There was no assembly required for Son #1, and he didn’t come with instructions. As they sewed me back up on the table, he was was handed to me and all I could muster through tears and boogers was a lame head lean–our first touch. He had a mean set of black hair on his tiny little head and I thought, boy, I thought he’d be much cuter.
He’s really grown on me though over these past 5 years. He’s handsome. He’s bright. And he is always right. Always. Never wrong. Of course!
So much so that sometimes I don’t know how to respond. So much so that sometimes my feelings get hurt and I wonder–is this maternal to question the intentions of this punk ass five year old? I am of the mindset that kids don’t get spoiled because there must be a legitimate reason why he is being a total and complete asshole.
There must be a good reason, right?
I’m sure there is; however, explain that to me after cooking and sweating over something that he’s loved and salivated many a time only to be met with a stony resolve that what I made was “terrible” and “disgusting”. (I blame his UPK teacher for those words. Much easier to contend by blaming neutral parties.) Tell me being a prick at 5 years of age is normal when I’m late for work already and he decides that he doesn’t want a long sleeved t-shirt–but that stained short sleeved dinosaur t-shirt in the hamper waiting to be washed.
For someone who cannot wipe his own butt yet nor tie his own shoes, he has a lot of forethought to his fashion choices. Why did I not already know this? And obviously I have no idea what I’m talking about when I explained that the shampoo wouldn’t taste good and/or that it’s probably POISONOUS.
Yes, I must be doing something wrong–my holier than thou reader. You are amazing.
I am not.
Kids will be kids. Yes yes yes. All that. I get it. Kids are pieces of shit sometimes so just redirect, distract and essentially prepare for the worst. Be ON at all times OR ELSE!
You got questions for me? I am not that mom to ask. I am the one with questions because shit doesn’t make sense sometimes. How could someone so tiny command so much–signed, sealed and delivered? That was me on the surgery table during my c-section–signed, sealed, delivered with Son #1 screaming, “I’m yours!” on his way out.
Maybe that’s why I opted for a V-bac for Son #2. Just a little less reassembly but still no instruction manual.