Scared of Everything

Kid is suddenly afraid of everything: getting his face wet, Zeus, airplanes, boats, the chairlift, the world running out of Chaotic trading cards before he gets that one that he really wants. I make fun but it's a big deal for him--he's also obsessed with what happens when people go on to the next world. Every time I stub my toe or sneeze he wants to know if this means I'm dying. Five years old and already slugged in the solar plexus by our sad earthbound situation.

This situation clearly calls for breakfast chocolate cake. I don't care if it's practically midnight already--Kid is having a reassuring, dense, mother-loves-you-forever-and-always chocolate bomb for breakfast.

Note to self: do not actually say the word "bomb" out loud in front of him.

Confession: I Hate Cuddly Pup

Every 25 school days, Kid comes home from kindergarten with a cow-themed satchel containing. . . . nope, not a cow, but "Cuddly Pup," a small stuffed dog who spends overnight at each child's home and brings with him a math book, some spelling and reading exercizes and a journal in which each happy child is to draw or describe the thrilling adventures had with Cuddly.

We had CP for six days over the holiday and had not a thing to share with the class come Tueday morning when school was back in. I desperately flung him into the red vehicle on the way to swimming lessons and then stuffed him, it, whatever, into the locker while Kid was in the pool and then tried to make it look like we'd been to the pool as a family, remembered to take CP and carefully documented the whole madcap go-round of gaiety. Kid was having none of it. "Dude," he says to me he says, "we COULD write that we imprisoned Cuddly Pup in a dark locker with only my Spiderman underpants to keep him company while we had fun. That would be the truth."

This whole taking care of Cuddly Pup thing is kind of the last straw with me. I have enough to do without worrying about the wellbeing of an understuffed toy that, frankly, smells kind of yucky and wants me to do math with a five-year-old. Five year olds should do math only to the extent that it enables them not to know how much things cost, whether five jellybeans is less or more than eight jellybeans and that clocks do sometimes run backwards, meaning that bedtime tonight is at 7 and not 8 because 7 really is 8 just for this once.

Teachers. I can tell they're going to be a problem already.

Bipolar

Every day -- every SINGLE day, mind you -- I hear something like "you are a mean old mommy." The reasons range from the perfectly reasonable (I won't let Kid wear the yellow shirt with the green pants because I have strange associations with squished caterpillars) to the unjust (there's no way in the world that one small bum requires 40 Kandoos at a time). Sometimes it's just a matter of whim; yesterday, it was okay to paint on the bathroom floor because mommy was mad at daddy, but today it is completely not okay to paint on the bathroom floor because who on earth paints on a bathroom floor, honest to GOD, you'd think you were raised by heathen goats in Turkmenistan.

But every night -- every SINGLE night -- I hear this, from a small sleepy mouth, glissading over minty toothpaste and the smell of soap: "Mommy, you're the best person in the world. I love you."

And if he only knew it, at that moment I would let Kid paint every bathroom floor in the world in (almost) any medium he wanted to do it in.

Revenge. . . .

. . . . is a dish best served with eggplant.

Mwa ha ha ha ha.

A new wrinkle

Doctor wishes to treat middle-aged lady issues with a shot of botox. Great. I'll still have droopy hound dog bags under my eyes and puppet mouth but my bladder will be smooth and youthful in appearance, thanks to the most lethal toxin known to mankind. The last thing I need is that kind of jealousy going on between the face and the bladder. Can you imagine the consequences of such rivalry? Think I'll take the pill and hope for the best.

Or maybe I could just eat properly, drink lots of liquids during the day, have a clear mind/conscience upon hitting the sack, and have worked out sufficiently to be tired enough to go to sleep and not just lie there listening to my heart beat and timing intervals between trips to the bathroom.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I slay me.

Overheard Phone Conversation

"Oh hey, Olivia. Why are you calling me?

Yep, I'm feeling better. Still lots of snot though. It's sort of shining on my Batman sleeve.

Wanna hear something interesting that happened to me? Yesterday, I was having a bath and then I forgot to wipe my bum and so we had to fish poo out of the tub and then when we washed hands, all this black stuff came out of the faucet. The plumber's coming because it might be toilet water which I do NOT want to be drinking.

So, I hear you've been puking."

Slick. Our boy's slick.

Bandaids

Ever since Kid discovered that Batman and Spiderman could be found on bandaids, he's been faking/embellishing small injuries all over his body. He once claimed to have pink eye in both eyes and wanted to put a Batman bandaid over one eye--well, atually inside his eye--and Spiderman over the other. Then wouldn't it be cool? He got out a magnifying glass and pointed trimphantly to a small black speck on his palm. A sliver working its way to his heart. Clearly a case for a bandaid. Etc.

I'm the mom whose triage consists of three questions:
--Are you on fire?
--Is there a bone sticking out of the skin?
--Is blood gushing out of your head?

If not, you're fine.

So you can imagine that all this bandaid nonsense drives me kinda nuts. Add to that the highway-robbin', gramma-smackin', dog-violatin' (ewww, I'll stop now) PRICE of the superhero bandaids. Like $4 for 20.

So today I ordered these online from Scabs Bandages (ww.scabsbandages.com):



$4 for 20 grossed-out laffs is, after all, a pretty good deal.

I'm sure he totally deserves it

This blog is called Mommies on the Edge; I believe the unseen man on this video is a Daddy on the edge. The Internets are abuzz with the ethics of doing this to your kid but, clearly, those judgemental objections were raised by people who don't have a kid. The rest of us know the little dude totally deserved it. Plus, he's belted in, he's in a nice ride, his clothes are fine, his hair is clean, and his parents can afford dental surgery.



Question: WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME?

Answer (thank you to Joel from MST): Because you did something wrong.