I am so very lucky to be blessed with such smart, healthy kids. I am infinitely proud of their inquisitive natures and their burning quest for knowledge--but it CAN be completely exhausting. At times, our "conversations" seem more like brutal inquests, where I'm pummeled with a barrage of seemingly irrelevant non sequiturs. My responses are adamantly demanded but almost immediately ignored or forgotten, like I'm being interrogated by a good cop/bad cop team of head injury patients suffering from short-term memory loss. Take, for instance, this morning's trip to the furniture store...
[As I'm backing out of the driveway...]
Older Kid: Mommy?
Me: Yes?
Older Kid: Where are we going?
Me: To the furniture store.
Older Kid: Is it far away?
Dammit. Here we go...
Me: Maybe 10 minutes.
[I cut through neighborhood and get stopped at the red light before turning onto the highway; I enjoy about 1.5 seconds of silence]
Younger Kid: Mommy?
Me: Yes?
Younger Kid: Mommy......hey, Mommy?
Me: YES.
Younger Kid: Did a bird poop on that dress one time?
Me: Yes. A bird did poop on this dress once.
Younger Kid: When?
Me: A while ago.
Younger Kid: When?
Me: About 2 months ago, maybe?
Younger kid: Yesterday?
Jesus.
Me: JUNE. It was sometime in June.
[Older Kid tunes in and realizes an interrogation is underway without him]
Older Kid: What just happened to your dress?
Me: Nothing.
Older Kid: I thought you said a bird just pooped on it.
Me: Not today. A while ago.
Older Kid: When?
A hot, steamy afternoon in JUNE at...let's just say...3:15 PM. The wind was coming in from the northwest at 5 mph, the bird shat at a 45 degree angle and left a poop-spatter radius of who-the-hell-cares from my right clavicle.
Me: JUNE.
Younger Kid: Why it pooped on you?
Me: sigh... I don't know. Birds just poop sometimes.
Younger Kid: How you get the poop off?
Me: I washed it in the washing machine.
Younger Kid: Where?
Am I having a stroke? Am I speaking French?
Me: IN...THE...WASHING MACHINE.
Younger Kid: Why?
For F-sake. Really?
Me: BECAUSE THERE WAS POOP ON IT.
Older Kid: Did a bird really poop on your dress?
Me (barely containing my exasperation): Yes.
Older Kid: No it didn't.
What the F.
Me:Your brother remembers it.
[Younger kid chimes back in, having apparently forgotten the conversation HE started just 2 minutes previously]
Younger Kid: A bird pooped on your dress, Mommy?
Dear God.
Me: YES.
Older Kid: No, it didn't.
You're right. I lied. I just couldn't resist the gripping narrative quality of this made-up bird-poop dress story and HAD to make it my own.
Me: Fine. It didn't.
Younger Kid: Mommy?
Me: Yes?
Younger Kid: Mommy...hey, Mommy?
God help me.
Me: YESSSSSS.
Younger Kid: ....Where are we going?
To hell in a hand basket, apparently.
[The light turns green and we embark on our 10-minute journey up the road to the far-away furniture store, while Older Kid antagonizes Younger kid by whipping him in the face with a t-shirt he found between their car seats.]
ME: To the furniture store, buddy. To the (F-ing) furniture store.
[As I'm backing out of the driveway...]
Older Kid: Mommy?
Me: Yes?
Older Kid: Where are we going?
Me: To the furniture store.
Older Kid: Is it far away?
Dammit. Here we go...
Me: Maybe 10 minutes.
[I cut through neighborhood and get stopped at the red light before turning onto the highway; I enjoy about 1.5 seconds of silence]
Younger Kid: Mommy?
Me: Yes?
Younger Kid: Mommy......hey, Mommy?
Me: YES.
Younger Kid: Did a bird poop on that dress one time?
Me: Yes. A bird did poop on this dress once.
Younger Kid: When?
Me: A while ago.
Younger Kid: When?
Me: About 2 months ago, maybe?
Younger kid: Yesterday?
Jesus.
Me: JUNE. It was sometime in June.
[Older Kid tunes in and realizes an interrogation is underway without him]
Older Kid: What just happened to your dress?
Me: Nothing.
Older Kid: I thought you said a bird just pooped on it.
Me: Not today. A while ago.
Older Kid: When?
A hot, steamy afternoon in JUNE at...let's just say...3:15 PM. The wind was coming in from the northwest at 5 mph, the bird shat at a 45 degree angle and left a poop-spatter radius of who-the-hell-cares from my right clavicle.
Me: JUNE.
Younger Kid: Why it pooped on you?
Me: sigh... I don't know. Birds just poop sometimes.
Younger Kid: How you get the poop off?
Me: I washed it in the washing machine.
Younger Kid: Where?
Am I having a stroke? Am I speaking French?
Me: IN...THE...WASHING MACHINE.
Younger Kid: Why?
For F-sake. Really?
Me: BECAUSE THERE WAS POOP ON IT.
Older Kid: Did a bird really poop on your dress?
Me (barely containing my exasperation): Yes.
Older Kid: No it didn't.
What the F.
Me:Your brother remembers it.
[Younger kid chimes back in, having apparently forgotten the conversation HE started just 2 minutes previously]
Younger Kid: A bird pooped on your dress, Mommy?
Dear God.
Me: YES.
Older Kid: No, it didn't.
You're right. I lied. I just couldn't resist the gripping narrative quality of this made-up bird-poop dress story and HAD to make it my own.
Me: Fine. It didn't.
Younger Kid: Mommy?
Me: Yes?
Younger Kid: Mommy...hey, Mommy?
God help me.
Me: YESSSSSS.
Younger Kid: ....Where are we going?
To hell in a hand basket, apparently.
[The light turns green and we embark on our 10-minute journey up the road to the far-away furniture store, while Older Kid antagonizes Younger kid by whipping him in the face with a t-shirt he found between their car seats.]
ME: To the furniture store, buddy. To the (F-ing) furniture store.
Comments
Post a Comment