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Just a Quick Interlude

First, thank you all so much for voting for me in the Cannonballs. Guess what? I won!

I am currently basking in my slightly-above-average mediocrity. Later I’ll be basking in vodka, too, which will just tie this day together in a neat little bow of triumph and tragedy.

I know you’re all on the edge of your seats, wondering if we did indeed become a victim of the American version of Ebola (minus the whole pesky spewing blood thing) and if the house in which we reside is currently under a giant yellow government-funded circus tent with “QUARANTINE — THESE KIDS WILL SERIOUSLY PUKE ON YOU” written on it.

But you’re not going to find out if that’s the case today.

Today, I just have to pop in quickly to say the following.

On the day they sent me home from the hospital with Sienna, I got very panicky. The nurse said, “You’re free to go home now!” and I said, “Are you kidding? I can’t take care of this baby. What am I going to do when I can’t send her back to the nursery?” Luckily the Ogre was there, and he grimaced at me, grimaced at the nurse, swept up the baby-filled car-seat and stomped off to be the adult in our lives.

At that moment, I was glad he had chosen that role to play, so I didn’t have to.

At this moment, I wonder when it was that I suddenly became enough of a grown up to deal with sand in a little girl’s nether regions and a baby boy who won’t get his fingers off his penis no matter what else is coming out of it.

Seriously, why? Why, oh my children, are you such savages?

Look, I say to my daughter. This is a civilized (erm, ish) country. You can’t just shovel sand down your underwear when you’re in the sandbox because you want to see how much will fit. You just can’t do that. First, because it’s an extremely bizarre and strange thing to do. I know you’re small, though, so I’ll forgive you your inability to realize that your behavior qualifies you for some intense psychotherapy sessions. Let’s move on to reason two. You see those tears that are rolling down your cheeks? You hear those wails that are coming from your mouth? That’s reason #2 why you shouldn’t shove sand down your underwear. Because it hurts. It hurt when you did the same thing last week, and it hurts again today. And it will continue hurting each and every time you choose to do something that foolish. So please stop.

And then I turn to my son, who has both hands shoved gleefully down what is most certainly, given the smell, and extremely dirty diaper and I say, “NO!” Because, well, he’s thirteen months old and pretty much anything I say sounds like this to him:

Image by Allie Bosh of Hyperbole and a Half

And then I clean them up, because no one else is going to do it. And after all, I can’t just leave them like that.

Can I?

  • http://www.blogger.com/profile/16611831851691954605 Christian Mathis

    I hurl myself at your cosmic excellence!

  • http://www.blogger.com/profile/05354424704358588553 lissla lissar

    My very favourite part is when they run away, laughing, with their diapers leaking everywhere, and then smear all the furniture.Does anyone else's kid also rub his nipples compulsively? It is making me nuts. He also, of course, plays with himself whenever he's got his pants off, but really- he's almost four and will have one hand down his pants and one up his shirt, and he's embarrassing to have in public. Pass the vodka. Wait- no, I'm pregnant. Drat.

  • http://www.blogger.com/profile/07632005486245515873 Calah

    Hahaha, Fr. Mathis, still cracking up about that. Lissla-not mine, but I've seen it happen. Children are savages. Seriously. Adorable most of the time, but totally inappropriate all the time. Period.


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