A few mornings ago, after a heated discussion over whether he’d be having scrambled eggs (my choice) or a brownie (his) for breakfast, I told him that he would not be having any treats at all until after he’d finished all of the scrambled eggs that I had placed on his plate. He stomped off to his room and slammed the door shut. A few minutes later, when I went to check on him and remind him that his eggs were still waiting for him (because I’m helpful like that), I noticed the door hanger that he made last year at school hanging on his door.
After I took a picture of it, because I so enjoy exploiting my children on this blog in order to keep the huge piles of imaginary money rolling in, I thought about what I would do with the extra time provided by the ingenious door hanger. His younger brother was busy happily gnawing his way through a pile of scrambled eggs; he’s got an appetite like his mother. I would have thrown a few sausage links on the high chair to keep him busy for longer—if I hadn’t eaten them all already. (If you’re like me, it’s hard to resist a greasy sausage, especially when it’s not the one you've been married to for 10 years.) The hubs was at work for the day, and I didn’t have to be in until later that afternoon. So much time, so few responsibilities, my peeps. What to do, what to do?
I resisted the urge to add a celebratory splash of Bailey’s to my coffee and call my boyfriend for a quick romp. Which totally would have been a believable line if we didn’t all already know my feelings about sex. I don’t do it for fun, my peeps, and my kid quota is full at 2, sooo…that idea went out the window.
Besides, even if I really did want another child (BARF—I love my kids but THANKS ANYWAY on another baby phase) who didn’t look like the hubs, the preschooler is now totally old enough to sing like a damned canary. The last time the boyf stopped by, that’s exactly what he did, right there at the dinner table: “Mom had her boyfriend over for another visit, Dad!”
Dammit, my kids are so articulate. Seriously, I almost saw this pretty sweet Sugar Daddy deal that I’ve worked so hard to set up over here slip right through my fingers in much the same way that I’d felt my dignity do in all those years of playing strip poker in college.
Actually, I never played strip poker in college. Not a single game. I was too afraid that the general reaction would be hilarious, gasping laughter and shouts of, “Please, PUT IT BACK ON!” And judging from the experience I had a few weeks ago when bra shopping (read: grabbing a padded bra from one of the center aisles at Target) with my best friend, I’d have been right:
Best friend, doubling over in laughter, clutching her ample stomach (it’s not ample, but dammit, it’s my blog and I can use it to get her back if I want to) with one arm while pointing at my new beige bra with the other: “What the hell is THAT?”
Me, raising my eyebrows, trying to act like I didn’t understand what was so damned funny: “A bra…?”
Asshole Best Friend, still laughing so hard she looked as though she was about to vomit (I tried to punch her in the stomach to ensure that ending, but she’s gotten good at blocking me over the years): “Who’s it for? Your daughter?”
Me: “You know I don’t have a daughter.”
Asshole Best Friend, gasping for breath: “Then are you buying it for some charitable organization that provides bras to girls in underdeveloped countries?”
Me, rolling my eyes: “You only said that so that you could use the word underdeveloped. You need some new material.”
Asshole Best Friend: “And you need some new boobs.”
Listen, peeps, I can’t help that God made me the way I am. I’ve had a lot of physical deficiencies to overcome, which is why I’ve honed such a sparkling personality. Right? Right??
Anyhoo, back to the present.
When my preschooler ventured out of his room about 10 minutes later, satisfied that he’d made his point and crippled his mother with devastation, he found me on the couch (totally not romping with the boyfriend—TOTALLY not) drinking coffee, flipping through t.v. stations. There’s normally a Real Housewives marathon on in the middle of the day for those moms who need to catch up from noon-8 PM while the kids are enjoying “free play.”
“Mom?” he asked, his little eyebrows furrowed in the sweetest, most pathetic little look. “Why didn’t you come to check on me again?”
“Why, Sweetie,” I responded, blowing on my coffee and leaning back to cross my legs in my much-practiced I’m-a-mom-and-I-totally-know-what-I’m-doing pose, “I was just respecting your wishes to be left alone for a while.”
He stared at me for a minute, working it out behind those big brown eyes. I could almost hear his thoughts: Is she making fun of me, or is she actually giving me the respect I deserve?
In the end, his little pride and dignity won out, and he decided on the latter. He gave a slight, satisfied nod, held his head a bit higher, and threw back his shoulders in a dignified walk back to his room to prove his point for a little bit longer.
I, in turn, earned myself 10 more minutes of Jerry Springer.
Who says this parenting stuff is hard? Piece of cake, my peeps…piece of cake. J