April 10, 2013
I want to devour the unborn.
I recently ran across a post written by a server at a diner. She was writing about a conversation she’d had with a customer at her restaurant. She walked up to a mother and her son, age approximately eight, and asked what they’d like. Boy “I will devour the unborn!” Silence…silence as this was delivered in the voice only an eight year old male has the ability to produce, high, clear and authoritative. The entire place went silent. The mother, looking up at her server with utter humiliation quietly stated “Eggs. He wants eggs.”
Oh, honey, I’ve been there.
My children have all embarrassed the hell out of me to varying degrees. It’s as though it is part of the job description of a child “make your parents want to crawl under a rock. Preferably at top volume.” The honest child is the reason for the alcoholic mother. I’m sure of it. And today, thinking of that mother’s horror, I thought I’d share some of my little beast’s greatest hits.
Girl Child, at age six, had golden ringlets that reached to her waist. She had (has) the biggest blue eyes known to man. On this day as we walked into a Kentucky Fried Chicken to pick up dinner (my husband’s favorite, don’t judge) she was wearing a pink princess dress, tutu and all…the picture of innocence. Until she opened her mouth. In front of us in line was a very, very large woman. As in Jillian Michaels may not even be able to help large. Said woman ordered a great deal of food. My angel, in her angel voice at top volume (it always is when these things happen) said “Mom? Mom, I thought fat people weren’t supposed to eat fried food! Why is that fat lady eating fried chicken if she’s so fat?” Oh. My. God. I wanted to sink into the f-ing floor. I couldn’t run, Atilla the Chicken Eater had already turned around and was glaring at me…so I did my best to stammer an apology, turned to devil-wears-tutus and said “Honey, it’s not your place or anyone’s to tell someone what to eat. And baby, you know better than to make comments about people’s looks. It isn’t polite.” I then looked at my watch, exclaimed “Oh! We’re late!” walked out, drove to another KFC, got dinner and went home…because honest to God I couldn’t stand there another second.
This same little angel, not a month later, was at the grocery store with me. A very large (as in body-builder large) man was in the female sanitary aisle. Now, to me this means this guy is boyfriend of the year. My daughter rewarded his stellar behavior with the following: As I grabbed my tampax, my dearest girl called out to him “Hi!”…she was darling, and he smiled back. The she said, all in short order with no pause and in a very serious tone “why are you looking at tampons? Tampons are only for ladies. My Mommy says so. Are you a lady? You have man clothes, but you do have big lady boobies. Are you just a big lady? Some men want to be ladies. I saw it on the TV at my Nana’s house. Do you want to be a lady? Is that why you buy tampons?” OH SH!T. I stammered (something I’ve gotten good at doing) “Baby, it’s, ummm, it’s not polite to ask people about what they’re buying.” Mouthed an “I’m so, so sorry” to He-Man and bolted for the register.
Fast forward a year. You’d think I would be smart enough to never, ever go anywhere in public with children, but sometimes life necessitates it. My youngest was five. We took him to a Vikings Football game. My husband brought him to the restroom, at the Metrodome this is pretty much a large metal trough, and returned fifteen minutes later practically in tears. As my husband told me through clenched teeth on our way home, the boy approached the trough, dad informed him that he shouldn’t drop his jeans all the way to his ankles as the floor was dirty. Baby OCD looked around the restroom and demanded to know “Who peed on the floor?! Which of you peed on the floor?! Are you animals?!” I share this part as it’s how he got the entire restroom’s attention before dad quieted him down, got him to ready, aim fire and all was well…until a man took position next to him. Apparently, this guy was Ron Jeremy’s long-lost brother. The five-year old was impressed. “Wow! That’s a HUGE penis! Dad! You have got to see this penis! I thought yours was the biggest ever but this is HUGE! It’s so much bigger than yours! Dad, look!” Now, my poor husband couldn’t just run away, his five-year old was in there, mid-stream. He couldn’t do anything but stand there and whisper “I’m not looking at his penis. Damn it, hurry up. Hurry. Up. Now.” Our dear son would not be swayed, he persisted “But, Dad! It’s the biggest penis ever! Hurry before he’s done!” He couldn’t grab the boy and bail, the boy’s pants were down. He had to endure the other twenty guys laughing themselves sick, wait for baby boy to finish, wash hands and walk away bringing him to me, who was then told the story of the huge penis by our dear son, at top volume…to the delight of everyone in our section. I married a saint. This is proven by the fact that our youngest has been allowed to celebrate five more birthdays.
There are dozens of other examples of my children’s mission to murder us…death by humiliation…but three should do for one post. Remember, the next time you see/hear a terrible child, remember there is a parent wishing they could run and hide…and have some sympathy.