while everyone else around us look at us like we are on crack.

  • When my niece was around 4 she was in the hospital, and my mother use to do what they called chair dancing my mother would sit in a chair and they would dance. So just as one of the nurses walked in to the room my mom and niece were “chair dancing’ my niece says to my mother ” Dick me granny ! Dick me ! ” so the nurse just looks at my mother and she breaks into this laugh chest grabbing laugh.