A Kid-Bit, Whether You Like it or NotI’ve always made it a point not to muddy up my blog with all of the adorably horrible things my kids do and say, as I not only find “kid-bits” mostly boring when I read them on other blogs (no offense to those whose blogs feature said bits on a daily basis -- unless I know and love the kids doing the bits, I couldn’t care less what Boopie Lips said about his latest bowel movement), but as some of you know, I do occasionally slip in a kid-bit or two. I simply can’t help myself if the kid-bit is unusually adorable or especially horrible. So, without further ado, I present today’s kid-bit. I apologize in advance if the following anecdote bores you to heavy tears, but it is my firm belief that my kids do the best bits ever, so if you hate other people’s kid-bits as much as I do, well then, feel free to ignore this entry.
Note: My three-year-old, formerly known as Mr. Butler, a.k.a. Phlumpy, a.k.a., Chicken Pee, etc., will from this day forward be known as Brandon, because that is his legal name, and he’s no longer Mr. Butlerish, nor is he Phlumpyish or Chickenish; rather, he’s a miniature man-like creature with large doughy man-thighs and broad man-shoulders who demands in his ever-deepening voice that I stop calling him pet names. I will comply with his manly wishes, especially since his little girlfriends giggle like bouncy-curled, gooey-faced Tinkerbells whenever I call him anything other than his legal name now. He tells me that I’m driving him to drink too many juice boxes, and lord knows I wouldn’t want to be the cause of any future addictions (though Freud assures me that no matter what I do, I will be to blame regardless).
They grow up so fast. Excuse me while I cry a raging river. It’ll only be a moment.
Fine. All better. Now on to the show…
Yesterday afternoon was a terrific experiment in motherly patience, and I was at a loss as to how I would get through the entire day without beating my son with a Styrofoam dinosaur, so, as many moms will do when they get to that dangerous point of possibly assaulting their kids with Styrofoam objects, I went out on the back porch with a stiff drink and a big-ass Peruvian cigar. I figured, hey, let the boy do his damage, let him continue emptying the contents of all the kitchen cabinets; let him make a bologna and banana sandwich topped with Hershey’s chocolate syrup. In the whole scheme of things, is that really so awful? My tall glass of vodka and orange told me “no,” quite emphatically I might add, so I sat in the sun and smoked and drank and watched the pregnant robins hunt for worms, wishing I were a robin what with their easy lot in life -- drop ‘em, sit on ‘em, feed ‘em for a couple of weeks, then kick the brood right the hell out of the nest -- when suddenly, I got that feeling. You parents know what I’m talking about. That shiver, that spiritual nudge from on high that tells you something is very, very wrong and that you should immediately run to your children because they are most certainly doing something heinous.
As ever, that nudge proved correct.
During the ten minutes or so that I sat dreaming on my porch, my son had:
1) Climbed the hall-closet shelves and retrieved two rolls of toilet paper.
2) Ripped the duct tape from the kitchen island’s bottom drawer (tape was to prevent Brandon from stealing the candles, plastic forks, streamers, party bags and assorted other goodies within).
3) Removed party things as well as the mishmash of electrical cords and nuts and bolts that have no known use, my Pier One sunburst napkin holders, my freshly laundered matching napkins and my fancy dinner candles (only used when entertaining folks I don’t know very well and wish to impress with my Grande Dame of Hostessing ways).
4) Procured jar of peanut butter, package of saltines.
5) Pilfered a butter knife.
6) Used all of the above ill-gotten gains to reinvent my bedroom from serene getaway to party house from Hell.
Before I could open my frozen mouth or unclench my fists, while waves of nausea and disbelief rolled over my entire body, Brandon said this to me: “Happy Mother’s Day! I hope you like your precious party!”
I hope you like your precious party.
Let me remind you of his age. Three. He’s three years old. Thirty-nine months, to be exact..
I hope you like your precious party.
What could I do? I’ll tell you what I did. I sat down on my freshly laundered napkins (chairs), and I ate peanut butter and saltines, ignoring the chunky-style Jiff smeared on my bedspread, my hardwood floor, ignoring the toilet paper strewn about my beautiful four-poster bed, hung from the highboy, the streamers looped over the dresser and night table, and I happily accepted the “presents” that filled smiley-face party bags, gifts that included an assortment of nuts and bolts, electrical cords and candles, some of which had been snapped in two and/or obviously chewed. And I did indeed like my precious party.