Take a knee, I have nonsense to spew.
The following conversation occurred while my children were brushing their teeth before bedtime.
Boy: “Moooooooom!! Megan just spit on my head!”
Mom: “What the heck?!”
Boy: “She spit out her toothpaste on my head!”
Girl: “He leaned-ed his head under me!”
Mom: “Aw jeez, guys! Hang on, buddy. I’ll come clean you up.”
Girl: “Hey Mom?”
Mom: “Yeah?”
Girl: “Ben told me he peed in the sink one time.”
Boy: “Yeah, I did.”
Mom: “Ben, I think the word you are looking for here is, ‘touché'”.
Bedtime with Ben.
Ben: “I am going to sleep with Duckie on my chest tonight. He needs me to protect him because sometimes he gets afraid of monsters.”
Mom: “Oh! Well that is very sweet of you to protect him.”
Ben: “There’s no real monsters though, right?”
Mom: “Right. There’s no such thing as monsters.”
Ben: “They’re just stories.”
Mom: “That’s right.”
Ben: “Stories from your eyeballs.”
Mom: “Hm?”
Ben: “Like at night, you close your eyes, and there are stories on your eyeballs.”
Mom: “OH MY GOD THAT IS THE SWEETEST THING I HAVE EVER HEARD ANYBODY SAY EVER.”
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MY WEEKLY ROUND UP!
The Politicus: Supreme Court tells non-white Arizonans to sleep with one eye open
Reckless Video: Read my review of The Artist!
Imperfect Parent: Did you know that every time you click on one of my articles at Minor Topics, an angel gets its wings? And I make about 1/8 of a penny? But, you know, do it for the angels.
(The car is silent. We are driving to school.)
Meg: “Mom?”
Mom: “Yes, Meg?”
Meg: “Do bunny rabbits have brains?”
Mom: ……….”You know Meg, I was just asking myself the same question. The answer is yes. Bunnies have brains.”
Meg: “Are their brains in their ears?”
Mom: “Did you say ‘are their brains in their ears?'”
Meg: “Yeah.”
Mom: “Just checking. No, honey, their brains are not in their ears. Their brains are in their heads, and they are for thinking. Their ears are on the top of their heads, and they are for hearing.”
Meg: “What’s ‘thinking’?”
Mom: “Oy. Uh……….thinking is what your brain does. And hearing is what your ears do.”
Meg: “Oh. Daddy must have a really big brain!”
Mom: “Are you saying that because of his big ol’ head?”
Meg: “Yeah.”
Mom: “Right on.”
Here is why I take my kids to the playground:
They are outside, the jungle gym is there waiting for them, and I do NOTHING. Also, you get more cosmic parenting points when you take kids outside to play than when you put on a movie and sit them in front of the TV. Speaking of which, guess how many points I am earning this afternoon? Negative 400. It’s called BALANCE, people.
And this is NOT a reason why I take them to the playground:
Holy shit, kids. Are you kidding me? I get you to the playground where they are swings and slides and towers and bridges, set you loose, and you want ME to come and pretend to be the dragon?! Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. Nuh-uh. Really. Don’t make me be the asshole mom who has to tell her kids that she doesn’t want to play with them while all the other moms are watching. Then I have to be all, “Oh sweetie, mommy is so tired after the four hours of ponies and dragons that we have ALREADY played today! And then when we get home I have that craft project waiting for us where we make our own pot holders out of things we scavenged from the landfill! So mommy is going to take a little break right now. Ok?” All lies. Or I am honest and say, “Guys, please. I am so freaking tired. Let me have a goddamn break?!” And then the other moms give each other the side eye and go back to their potato sack races or whatever the heck they are doing to participate in their children’s lives.
I just want to sit down in the shade and read the third installment of “Fifty Shades of Grey” on my phone. Because I am the kind of mother that reads about sexual beatings at the playground. So please, go bond with your sibling while mommy learns about anal beads.
Bitch, please.
Bitch, PLEASE.
YES, bitches.
HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY EVERYONE!!!
Meg: “Ben! Let’s go in the changing room!” (the changing room is the space behind the chair in the living room, by the way)
Mom: “No. No more changing room. Enough.”
Meg: “But why?”
Mom: “Megan, I love your butt. You have an adorable butt. But I don’t want to see it all day long.”
Meg; “But I’m just going into the changing room.”
Mom: “Yes. To pull out your butt. I am well aware of what your plans are.”
Ben: “Megan, are you going to pull your butt out?”
Meg: “……………….you’ll see.”
Mom: “Oh for pete’s sake.”
Meg: I want to be a superhero!
Ben: Me too!
Mom: Hurray! Now what?
Meg: Oh no! I got hit by a train!
Mom: Come again?
Ben: Oh no! Who should we call?!
Mom: I’d probably call a doctor. And quick.
Meg: No! Not a doctor. A superhero!
Ben: Yeah!
Mom: Woah. Are you telling me that if you got hit by a train you would call a superhero before you’d call a doctor?
Meg: But what about a superhero doctor?
Mom: Now you’re talking.
Bring me my stethoscope. Stat.
When I was growing up, one of the things that always irritated me about my mom was The Scream. If you accidentally poked her with your little finger, she would yell like you had put a hot poker to her. If you sat on her lap and moved in a way that made her uncomfortable, she would screech. I always thought it was ridiculous, and could not understand why she overdid it so much. As with so many things from my childhood, now that I am a parent I totally get it. Mom, I apologize. AGAIN.
See, my kids hurt me a lot. Poking, kicking, jumping into my lap but somehow leading with elbows and heels, etc. All accidental, but all frequent. And guess what? When they get me, I scream. LOUDLY. I was right about my moms’ screams — it isn’t about how much it actually hurts. The Scream is about being pissed off. It’s about being sick and tired of having someone kick you in the face when you are 34 years old and all you are doing is trying to buckle a seat belt. The Scream says, “What the fuck, man?! I’m not a brawler! I’m not in a cage match! Why am I getting injured every single day?!!”
I had no idea that there would be so much physical pain involved in parenting once you got past the birth. And I am not one who is used to that kind of thing. I have two sisters that I scrapped with from time to time when we were young, but as vicious as we may have gotten — and we got pretty vicious (anyone who has sisters knows what I mean) — we never hauled off and punched each other in the face. We never did pile drives off the couch. We pooped on each others’ floors and smeared toothpaste on each other’s faces. Because we’re LADIES, that’s why.
So when I am playing with my kids and all of a sudden I get smacked across the face, I’m like, “The hell, dude?!! Uh-uh, man. Play time is OVAH.”
I just........wanted to give them........a bath.........
Mom: Hey guys! See that bike shop over there? Look at all those bikes!
Meg: Do they have three wheels? Like our bikes?
Mom: No, those have two wheels. You know how Mommy and Daddy’s bikes have two wheels? Well, one day you will learn how to ride a bike with just two wheels, too!
Meg: Why does it not fall over?
Mom: Balance, honey! You have to use your balance to keep the bike up.
Ben: You know what you need to keep a bike with two wheels from falling over?
Mom: Balance?
Ben: No. Two more little wheels.
Mom: Huh.
Ben: Yeah. You buy them in the store.
Mom: Oh.
Ben: And then you attach them.
Mom: Mm.
Ben: And then you won’t fall over.
Mom: I got it, Lance Armstrong.
It's a present from my son!
I had to bring the hammer down on my son the other day. It involved a parking lot, running, and mommy’s screams. I stood in front of him with one hand on my hip, the other hand pointing my finger and scolding hard. When I stopped, I said, “Do you understand me?”
He looked up at me and said, “Mom? You look like a teapot.”
Ok. You win this round, small boy. Sadly for you, I buy your clothes. I’d look for this little number in a closet near you:
Aye aye, Captain! This DOES come in a 4T!
************By the way, I have an essay up at Errant Parent! Remember my post on threats? It is there in all its glory. Waiting to be read, and shared, and re-read, and then ignored forever.
Meg: “Mommy, how many years are you?”
Mom: “I am 34 years old.”
Ben: “Oh my god.”
Meg: “WOW! That is a lot of years! How old is Daddy?”
Mom: “He’s 36…….I think?”
Meg: “That is an enormous number! That is like a huge enormous MONSTER!”
Mom: “Anything else you care to add, dear? Because your Dad and I have to get back to the home. It’s applesauce night.”
Pile of Babies 