must love kids

I should have stuck with dogs.

Seriously. If my stupid husband hadn't thought he was allergic and if we hadn't been renting and not allowed to have animals and if my asinine biological clock hadn't started making crazy little alarm noises, I wouldn't be sitting here now in need of either a valium or a padded cell. Preferably both.

On paper it should be relatively calm around here. The Film Geek is on location for the next couple of weeks and his work environment has smoothed down considerably. I'm off work for a long stretch, which is always peaceful. Once I get the kids to school I get to come home and putter. Puttering is just about my favorite thing. Of course it would be better if I could do some productive puttering and get some projects in the house done, but it hasn't worked out that way. At the last Bunco someone asked me to switch my September for her November and I'm still not sure if or when my mother in law is coming, so my September deadline to get stuff done in the house has been extended. I seem to be a little deficient in the motivation department.


I might have more energy if it weren't for the kid drama. I am a limp dishrag from kid drama. It's like the Duracell bunny...it just keeps going and going and going...and I'm like Everready....takes a licking and keeps on ticking. (I'll stop advertising batteries now).


Wednesday night Sasquatch asked me where we might have some free weights. And turned down biscuits with his soup at dinner. I found him some weights out in the studio and casually asked why he'd passed on the biscuits, which are one of his favorite things. Oh, no reason, he said, just didn't feel like having them. A little while later he came to me and asked if I would help him try to lose a little weight. So we had a long discussion about ways to go about this and that I would be more than happy to do what I could. Again, I casually asked why. Oh, no reason, he said, just feel like doing it.


The faint ding of an alarm in my head was getting louder by the second. But they don't call me the Queen of Denial for nothing. I was doing an admirable job blocking it out entirely when the FG called to say goodnight. I told him what had happened. There was a moment of silence, a sharp intake of breath and then


"Oh. My. God. There's a girl."

And I said (hands over ears)

lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala


at the top of my lungs. It didn't work. I still heard him.


Later, I casually asked Sasquatch if he were starting to consider the whole girl thing. He casually asked me why I casually asked. I casually said oh no particular reason and he casually told me that this wasn't a subject he was comfortable talking about. I casually mentioned that if and when he felt like talking he should know that he could always talk to me about whatever he wanted to. He casually said he knew that and we both casually went on to our respective rooms.


I didn't hyperventilate until I closed my door. This is not going to be pretty. It almost makes me long for the Terrible Two's. (Note I said almost). This is not a kid who takes any kind of personal interaction well unless it always goes entirely his way. As I've said before, he makes cinder blocks look flexible. He can be a big exposed nerve ending at times, just waiting to erupt over a slight - real or imagined. He does not deal with rejection well. And he's sensitive as hell and takes everything personally even (or especially) when he shouldn't.


Oh. My. God. Is there a girl?


lalalalala...oh hell.


The next morning Surfer Dude took the baton for his leg of the relay. As he and Gumby were getting ready to go to school he decided, for reasons known only to himself, to teepee his brother. There was toilet paper everywhere. Then he gave him an atomic wedgie. So here comes Gumby, with toilet paper wrapped around his head and the waistband of his boxers up past his ribs, into the kitchen to show me what his brother had done. As he's pointing out various atrocities, Surfer Dude comes in to admire his handiwork. I'm not sure if this is common knowledge, but it's very hard to talk seriously to someone who has his underwear migrating that far north. I was trying very hard not to laugh, because at this point even though it was annoying it was still slightly amusing.


Then SD upped the stakes. When I told them both to knock it off, he developed an attitude as big as my laundry pile and said that I always blame him for everything. He went on, clearly itching for a battle. Evidently, I never blame Gumby for anything and only see what I want to see and always jump on people without having my facts straight and if I were any kind of a mother at all I would be able to see that things are not always what they seem. Gumby, toilet paper mummy mask and migrating boxer band still evident, stood listening.


I said that I'm quite aware that Gumby can be an instigator and that he certainly didn't need to stand still long enough for SD to teepee him and that I'm sure that there are two sides to every story, and that's why I told them both to knock it off. Not just one. Both. He claimed I never said that. Claimed I jumped in with both feet and laid all the blame at his feet. Stood there in all his Taurus bullishness and said that he was sick and tired of being blamed for everything that happens in this house and that I need to "stop talking and listen for a change."


The sound you might have heard Thursday morning was not, in fact, a sonic boom. It was me. Telling my youngest child in no uncertain terms that, in my mother's infamous words THIS WOULD NOT DO. At all. And then, so help me, the kid stuck his fingers in his ears while I was talking to him and I went ballistic. Before I knew it we were having a knock down drag out argument right there in the kitchen. And it was barely eight in the morning, for the love of god. He stomped off upstairs and refused to speak to me the rest of the morning.
It didn't bother me. I didn't much want to talk to him either.

On the way out to school I noticed he'd forgotten his planner on the kitchen counter. You know, the one that his rotten mother always reminds him to put in his backpack? Not today, buddy. You're on your own. And you'd better not even think about calling to see if I'll drop it off either.


Grrrrr.....


My dogs, on the other hand, were angelic during this entire exchange. I barely even noticed them sneaking the remains of the kid's breakfast off their plates while we went nine rounds in the kitchen. Great. Something tells me there's waffle puke in my future.


Feel better, laurie??