After reading the last post’s link about endless Mother Guilt, I thought, Screw it. I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and gosh darn it, my children haven’t killed each other yet.
TELL US NOT TO EAT OUR BROCCOLI! TELL US NOT TO EAT OUR RICE! they kept yelling throughout dinner. I told them, “Don’t you dare eat that broccoli! Don’t anybody eat anything GREEN OR HEALTHY!”
At which point they shoveled broccoli into their mouths and Hattie Belle mumble-yelled, OH NO DON’T PUT ME IN THE DUNGEON FOREVER!
After they were done not-supposed-to-be-eating their broccoli, I said, “Okay, go away. Go play in a dark corner. Mommy has to clean the kitchen.” They stared at me in wonder, then bolted.
I locked myself safely in the kitchen behind the dog gate, and sat on the filthy kitchen floor with my back against the filthy cabinets, listening to Lily Allen’s “Everything’s Just Wonderful” over and over on my laptop. Which tickles me to no end.
Meanwhile, they ran around playing “Snaky Pull,” which involves dangerous towing of one another with Mommy’s old fleece scarf. This is why 1950s mothers shooed the kids outside to play and pretended to clean the kitchen after dinner, but they didn’t have Lily Allen, poor dears.
I stayed on the floor, moved on to The Weepies, who really should be the Official Band of Breed ‘Em and Weep. If you know either of the Weepies, can you put them in touch with me? Maybe they can come sit at my kitchen table and play directly to me next week while I feed them Clif Bars and beer.
Meanwhile my hellions screeched and narrowly missed braining their temples in doorframes. When they cried, I listened for the sound of blood bouncing off walls. Didn’t hear any. They worked it out. I like this new-old parenting style.
Bedtime was a rather loose affair, in many ways. They were starting to melt down. I decided to George Costanza my way through this as well. I asked the H-Bomb if she wanted to take off all her clothes and run around and scream some more.
NOBODY DOOS THIS! THIS IS GREAT! NOBODY DOOS THIS! she shrieked while jumping up and down and ripping off her clothes. UNDERPANTS TOO?
“Sure, kid,” I said.
Her sister got in on the act too. I kept my clothes on, if you’re wondering, you with minds filthier than my cabinets and kitchen floor, which is—er—no one. Never mind.
Then I yelled LET’S SEE WHO CAN! I never finished my sentence. Just, LET’S SEE WHO CAN! Ran out of steam. But I pointed at the toilets (big, and little) and they decided on their own it was a peeing race. Hattie finished first and pumped her fist in the air from the toilet. I WON! YEAAAHH!
Sophie looked worried, so we pumped her fist too and had her yell, I LOST! YEAAAHHHH!!
Then I brushed their teeth by telling them to scream as loud as they wanted, while I dodged their tongues and scrubbed and listened to the sound of my own eardrums popping.
Which put us in good stead for American Idol. “I don’t feel like reading books or telling stories tonight, okay? Let’s watch singers and pretty bright lights and a really mean guy from England!” said George Costanza mommy. We put on nightgowns for that. In other words, I gave up on bedtime. Completely. Let them watch everything, even the scary commercials for Disturbia and 24.
I LIKE HER SHOES! I LIKE THE GIRLS! I LIKE GIRLS! yelled Hattie. She YELLS EVERYTHING, LOUDER THAN ETHEL MERMAN AND MICK JAGGER’S LOVE CHILD WOULD YELL. I am always thinking about love children and what they would look like. I have many afflictions.
“I think she needs to gain weight,” said Sophie in a concerned voice, about one of the singers, a voluptuous somber soul. I scowled and said, “Wait, do you mean you think she needs to lose weight?”
“Yeah. She’s a little fat.”
This is new, and not good, not good at all. I said, “No way. Uh-uh. She’s beautiful. She looks like what a real woman is supposed to look like. Check me out, chicks.”
I yanked up my shirt to refresh their memory. It’s been quite some time since they were nursing, and clearly they’d forgotten what a real chick looks like. They examined my rack up close and personal. I squeezed my tummy flesh. “See? Grab some of that. You lived there. It’s an ex-cell-ent neighborhood.”
Sophie squinted at the screen, back at the woman’s heaving bazoombas, packed into a green cocktail dress. “They don’t look like yours.”
I mashed mine together, for maximum cleavage effect. “Behold, children. THIS, my daughters, is your future. This is REAL. This is perfect. We’re all perfect.”
“Except NOBODY is perfect,” said serious Soph, ever wise.
“Well…good point…I mean…this is healthy. The size of your body doesn’t matter as long as you’re healthy.”
Then I remembered one high-school boyfriend of mine, who used to describe pretty girls as “The Talent” or “Very Healthy.” I decided to drop the whole thing, along with my shirt. Which would have worked fine except a Victoria’s Secret ad came on.
THAT YOUR BRA! yelled Ethel/Mick Baby.
“I like your sparkly gold one. Can I have it someday?” asked Soph.
“That one will be retired by then.”
H. was tearing at my shirt like a wild cougar, eager to check out the goods again. “Ouch, no, WE DON’T SQUEEZE THOSE,” howled I. “Don’t you remember? NO SQUEEZING.”
At this point I became concerned that Child Protective Services might be on our front porch taking notes. So after one punky young woman sang a heartbreakingly off rendition of “Paint It Black” (even my Ethel/Mick creature had no love for it), I plopped my girl-children into their beds.
Hattie protested, wailing, I DON’T KNOW HOW TO SLEEP VERY WELL! I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING TO SLEEP! I MISS DADDY VERY MUCH [the daddy we had just seen at dinner, and would be seeing very shortly] AND I DON’T KNOW HOW TO SLEEP!”
“I’ll check on you soon,” I said. “I know you can do it.”
And you know, she did.
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