Saturday, April 29, 2006
Zombie Wins Award for Best Mother of the Year, Or: Yet Another Good Reason to Use Birth Control.
Thank you, thank you. Really, you're too kind.
I'd like to thank the little people, particularly those that live in my house, because without them, this award could not be possible. Here's to you, kids! You love me! You really love me!
Actually, I don't think they do. Love me, that is. If they loved me, they wouldn't act like little demons on crank. They would act like nice, respectable, fine upstanding members of society, so that the neighborhood will begin to think I'm not such white trash after all and perhaps also a vampire.
But can the children do this for me? Oh no, sports fans, they cannot. No siree.
I had the not-so-brilliant idea that I would take them to the park today. We went yesterday and it was nice and fun and there were dogs and we patted them and we climbed the rock wall and went down the slides, and all in all, it was a lovely experience.
So today, "Okay, little dudes, let's go to the park."
"YAAAAAY," say the little dudes.
"Right," and off we go. We go out the backdoor and get to the driveway.
"I will ride my bike," announces my son.
"No, the tire is flat," I say.
"It is a POWER RANGERS bike, Mom, and I will ride it," announces my son. Except he can't really say "Power Rangers" properly, for some reason. It comes out sort of like, "Pow-jer Ragers."
Yeah, I don't know, either.
Anyway, says me: "Again, child, the tire is flat. If you ride it with a flat, it will ruin the rim. Wait until I can get another tire without a freakin' hole in it."
And so we go to the street, walk beside our yard, get to the corner, are almost away from our property and then...."AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH."
"What? What are you hollering about?"
"I WANT MY BIKE."
"Holy delayed reaction, Batman. I just told you that you can't ride the bike. Sorry. Now stop it and we'll go to the park."
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIKE. AHHHHHHHHHHHH."
I decided he was probably a little angry. "Asher is loud. And stupid," my tiny daughter comments.
"Shhh, Meredith. Asher, knock it off. You have one minute, or we're going back into the house."
He pauses. I think I have won. But no.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHH. BIIIIIIIIIIIKE. WANT MY BIKE NOW. HATE YOU. AHHHHHHHHHHHHH."
"You're not getting the bike. You have 45 seconds now. Better calm down or no park."
Screaming continues for the rest of the 45 seconds.
"Okay, back to the house."
This is where it gets really fun.
"NO NO NO. NOT GOING INSIDE. CAN'T MAKE ME. AHHHHHHHHHH."
And he takes off running. The little shit.
"I WILL GO TO THE PARK WITHOUT YOU. DON'T NEED YOU. AHHHHHHHH."
I take a deep breath and wonder what to do about my child, who is running full-tilt down the street away from me.
In front of many neighbors, who are all watching with bright interest.
Should I chase him? Should I let him go? Should I hope he gets hit by a car? What to do? What to do?
"Fuck sake," I mutter. I order Meredith to stay put in the front yard and I start walking after my son.
Walking, mind you, because I am not running. For one, I will not be seen chasing a psychotic 5 year old in a Spiderman t-shirt down the street, and for two, have you seen my bra size lately? Cripes. I have no wish for two black eyes.
Anyway, I am walking. Sauntering, if you will. I fancy I resemble Michael Meyers, because my son turns back to see my slow, slow approach and goes even more ballistic. "NOOOO, YOU STAY AWAY FROM MEEEEEE. AHHHHHHHHHH."
"Child," I call, in a conversational tone of voice, "You stop that running right now or you will not be happy when I catch you. And I will catch you. Oh yes, I will."
"AHHHHHH." He keeps running, toward the next corner.
I call out to him again, "You better stop before you get to that road, or you are going to be hit by a car. And if you get hit by a car, don't come crying to me about it, buddy boy."
He makes it to the corner before his stubby little legs give out and he pitches face down into the grass on the side of the road. I catch up to him.
"That is entirely enough of that," I tell him. "Get up and get back to the house."
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. NOOOOOOOOOOOO. HATE YOU. AHHHH."
"I thought I told you to get up. GET UP."
And he does, and goes running back to our yard.
This is where it gets even more fun, if such a thing is even possible.
I make my way back to our yard, where my son is still having convulsions about not being able to ride his godfucking Pow-jer Ragers bike. He hurls himself to the ground again and begins furiously ripping out handfuls of grass and flinging them around. When I reach him, he screams, "NO DON'T KILLLLLLLL MEEEEEEE. YOU'RE GONNA CHOOOOOOKE MEEEEEE! AHHHHHH."
I try to think what good parents would do in this situation. After all, I am an intelligent girl. I can think stuff and read books and do smart girl things. Surely I can figure out how to best handle a 5 year old that has suddenly morphed into a raving maniac.
I remember watching that Nanny 911 show. What would the nanny do? She is always firm, but fair. The children love her, but know they cannot get away with squat. This is the ideal. This is what I should aspire to be.
I will BE the nanny.
I lean over, getting down to his level, so he can see me, and I speak in a firm tone of voice that brooks no argument, just like they say to do on TV:
"Child, you will get up and get yourself into that house or so help me god I will make you wear your ass for a hat. Do you understand? Are we clear?"
Okay, so maybe they don't tell you to say that specifically. But it sounded good at the time.
He stops the screaming and considers me for a moment. I could almost see his tiny brain trying to comprehend an asshat.
"NOOOOO. AHHHHHHHH." I guess it wasn't a good enough threat.
So I try to pick him up. I figure I will sling him over my shoulder and haul him into the house that way. But he is heavy. Much heavier than I am able to handle right now, and as soon as I get him off of the ground, he goes completely limp. Ouch.
So I drop him.
I consider his wiggling form. How can I get him into the house if he will not go under his own steam? Radio Flyer? Pitchfork? What?
I grab him by his Spiderman shirt and hoist him onto his feet and start walking. He keeps trying to fall back to the ground, still screaming all the way, but I am now a Woman of Superhuman Strength, brought about by Righteous Anger and Homicidal Mania induced by my son, and he cannot get away.
"YOU ARE KIIIIIILLING MEEEEEEE," he screams.
I keep walking.
"MY MOMMY KILLS ME EVERY DAYYYYYY!" he shrieks to the neighbors across the street.
"Hi!" I call cheerfully to them. "Nice weather we're having! Have a good one!" I think about adding, "I don't really kill him every day, you know. Really. Oh and I'm not a vampire," but I deem it inappropriate, under the circumstances. For once, the Brain to Mouth Filter that usually malfunctions seems to be in perfect working order.
Anyway, I finally got the kid into the house and put him in the laundry room, where he rattled around and screamed and freaked out for about 45 minutes.
You may be wondering why I win the award for Best Mother of the Year. It is because I resisted the urge to make his ass into an attractive and fashion-forward hat and also don't kill him every day.
Because, really, he does need killing every day, and I have willpower of steel.
So, how was YOUR day, honey?
link | posted by Zombie at 6:57 PM |
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