Why Kids Should Come With Disclaimers

It’s a longish title I admit but sometimes you have such a doozy of a week that you just need to get it out of your system and can’t be bothered by the aesthetics of formatting or “optimum” title lengths. Apparently blogging tip#1 is that one needs to keep the title ‘short and punchy‘ to attract more readers.

My kid is 10 years old. He acts half his age at times and then there are other times when I have no idea what he’s acting like except that it A-N-N-O-Y-S me.

Blogging tip#2- occasional allcaps in the midst of a post lends some gravitas and also attracts attention.

Anyhoo…for those who have arrived late onto this particular blog, I chiefly write about my kid. Why? Because he fills up my world rather like the John Denver’s Annie Song but in a less melodious way at times. Blogging tip#3- it’s easiest to write about what you know and see around you so I kinda didn’t have a choice when it came to my topic of blogs since being a M-O-M is pretty much all I do. Note: a effective use of tip#2 in the preceding line.

Another anyhoo- this past week TO and I have been butting heads quite a bit. It’s almost as if his agenda for the week was let’s see how much my mother’s head can swell before it explodes or how high she can screech before she hits a frequency only dogs and bats can hear. I think he hit his targets pretty often and that’s why there were loud popping noises coming from the direction of our house a few times this week and often dogs in the community were seen running around in a frenzied state looking for the source of the noise that left their hoomans mystified.

There is usually a good amount of push and pull when one wants to get a kid out of bed in the mornings. But being told off by a buck-toothed midget that I should come back later because I’m disturbing his dreams, isnt a way I like to start off my week.

This continued for a few days with TO shooing me off like I was a pesky bug on occasion as well. All of which my ego withstood admirably. Since my ego was coming a poor second to my eyes which were firmly fixed on the clock that was counting down the minutes till the school bus came.

Imagine this- you get a super reluctant kid out of bed only to have him lollygag on the livingroom couch as if it’s a weekend siesta. You then kick his butt into the bathroom only to see him stare off into space with gormless look on his face for another precious five minutes more.

You get him on the Express brushing schedule and drag his body to the dining table where his milk has been impatiently waiting for him. There he contemplates the glass of milk as one would the mysteries of the universe and then, after another irreplaceable 10 minutes have gone by, asks the one question you did *not* expect, “Ayu…how do you say the name for Thor’s hammer?”

You instinctively start to answer before you realize that in the next seven and a half minutes your kid has to finish his milk, poop, bathe and meet the bus-a short walk away.

That’s when your inner Hulk breaks loose and you think some rather painful thoughts about where Thor could stick his hammer and get into the shrieking banshee mode.

You think the weekend is going to be better however it’s anything but bereft of drama.

So for all the parents out there who aren’t always looking at your flesh and blood with undiluted love oozing from your pores; fret not. You aren’t the only ones who fantasize about having a catapult that would fling the brat to a galaxy far, far away.

S-I-G-H.

P.S: I haven’t even tackled the mad rush we get into when there’s just 2 minutes left on the clock and someone realizes that he hasn’t packed everything he needs for school day that. There’s not enough Xanax in the world to counter that.

Parents Vs. Kids…Tis A Losing Battle

Ever since my kid’s been old enough to blink he’s had me in the palm of his hand. There was no one more fragile, delicate, beautiful than he. Even now, although far from being a baby, he’s still the most beautiful face I’ve beheld; in my humble opinion.

And because he knows his power over his parents, especially moi, it often leads to tres annoying situations where I wish I could spank that bottom cherry tomato red. And then immediately feel guilty for thinking it. Aargh!

Today’s interaction went like this. I was being stern because he’d decorated the inside of his school van with PURPLE CRAYON. Big. Long. Purple. Squiggles. Wiggles. All . Over. The. Inside. Makes my head hurt to think about it.

The driver was understandably miffed and conveyed his miffedness to me with clipped tones and showed me my offspring’s handiwork. The culprit in question bounded from the vehicle with joy and cheer for all mankind and said big, magnanimous goodbyes all around and regally went his way home.

Realizing after a few seconds of silence that his mother wasn’t pestering him with the usual rapidfire questions about school and what he’d eaten, the brat started an interrogation of his own. This is how our conversation went:

MLM: Why you not talking?

Me: I’m upset.

MLM: Why you upset? Wha happan? (not typos, the kid talks like that).

Me: You made a mess all over the van. That was very naughty. Poor School-Van Uncle will have to clean it all up. More work for him. That wasn’t nice at all.

MLM: I made pretty puhple snakes!! See…they go (makes undulating gestures with hands).

Me: You are ONLY supposed to use crayons on paper. NOT the FLOOR and not the VAN.

MLM: You angry? (kind of tentatively asked)

Me: Yes. I’m upset. You never listen to your mother!

MLM: Nooo…I LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER!! (protesting his innocence)

Me: (trying to cover up my laughter in snorts..) I mean you don’t listen to ME…I’m your MOTHER, Einstein!

MLM: You want a kiss? (puckers up)

Me: NO I DON’T! I don’t kiss naughty boys.

MLM: You want hug then?

Me: Just go bathe and get that purple color off your face and hands and think about why I’m angry and what you’ve done…(steam coming out of my ears)

And the gurgling laughter of a brat who jumped into the shower greets me while he happily sings, “London Bitch Is Falling Down”.

You. Just. Can’t. Win.