A naked three-year-old hurtles himself into the room.
Evan: I’m a chocolate dinosaur! ROAR!
The problem is we’re white, northern Europe white. I’m a shade away from being an albino, and I don’t tan. I become a darker shade of white, and Evan, he’s got my coloring.
Me: Only if you’re a white chocolate dinosaur.
I wanted Evan to pick out a color for an art project, and zombie Evan was watching a cartoon that was sucking out his brain, sip by sip. (Ok, it wasn’t THAT bad; it was Go, Diego, Go. And when did we start watching it so much?)
Me: Evan, what color do you want? Red, blue, or yellow? (no response) Evan? (no response) Evan. (I moved straight in front of the TV.) Evan. What color do you want?
Evan: Mommy, GET OUT OF THE WAY!
Me: Excuse me?
Evan: Mommy, get out of the way! I’m watching TV!
Not anymore. Click.
Me: You’re not going to watch TV until you are nice and polite.
Evan: (Stomping out of the family room, up the steps) I’m going to my room! (Just so we’re clear; Evan has to go to his room to deal with any temper tantrums) (Evan stopped outside of the family room and turned around) I’m sorry, Mommy, for yelling and saying get out of my way. (He came back to give me a hug and kiss.)
Me: I know. You were just upset.
Evan: Now. Get out of my way!
I think we have a failure in communication.
(Faemom peeks around the door, takes a deep breath, and runs to the key board to begin typing.)
Ok, I have to do this post seriously and this is like my thirtieth try. Do you remember yesterday’s post, Hey is that a soap box?: Sugar Babies and Daddies? Well, it turns out my husband read it too (and apparently he’s been reading my posts this week). He read yesterday’s post and took away the valuable lesson that his wife is willing to divorce him at the drop of a hat. ————————- (See THAT! That was an edited joke. *sigh* This is so hard. Comedy is in my blood. Ok, deep breath.)
Well, I’m not. ———————– *take a deep breath* I pointed out that if he decided he wanted ————- a mistress that he was welcome to her as soon as we signed the papers, and damn straight, he was going to pay through the nose for the privilege.
My husband would like to reassure my readers that he has no interest in finding some one else because ————— – he loves me. (anditstooexpensive) He loves the boys. He loves our family. He loves our home. ———————– He would never endanger that for some gold digger. I believe him. I also mentioned that he could always go on the blog and defend himself, like ck’s husband. But he just threatened starting his own blog, and the scary part is he does internet marketing.
Ok. Now I have to write something funny and email the full transcript to my best friend because I need to share with SOMEONE my comedic genius.
Evan: Mommy, can I watch Backyardigans for a second?
Me: Yes.
(five minutes later)
Me: Evan, I need you to set the table.
Evan: Not right now, Mommy. I’m watching Backyardigans. Shh. I’ll do it in a little while.
Oh, really?
Are you kidding me?
Did any one watch Good Morning America and the sugar daddies? I wanted to write on their board, but I had just too much to say and I get a little PG-13 when I note the difference between sex and love making.
First off, we women need to make a pact. If he’s married, we’re not interested. Women are too competitive with each other, too leery of each other, to worry about some chick is going to take our man, even if we don’t want him. Now if my husband found a cute little thing that makes him happy. Fine. Give me the divorce, half your stuff, and the kids and go have a nice life. Spend as much money on her as you want, but don’t you dare think you can get away spending the family money to buy access to some nineteen-year-old’s twin bed.
Second, let’s be honest, little sugar babies. You’re whores. You are. If you want a guy “to take care of you” and you fuck him (yes, fuck because it ain’t love making) to thank him or because you feel obligated, then you are a prostitute. Now don’t feel too bad. I know lots of girls who felt obligated to fuck a guy because he bought them a nice dinner or gave them something. Granted, I was taught just to pay for the next meal, but I can see where you might get confused. The difference between sugar babies and the ordinary girl is the ordinary girl isn’t looking for a guy “to take care of her.” And if this is the road you girls choose, diamonds aren’t your best friends. They don’t resell as well as you think. Take a cue from your foremothers; the best courtesans received property and houses deeded to them.
Third, any woman, who had a good dad, would never ever call a guy a “Daddy” or a “Sugar Daddy.” It turns my stomach just to think of it as I remember all the times I called my Dad, Daddy before I was cool enough and old enough to shorten it. Once my husband joked about it after I had left my job to raise Evan. The moment the word “daddy” left his mouth, his face contorted, and he said that it was a poor joke and one never to be mentioned again. I looked over at the baby who would one day call my husband Daddy and quickly agreed with him.
Fourth, you girls who fuck as a thank you, you sugar babies, you all are making the rest of us look bad. Most of us can’t be bought, not for a lobster dinner, not for a diamond ring, not for a vacation to the Bahamas. But this will perpetuate the myth that all a girl wants is a guy’s wallet, and really, some guys aren’t even worth that.
And I promise I will make sure my boys aren’t the fools, who pay for love, that they aren’t the idiots who believe they can have it both ways, that aren’t the jerks who take advantage of the situation because that’s one of the many jobs of a mom, to raise the good guys.
To My Husband: You might not want to read this post as it includes to things you complain about from my blog: you and penises. I’m sorry you make an easy mark (and I mean that in the nicest way; you’re easy to set up and we love you for it.); it’s one of the reasons my father didn’t kill you when he learned how much older you were than me. You know my family; we’re jokesters. As for the penises, I did well enough the other day without mentioning them, so this isn’t about ratings. By the way, I’m not slowly turning my blog into a hard porn blog; people would noticed. (Brownie points for those who got that last allusion. J )
***
My husband: (Walking back into the family room from using the restroom) Fae? Have you noticed Sean following me into the bathroom lately? (Sean toddles into the room.)
Me: Why, actually, I have. (I pick up Sean who has run to me.) Evan, get out of the almonds. If you want a snack, you have to ask. No almonds. Mommy needs those.
My husband: He’s watching me pee.
Me: I figured. You’re just curious, aren’t you, big guy? Tee. He’s learning; I think he’ll train earlier and easier than Evan. (sigh) That would be cool. Evan, I said no almonds. Or pecans.
My husband: He claps when I finish.
Both my sons learned at an early age to clap when they did something special like throw the ball, somersault, roll a car, jump, dance, sing, basically anything to be proud of. From there, it is only a month or so development to clap for other people’s achievements. At eighteen months, Evan clapped enthusiastically when my great-aunt caught a ball he threw to her. Sean, at fourteen months, would clap enthusiastically for Evan’s singing attempts.
Me: Well, you did a good job. You never drip. He’s proud of you. All right, Evan. No marshmallows. Come on, Sean. Let’s get you and your brother a snack before your brother climbs in there and gets the suckers. Too late.
Being curious of all developments in the house, I snuck a peek at this performance next time my husband went to the bathroom. Sean toddled in after his Daddy and stood in rapture as his father peed. Then when my husband was finish, Sean, beaming from ear to ear, clapped with excitement. You’d think that he was at The Bellagio. Or maybe Sean thought his Daddy was being left out of the cheering Evan receives when he uses the bathroom.
It happened. It finally happened. Ok, maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised.
Last weekend we were visiting some friends, and in their backyard was a swing set with a slide. The boys were so excited to play with it. Eventually Evan discovered a new game o0f rolling cars down the slide to Sean who laughed with glee, giving me the car to hand back to Evan to start the process all over again. Evan kept in his other hand a purple Halloween flashlight that he found and wanted to carry around the house. So after a dozen times of rolling down the car, Evan realized that the flashlight was round like wheels. Let’s see what happens.
Success. The flashlight rolled perfectly into Sean’s waiting hands, but rather than hand the flashlight to Mommy, Sean’s chubby hands closed around the flashlight. Then Sean turned and started pumping those thick legs for all they were worthy. Evan let out a cry and threw himself down the slide. This is bad.
Since my legs are longer than the boys are tall, I shot past Evan with ease. Sean had the element of surprise even though he still has that waddle run with his arms pumping side to side. I caught up to him before he rounded the pool, shouting to Evan to let Mommy handle this. I grabbed Sean and set him down, kneeling to look eye to eye.
“Evan was playing with this. This is Evan’s toy. When he is done with it, you can play with it. Now give it to Mommy.”
I know the only reason Sean wanted it was because Evan had it. I pried the flashlight out of Sean’s fingers. I handed it to Evan. Sean’s hand shot out and grabbed the flashlight. They tug-a-war-ed it. I grabbed Sean, pulling him off the flashlight. Sean wailed as though his puppy died. Then I carried him inside and dumped him into my husband’s lap.
“What’s wrong, Sean,” asked my husband.
“He’s acting like a second born.”
***
I shouldn’t have been so surprised. Maybe I should have been surprised over how long they were friends. According to family legend my brother and I declared war much earlier on.
I was sitting, watching TV, holding my Teddy, sucking on my pacifier, minding my own business. When my brother, my non-sucking pacifier brother, crawled over, he took the pacifier out of my mouth and crawled away. When he was safely past arms length, he sat down, waved the pacifier in my direction to make sure I knew he had it, and stuck it in his mouth. Are you kidding me?! And I did what any toddler would do. I started to cry. And plot revenge.
And then it was a free for all after that. Little moon-shape scars from fingernails. Clumps of hair pulled from the root. Barbie doll heads, hot wheel wheels, broken banks, broken toys. Lies, blaming, tattling, arguments. Wrestling matches that went on hours after the favorite TV show was over and unwatched. A malignant hate that spread amongst the three of us in all consuming war that finally cumulated to the devastating head of-
Actually we eventually grew out of it in our late teens, early twenties, and we actually call one another and hang out. It’s weird. Of course, the minute the parents leave us alone with the TV and remote, we start arguing again.
***
So now whatever Evan has, Sean must have it NOW. If Evan is eating something, even if Sean has his own or already ate his own, he must have Evan’s NOW. Not that Evan doesn’t just run by to hit, push, kick Sean whenever he gets the urge. You can actually see it in Evan’s eyes when he’s decided to do something to Sean.
The other day, Sean bent down to examine something on the ground. Evan took the opportunity to go behind Sean and start kicking him in the bum. Sean was as unmoved as a rock. I was horrified, and Evan spent sometime in the time out chair.
Or the day when Evan refused to nap and fell asleep on the couch watching football with his dad. Out of nowhere, Sean came over and just started wailing on Evan, who slept through the whole thing. We would scold Sean and distract him, but two minutes later he’s getting in his blows. Hey, show some respect. At least, do it when your parents aren’t watching!
So I’m knee deep in sibling rivalry. Part of it’s my fault because I can’t seem to remember to buy two of everything. Why the hell didn’t I buy two Wall*e’s. And Bill Cosby may be right; eventually I won’t care about justice, just peace.
I wish I could write the way Bad Mommy Moments can about bad days. A day that includes every button pushed and every nerve gotten too. A day which has painted carpets, chip crumbs, spilled milk, and hour old chili left in a bowl to dry and rot. A day where you know part of it is you and not them. A day when you dream about the days before babies and diapers, before husbands and compromise, before responsibility and housework. A day making you forget to laugh at a dance, to be excited over pee, to clap at drum solos, to gush about how smart, how cute, how wonderful the little ones are. A day when you can’t get online to even write about it.
Here’s to tomorrow.
Ok, I got this award like two weeks ago from C on A Mother’s Walk. (C, I’m sorry if it took so long to do it; I promise I’m honored.) It was a bit of a thrill because who’d a thought any one would read this blog. (now I’m completely addicted to the blog stats, and you people can ruin my self esteem.) Since C and I read a lot of the same blogs and I’m a complete rebel, I plan on nominating the same people. So there. That and I’m setting an automatic publishing date, so I won’t probably tell people until Monday. So double there.
This award comes with a few rules: Put the logo on your blog or post. Nominate at least 10 blogs which show GREAT ATTITUDE and/or GRATITUDE! Be sure to link to your nominees within your post. Let them know that they have received this award by commenting on their blog. Share the love and link to this post and to the person from whom you received your award.
Ck – I’m so completely jealous of her writing style. One post, and you’re hooked.
Lindsey – I think she’s my only non-mommy-blog. But her arguments and points are incredible. I’m not sure how she is so smart.
Commonterri – Funny and very sweet.
Holeycheese – She’s funny and neat.
Evenshine – Intelligent and funny.
Incognito Mom – Another funny mom who has one of the cutest boys.
Court – A darling blog that is humorous and cute.
Not Drowning, Mothering – I never drink anything when I read her blog in fear that it’ll come out my nose.
Outside Voice – She’s funny, insightful, and super smart.
The Mediocre Perfectionist – A busy and funny mom.
Steph – Amusing blog about raising kids in rural Georgia.
The World According to Me – She has four daughters! The material is endless!
Writing at Naptime – Another super smart and super funny mom.
We were sitting on our separate toilets when Evan noticed a “new” part of his anatomy.
Evan: Mommy, what are these?
He was tugging on his balls.
Me: They are your testes. Or some people call them balls.
Evan: (His hands still moving and manipulating his sack.) What are they?
Me: Your testes or balls.
Evan: (He sperates them to notice there are actually two.) What are they? (for?)
Me: They’re part of your penis. All boys have them. I’ll explain more when you get older.
Evan: (He stops to look at me to emphasize his question.) What do they DO?
Me: Well . . . um . . . they’re for makingbabies. (cough)
Pondering silence.
Evan: That’s weird! I go potty now! But when I’m older I’ll make babies!
Me: Sure. (We’ll go with that for now. I wasn’t expecting those questions until I was pregnant again.) Are you done peeing now?
Beyond the door, in the office, I hear faint chuckling. Next time, I’ll tell Evan to ask his Father.
