mom you're the worst
"Mom, you're the worst."
He says it with a voice deepened by the presence of a hot wad of peanut butter and whole wheat bread.
"Yeah," the other one agrees. "The worst. AH! HA! HA!" He punctuates my verdict with his "monster laugh,"
Don't worry, this post isn't going to be about how sad I got when my kids told me I was the worst.
Honestly, that shit doesn't bother me at all. If anything, I consider it a compliment. It means I'm giving them appropriate boundaries, and that they are responding to those boundaries with feelings that they feel comfortable expressing without the words "poop," "witch," "stinky bottom," "slut," "welfare queen," "nagging wife," "shrill harpy," "dyke," "femenazi," or "goddamned whore."
In the entire lexicon of words used to attempt to put women down, "the worst" is, quite simply, not.
What bothers me is how badly I wanted to be like, "NUH UH YOU ARE."
Let me ask you something:
Person A asks for a sandwich.
Person B says, sure! What kind?
Person A screams, NO!
WHO in this situation is the worst?
Not sure?
OK, let me throw another hypothetical out for you!
Person A wants a Paw Patrol.
Person B agrees that a Paw Patrol would be outstanding.
Person C says no and puts the iPad on a high shelf because Persons A and B have been extra murdery this afternoon and Paw Patrol will only fertilize the psychosis.
FINAL QUESTION:
Person A has a cold and both feels and looks how one imagines one might on day 3 of an Ebola colonization... you know, the day when you're thinking, "this is either a hemorrhagic fever that's going to liquefy my organs and cause me to bleed out through both my eyeballs and asshole... or it's the sniffles. I guess we'll know more tomorrow. I'mma take some zinc."
Instead of using the precious hour or so of downtime in the middle of the day to take a nap, as would be wise, Person A folds a shitload of laundry because Person B mentioned that he/she was out of "soft pants," (and Person C chimed in, "I'm out of the good jammas!") when they got dressed to go to the Children's Museum this morning.
Person B wakes up from his/her nap, walks into the dining room, and pushes over a stack of neatly folded toddler shirts.
Person C has only one set of "good jammas." And it changes every day. If all the jammas aren't clean every single day, then the one set of jammas still in the hamper crusted with yesterday's oatmeal is invariably the only set of jammas that will not cause my son - sorry, Person C - to spontaneously self-immolate.
WHO, MAY I ASK, IS THE WORST??? It's a two-way tie, and here's a hint - it's not an A.
Nah, they're not the worst. And neither am I. They're just 2.5 and 4.5, and I'm sick.
Enjoy every minute, they said.
He says it with a voice deepened by the presence of a hot wad of peanut butter and whole wheat bread.
"Yeah," the other one agrees. "The worst. AH! HA! HA!" He punctuates my verdict with his "monster laugh,"
Don't worry, this post isn't going to be about how sad I got when my kids told me I was the worst.
Honestly, that shit doesn't bother me at all. If anything, I consider it a compliment. It means I'm giving them appropriate boundaries, and that they are responding to those boundaries with feelings that they feel comfortable expressing without the words "poop," "witch," "stinky bottom," "slut," "welfare queen," "nagging wife," "shrill harpy," "dyke," "femenazi," or "goddamned whore."
In the entire lexicon of words used to attempt to put women down, "the worst" is, quite simply, not.
What bothers me is how badly I wanted to be like, "NUH UH YOU ARE."
Let me ask you something:
Person A asks for a sandwich.
Person B says, sure! What kind?
Person A screams, NO!
WHO in this situation is the worst?
Not sure?
OK, let me throw another hypothetical out for you!
Person A wants a Paw Patrol.
Person B agrees that a Paw Patrol would be outstanding.
Person C says no and puts the iPad on a high shelf because Persons A and B have been extra murdery this afternoon and Paw Patrol will only fertilize the psychosis.
Who's the worst? Don't think too hard, just the first thing that pops into your mind.
Still scratching your head?
You might have lice!
But just to be sure, let's do another one:
Person A calls out from behind the bedroom door, "Mommy I carved something for you!"
Person A should not have anything in the room with which to carve.
Person B starts to sweat.
Person B opens the door to find:
 |
| he had in fact carved a ring out of a Ritz cracker which begs the question where did he find a cracker in my bedroom |
Person B says, "Thank you, Person A. That is really kind of you. I love it. Let's get the vacuum and clean up this mess."
WHO IS THE WORST? (Actually, nobody in that one. It was pretty nice of him to make me a handcrafted piece of jewelry/snack. And it was pretty nice of me to not be like "WHAT THE FUCK." So we both did #kindness with that one.)
Person A has a cold and both feels and looks how one imagines one might on day 3 of an Ebola colonization... you know, the day when you're thinking, "this is either a hemorrhagic fever that's going to liquefy my organs and cause me to bleed out through both my eyeballs and asshole... or it's the sniffles. I guess we'll know more tomorrow. I'mma take some zinc."
Instead of using the precious hour or so of downtime in the middle of the day to take a nap, as would be wise, Person A folds a shitload of laundry because Person B mentioned that he/she was out of "soft pants," (and Person C chimed in, "I'm out of the good jammas!") when they got dressed to go to the Children's Museum this morning.
Person B wakes up from his/her nap, walks into the dining room, and pushes over a stack of neatly folded toddler shirts.
Person C has only one set of "good jammas." And it changes every day. If all the jammas aren't clean every single day, then the one set of jammas still in the hamper crusted with yesterday's oatmeal is invariably the only set of jammas that will not cause my son - sorry, Person C - to spontaneously self-immolate.
WHO, MAY I ASK, IS THE WORST??? It's a two-way tie, and here's a hint - it's not an A.
Nah, they're not the worst. And neither am I. They're just 2.5 and 4.5, and I'm sick.
Enjoy every minute, they said.