My son will hate me when he grows up.
All kids hate their parents, but mine’s discovered The Blog. He can read now. He sneaks up behind me just as silently as when he’s trying to steal my passwords and says, “MOMMY, are you BLOGGING about me?” He gets really mad. I tell him I can’t help it. I have to write. It’s in my soul.
“You have an awful soul, Mommy! Delete it!” Since I can’t delete my soul, I think he must mean my writings, but neither are going to happen.
I’m a parent–I write to balance karma. Kids challenge our sanity from birth till age 18 or 30 or whenever they move out of the house. Too many parents stand by helplessly, enduring those years of being hijacked by short and crawling people–by tantrums, sleepless nights, the public embarrassment, the requirement to watch the same shows and play the same games over and over like Clockwork Orange.
I can’t stand by passively. I write.
I write to balance the scales for the times Declan’s made me search in vain for rocks to crawl under. Recently, for example, he announced a bathroom emergency on the road requiring the geolocation of a public bathroom. He found a stall, locked himself in, and soundtracked the entire experience, shouting, “I’m constipated,” informing the rapidly forming line of the play by play, sound effects included.
There was the time he said, “Excuse me, why is your belly so LARGE?” to a cashier. I took him aside and corrected him. His response? “I’m not being rude. I said ‘excuse me.'” “Why is your nose so big,” wasn’t covered by the rule, apparently, because it was a nose, not a belly.
I hope I never see these people again, but it’s Rhode Island–you can spit in the wind and hit two other states and international waters. The only way to hide from people is to drive myself into one of the potholes for which the state’s famous and stay in China forever.
No one is exempt from the tyranny of kids. I assure you they turn on the hand that feeds them. The other day, I had a shower cap on. I stepped outside to check the mail. Declan lurked and waited until the moment I got into the street, then pounced, “Hey everyone! Look at my mom. She looks ridiculous!”
One day, he found a magnifying glass and was looking at all manner of things small. He put the glass up to my necklace. “Oh, are you looking at Mommy’s lotus necklace?” my friend asked. He was a little off target, squinting really hard.
“Nope. I’m looking for Mommy’s chest.” It may be true that a brassiere worn inside-out would have no effect on me, but still, kid, give me a break.
So, I write this blog for parents everywhere–for the moms who scream loud at every basketball game, the parents who pick kids up right in front of school in old family car, the mom who kisses her middle schooler in public… I used to think you were mean. Now, I understand.
Declan tells me if I blog about him again he’ll attack me until I look like a flat whoopee cushion. I tell him I’m going to write that and tell his fans.
“I don’t want fans. Delete it!”
“Well, tell my fans I pick my nose and eat it. Then, I won’t have fans!” I tell him that statement could backfire on him if it’s true. I hope it’s not.
But it’s my duty to record these stories for you parents everywhere and let you know you have rights! Don’t let your kid embarrass you! Blog. Write a book. Bring out the baby pictures before prom.
Someday, I’ll organize these posts and give them to The Boy in much the same fashion as my mom gave me my baby book. The only difference is my baby book was sweet and this blog takes a different approach. I hope Declan enjoys being the protagonist for a few more years. Eventually, I’ll pass on the baton and he can go on to embarrass kids of his own.