The kids have both been telling us we’re “mean mommy and mean daddy” lately, to which I say, “VICTORY!!” with an elaborate old English accent, in a deep bow whilst fanning my plumed pirate hat.
You see, kids, we are mean, because you are little shit monsters. We are just trying to teach you how to make good decisions so you don’t end up the bad kind of criminals. It is our job, our sanctified duty, to be mean. And it takes a lot of dedicated work to be this mean to you. A little appreciation would be nice, actually.
I love you. I’m proud of you. I cherish you. And, sincerely, you are a shit monster.
I don’t actually relish screaming at tiny people. I’ve never approached an elf or a leprechaun with ill will. I have no beef with gymnasts or jockeys. My eyeball-popping hollering, and my punitive withdrawal of all the fun things in this world, is reserved for you and your monstering.
The 3 y/o tonight told me to ‘ZIP YOUR LIP’ and later cut out the fun rhyme and just told me to ‘SHUT UP.’
The 5 y/o keeps misbehaving in kindergarten, and when he then has to pay the consequence for getting marked down on the behavioral color chart, and loses privileges for a night, he’s mad at me.
What the what-ness?!?
He has an orange day for talking out of turn and not keeping his hands to himself, and I’m the mean one? Really.
Bless those teachers, for making the “needs improvement” colors yellow and orange instead of “poop brown” and “bile green” like you know they really feel about the whole thing.
I don’t have much more of a point to this post other than self-congratulations and self-pity and an all around, “I feel ya,” if anyone else out there is a mean mommy or daddy and living with shit monsters.
I just keep thinking about how good chocolate cake acts as a sponge for red wine.