I feel like I’ve been through a meat grinder: for some reason this weekend was exhausting and I don’t know why. But you know there is something up when two adults and a baby are all out like lights before 10 pm. But there are books in bookcases; the house is clean-ish; there’s clean laundry; the furniture is rearranged; the neighbors wrapped the party up at 11; and we watchedThe Gumball Rally while drinking beer from World Market
This is a roundabout way of explaining why I haven’t posted in a little bit. Sort of.
Herr Meow is now sporting two white crests that make a very cute “ping!” whenever they crash against glasses or other hard objects. In a moment of weird baby kinkiness, he was trying out his choppers very gently on my big toe: these are the kinds of moments you can always use as child extortion when they won’t behave 14 years from now.
Today I got an email from something called Birthday Alarm. Apparently I was foolish enough at some point in time to ask it to remind me of my upcoming birthday. The message read something like, “Her birthday is coming up on Sepember 4th. She will be 30 years old.”
This whole third person bit was a little extra unsettling; almost as if it weren’t my birthday anymore. In a way it was almost liberating. And I gotta say THANK YOU to all the nice responses I’ve gotten regarding my whiny “Elvis Died! I’ll be 30! Wah!” piece. You all are lovely! I have a quote for you all, in gratitude: “There is no age to the soul.”
(Unless you don’t have a soul, which could pose a problem)
Here is another entry in the Momzilla Hall Of Shame; one which my husband kept bringing up ever so often yesterday. I may be the one risking life and limb in chronicling these momzillas, but it’s really the Monsieur Meow who relishes in their momzilla-ness and catalogues them. So this one has a dedication: to Monsieur Meow, who will hopefully prevent me from becoming a momzilla.
The other day we were at a family-style restaurant serving traditional Italian fare and which gets no respect for being truly, truly delicious and quite affordable. As usual, it was the Monsieur, the Herr and the Madame à table.
in one of those Twilight Zone twists, another family consisting of a dad, mom and young boy sat directly across the aisle from us; their sitting arrangement was placed in a way that seeing them was like looking in a blond (and dysfunctional) mirror.
The family of three were Morose, Hen-Pecked Dad, Momzilla in 80s Leggings, and… Carson.
We know Carson because his momzilla would utter the name over and over, loudly and in exasperation. And every time she’d repeat it, she’d extend the name more and more, until it was clocking in at 2 minutes, 37 seconds, on average.
“Carson. Carrrrrrrr-son. Caaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-SYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYN. CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-SOH-HOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Carson looked — to us on the other side of the mirror– to be a friendly, sweet, helpful and inquisitive six-year old. He kept on asking questions and trying to tell jokes. When Herr Meow spilled a glass full of water and ice, little Carson raced over to help the busboy clean up. Later, he picked up one of the baby’s toys off the floor.
He ate his dinner relatively quietly; he did not play with his food. He didnot shout or scream or run wild. Later, when his parents were just sitting around and possibly fighting at a decibel level only audible by ants, he did get up using the old “under the table” routine (a personal favorite when I was little). And yes, he started playing with his chair because he was delighted that it had wheels. Do your dining room chairs have wheels? For the most part, I don’t think so.
Every time Carson did anything like what I’ve listed, his mother would sigh, roll her eyes back and spit the child’s name furiously. And Carson would try to say something to defend himself. And the dad would just give her a withering look or try to defend Carson feebly. But most of the time he said nothing.
“But mom, I’m bored.”
“But mom, it has wheels!”
“But mom, I did say please!”
That was the one that did it to me, you see: because I had been listening in (as if you wouldn’t!) and I knew poor Carson was telling the truth.
On the other side of the mirror, however, “No you didn’t! And STOP SAYING ‘MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY’ every five seconds!”
When they left, she apologized on his behalf. I repiled that he was a sweet and well-behaved boy. I don’t think she heard me.
I’ll give her a minor benefit of the doubt.
I haven’t yet heard Herr Meow say “mommy” and mean it, so I don’t know just how viciously annoying it can get.
But I suspect that if it should ever get annoying, I can always be kinder to Meowie than Carson’s mom was ever to him.
Or I can only hope.