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Tuesday, July 08, 2003

You may have noticed by now that I have children.

At the moment, my beautiful daughter and darling son are sitting in the middle of the living room floor, fighting over half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It matters not that there is another perfectly good half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich sitting on a plate beside them. No, they each must have the one half, and thusly, a tug-o-war ensues.

Actually, it's not your regular peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

It's a Goober sandwich.

You know Goober. That stuff that's peanut butter and jelly swirled together in the same jar. That stuff that personifies everything that is wrong with the world and nothing that is right. Yes, my friends, I have come to believe that Goober is perhaps the most foul thing ever created on this godforsaken planet. Not only does it have a terribly disgusting sounding name, but it's peanut butter and jelly swirled together in the same jar. That's just wrong.

And, unfortunately for me, my kids love it.

This means that at least once a day, I hear the cry, 'Momma! We want Goober sammich!' Then I have to enter the kitchen with trepidation...reach into the fridge...and remove the horror. A freshly opened jar of Goober is not so gross. It's just peanut butter and jelly stripes in glass. It's after you make a few sandwiches that it gets gross. It starts mixing together and looking like a science experiment. It looks like it may, at any moment, leap from the jar like some sort of space alien, and grab me by the throat, choking off my oxygen supply with peanutty goodness. The horror. The horror.


My son is going to be turning three this month. This shocks and amazes me. How did he ever manage to make it to three years old with a mother like me?

More importantly, how did he manage to make it to be an intelligent three year old? He's rather sagely for such a small boy, I daresay.

Earlier, we were jumping on the bed together, and he rammed his head into my knee. He stopped, stood up, put his small fists on his hips, and glared at me.


Well, sorry. Like it was my fault.

Before that, we were playing hide and seek, and he cooed from the corner of the room, where he was hiding under a blanket:

'Mo-o-o-mma, where a-a-a-are me?'

'Oh, no,' I said. 'Where's Asher?'


I found that pretty funny. Rather than 'I'm right here,' it was 'there' he was somewhere else, trying to trick me.

Kids are pretty cool. I love my kids to death. They are both bright, active, and adorable.

This isn't to say that sometimes the routine of parenting doesn't turn into something closely resembling the Bataan Death March for me, but all the same...I wouldn't trade them in for anything.

I look back and remember the fat baby he was when he was brand new. Kid was flippin' huge, people. He was incredibly clingy, but always smiling...a happy kid. He's still happy. That makes it all worth it. It's funny how I can get so completely frustrated with him, because honestly, he can be such a terror. He's very stubborn and refuses to give in a lot. He's fiercely protective of his sister and his toys (which he sometimes treats as if they were one in the same), and when he wants something, he doesn't like to wait. He's also prone to breaking anything of mine he comes into contact with, and has an unholy obsession with putting things in the toilet and taking things out of the fridge (sometimes taking things out of the fridge to put into the toilet, no less.) But then...he smiles, and says, 'I love you, Momma,' or 'You pretty' or something else adorable, and then I can't be angry anymore.

I've come to think that kids are programmed to be fuckin' adorable so we don't kill them...but that's just a theory.

So, sometimes I think about all the stuff I could be doing right now if I didn't have kids...but then he comes over to me with a Matchbox car and wants to play highway, and I get down on the floor, and we do...and I think there's nowhere else I'd really rather be.

I can't believe he's almost three.

link | posted by Zombie at 1:03 AM |


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