The Great Spirit of Blogging
Inspect belly button for lint
Iron bed sheets
Inspect toilet again
Check belly button again
Let’s just skip to the last one, shall we?
Ah, summer. The Jedi are driving me batcrap insane. I’ve been having to haul them to my stepper-mom in the mornings while I go teach my classes and collect papers that I have yet to grade. On the way down there, the Jedi are fairly quiet in the backseat of the Porsh…er, Neon. It’s 7:00 in the morning. It’s summertime. They’re half-comatose.
On the way home….
You know, I was fine up until my 30’s. I used to say I was never, never having kids. People who had kids were not only stupid and had poor taste in movies (I mean Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? I want to watch that sh1t? And no, it’s not COOL. Unless STUPID is now a derivative of COOL) and were just poor in general. Also, their kids were grubby, and the smaller ones smelled like blue cheese.
But there’s something to that biological clock thing. Thirty comes and goes, and there’s me, thinking, “Well, I might like to have one.” So, I did that. And that one was so beautiful and perfect and charming, and then it started to grow, and it wasn’t a baby any more, and I thought, “This thing is wonderful, but I do miss those baby days.” Not only that, but the one looked so lonely riding in the backseat by itself. The one didn’t have anyone to play with unless we spent beaucoup amounts of time and moolah to take it to the Little Gym and Parents’ Day Out and Mom’s Club events. And frankly, you try spending a significant amout of time at Mom’s Club events and see if you don’t want to strangle every middle class bee-atch you see driving a Surburban, while sporting lacquered hair and French manicured nails. You’ll find yourself saying things like, “You talk about your fvcking automatic minivan door that isn’t working properly one more time, and I’m going to stuff your head in the trunk of a Neon and slam that trunk lid on your neck about fifty fvcking times!”
(Some bee-atches are so sensitive, you know? I mean, they’ll just kick you out of their goofy little club for almost ANYTHING, dahling).
So, I added a second one to the first one. Then the first one would have someone to play with, you know? And aren’t they cute playing that X-Box or their Legos together?
And fighting together.
Angels and ministers of grace….
My cousin was here the other day and told me I “got lucky with those two.”
“You have it pretty easy,” he said.
Yeah, well, come over HERE and say that, fathead!
He went on to explain that his kids, who are about 4 years apart (the Jedi are 2 1/2 years apart), a boy and a girl (the Jedi are both boys), fight from dawn ’til dusk.
Immediately, I start thinking of ways to deal with that:
A roll of quarters in a sock
Sending them into the bathrooms at Wal-Mart, then running like a crazed mo-fo to the nearest exit
Xanax hidden in Kool-aid (“Drink up, Bitches!”)
Massive dose of Benadryl at 6:00 p.m.
Oh, believe me, I could go on and on.
I mean, to listen to that crap from dawn ’til dusk?
The Jedi fight about 15-20% of the time. During summer breaks, that percentage may rise to as high as 25%. The problem is, that most of that fighting takes place in the back. seat. of. the. car.
“Mom, Obi-wan sneezed on me!”
“Mom, Anakin’s copying me!”
“Mom, Obi-wan won’t stop looking at me and laughing!”
“Mom, Anakin is picking his nose again!”
“Mom, Obi-wan put a tractor beam on my ship, and THAT’S NOT FAIR!”
Me: If you don’t SHUT UP this instant, I am going to pull over and SHOOT MYSELF IN THE HEAD!
Obi-wan (snorts): You don’t even have a gun.
Me: THEN I WILL BASH MYSELF IN THE HEAD WITH THAT TIRE IRON IN THE TRUNK!
Anakin: What’s a tire iron?
Obi-wan: I’m hungry.
Anakin: Can I see the tire iron?
Obi-wan: I’m thirsty.
Anakin: Are you going to pull over and get that tire iron out?
Obi-wan: I’m hot!
Anakin: I’m cold.
Me: I have a headache! (From bashing my forehead against the steering wheel, but I don’t tell them that, of course. Not that they are susceptible to the old guilt trip that my own mother perfected).
I”m thinking I’m really not all that crazy about summer, you know? You always think summer is going to come, and you’re going to relax and get some rest and catch up on your reading…. Nope. Not gonna happen. I wanted to work with the Jedi on their math skills. I wanted to plan some lessons for the fall and start out the next school year ahead of the game. Also, I like winter clothes better. Boots, sweaters, jeans, fitted jackets….
But, you know, I do admire the Obama parents for being willing to let their two girls speak on TV. I cringe to think of the Jedi in a similar situation. It would look something like this:
Anakin, in response to a question about whether or not his mother embarrasses him: No, I like to fart.
Obi-wan: He is the fart king.
Anakin: I am the fart king.
Obi-wan (to Anakin): Don’t touch me! I saw you picking your nose!
Anakin: Don’t make me bust your head with a tire iron.
And, then, it’s on.
This plays on CNN, MSNBC and FOX, etc., repeatedly all day….
Oh, those Obamas have to be pretty damned confident in those kids of theirs. Personally, I admire that confidence, that security in the knowledge that their kids aren’t going to publicly humiliate them.
Like in Denny’s. Saturday night. We’re the only people in there under 70, which is surprising since kids eat free. Suddenly, Anakin announces, in his high, clear, ringing voice: “I bet that guy over there has old man breath.”
Angels and ministers of grace….
Just get me through this fecking summer.