So, we’re at some family-neutral restaurant eating wings when Alma starts to act up.
She’s sliding around the booth like an eel, smacking her chin on the table, worming her way onto the filthy floor.
I threaten her with a “bathroom time-out.” Before she even blinks again, she’s grinning maniacally, slithering back under the table.
So, I drag her to the bathroom and go inside a stall with her. Instead of whimpering and apologizing, she’s grinning at me with hate in her eyes.
She’s in full-on batshit crazy mode.
So, I tell her I am going to leave her alone in the stall for her time-out.
I close the door, waiting for her to at least utter a half-assed ‘sorry’ when instead, she says “I don’t even want to look at your FACE right now!”
At which point, I drag her back out and my husband and I tell her she’s not going to attend her friend’s birthday party. That’s where we were heading next, so I drop off my husband and son at the party and drive Alma home.
She’s now raving like a lunatic, screaming, spit flying from her mouth, digging her hand into the back of her throat and gagging.
I put her in her room for time-out, while she continues to shriek and flap her arms wildly in my general direction.
I tell her through tears that I wanted her to go to the birthday party, but her behavior is the reason why she can’t go.
She screams louder.
She screams for an hour.
When it turns to a shuddering hiccuping, I go back in and ask her if she knows why she got time-out.
I said, “You were not listening, sliding around in the booth and then you told me you didn’t want to look at my face during time-out. You were mean to me. Do you want to be mean to me?”
I said, “If you act badly, you can’t do fun things like to go to birthday parties.”
Alma: “I’ll just go to the next one.”
This was me sticking to my guns.
The most epic time-out of my parental history and she doesn’t give a shit.
If she’s this vicious and ungrateful now, will we be bailing her out of jail when she’s 13?
This weekend, we took the kids to the beach, to the park, out to lunch, bought them Big Hero 6.
We cooked for them, we bathed them, we cuddled on the couch suffering through episodes of My Little Pony and Jake and the Neverland Pirates.
We do so much for them and so very, very little for ourselves.
I asked Alma if she had any fun this weekend at all.
Her response… “I didn’t go to the birthday party.”
She got another time-out at dinner for playing with her food. My husband threw her food in the trash.
I’m the mom who is secretly sneaking some leftover mac n’ cheese into the fridge, just in case she really is starving and apologizes or acts even remotely like a normal child.
I am the mom who cries as she’s tucking that tupperware into the fridge.
I am the mom who is tucking it right next to the rum I bought in order to make it to Monday.
I am the mom who is starting to feel like she’s losing as a parent.
My daughter can be so sweet, yet so evil.
So kind, yet soul-crushing.
I watched her at the park playing on the see-saw long after she was done so the other little girl could keep bouncing.
She will find a quarter in the mulch and look at me to see if she should put it back down, just in case it might be someone else’s.
She will rush to get me a band-aid if I have a hangnail.
Then, she transforms like Ed Norton in Primal Fear.
Sticking with the Norton theme, she’s Tyler Durden from Fight Club, pouring lye on our hands.
Such a sweet face.
I know the devil inside.
I always adore when people post lists of classic stuff from the 80’s. Let’s take a trip back in time and check out some of the more obscure and underappreciated toys and shows from my childhood.
I adored mine. It was stolen by a fundamentalist Christian kid I used to hang out with. I remember her name. I will protect the identity of the thief. But, if she were ever to read this, I want it back!
The ears never got dry. It didn’t matter. I loved this moldy pup.
Clearly I have older brothers.
My mom told us to throw them all out. I hid them in my closet for years before becoming so wracked with guilt I gave them away.
Another “no-no” in our crazy Christian family.
I had an obsession with Dotty because she wore roller skates.
I was obsessed with Wordsworth because he wore roller skates. There is a theme.
When I was born, my oldest brother looked through the hospital nursery window and sang, “See in the window, it’s Hannah Banana,” to the Magilla Gorilla tune.
I wanted to be the Little Prince. Yes, Prince.
I dare you to sing the song and see if anyone is cool enough to shout “bears” at the end. I have a friend like that. (although I refer to him as a fiend not a friend)
I love Tom Hanks, but this is still the best role he ever played. Take that Forrest Gump!
I watched the CRAP out of this show.
I admit it, I had a crush on Ponch. But, then he visited my news station in Miami and was groping all of the female “talent.” Grooosss.
I don’t care if Alanis Morissette was on this show. It was awesome anyway.
That’s it. I am quitting my job and dedicating the rest of my life to creating a time machine just so I can enjoy the 80’s again.
While my husband cooks dinner, I give the kids a bath. The next night, we swap. We’ve come to the realization that the only way to survive bath time is to give the kids what we call, “double bath.” Obviously, this means we bathe them both at the same time. Bathe one at a time and the other will walk up to the tub and throw something in like a remote control. Or you’ll hear that eerie silence which could only indicate your other child is digging in a light socket or has tumbled head first down the stairs, because he CAN.
Double bath it is. At least until they’re 15 or can wash themselves, whichever comes first.
This is no Bert and Ernie with a rubber ducky kind of situation. My son spends the whole time crying and trying to get as much water as possible out of the tub. My daughter has lately started trying to suck water out of all of the bath toys. Who made these things anyway? I know, let’s create a Petri dish that lives inside a rubber crab-shaped toy. “Fill it with water, leave it in the tub and see what grows!” The other day, I yelled at her again for sucking the water out, to which she responded, “I spit it back out, so it’s okay.” I then squeezed a rubber fishy and black crap came spewing out with the water. I tried to show her that it was dirty. Which elicited the endless stream of “why’s.”
I pride myself on trying to explain things fully to them, so I said, “Well, the water that just sits there in a closed space grows mold and mildew.”
“JUST STOP DRINKING IT!”
After the bath, my son cries because when he wants to run naked and wet through the house instead of being dry and in pajamas. My daughter cries because she’s cold and wants to “be carried like a baby.” Half the time I end up leaving them with wet crevices and disheveled hair, which leads to wet pajamas… which leads to more complaints about being cold. Anyone else end a ten-minute speed bath with the kids drenched in sweat? I do. Every time. Oh, and I always end up in MY pajamas after every bath because I am basically soaked and covered in filth water.
There isn’t time to smile sweetly at my shiny, clean children afterward… because then it’s time for dinner! Yay! I will save that for another post. Or maybe several.