So lately my two year old has been swearing at me. Mostly me. Also sometimes Daddy.
He says "Fuckin you Mom!" when I'm telling him what to do or am in some way between him and the good times he could be having 24/7 if I would get off his toddler back. He always says it with his head down and even when he shouts it, it's sorta mumbled almost, if you can mumble without losing any clarity.
That's because that's the way he's heard it. Like say the power goes off for at least two seconds every thirty minutes and it frustrates me and I say "Fuckin' power!" with my head bent and at no one in particular.
We're mostly ignoring it. I think drawing attention to it just makes it worse AND I'll admit I'm not all that offended. It's in context. It's genuine. You really can't shoot a parrot when it sasses you. I have every confidence that he's intelligent enough that once he gains more impulse control he'll get it. It being the subtle nuances of language use and when and what's appropriate.
This morning I was on the telephone with my sister. Two Year Old was wallowing around on my lap. I heard him mutter "You butt" but figured it was just one of those toddler experiments with words. Here and there I was carrying on a conversation with both of them, together and separately when he said "You penis." Several times in varying degrees of authority.
A guttural snicker escaped me. "Did you hear that?" I asked my sister, bemused.
"I believe he just called you a penis" she confirmed.
"Where do you think he got that?" I wondered out loud. See, the swearing is clearly all me. When he can't get the trailer attached to the semi and he shouts "Dammit!" with his little forehead all furrowed, I know that can only come from me. A direct quote, if you will. I do not, however, have any memory of calling anyone a penis lately. Not that it would be out of this world if I did.
"You penis-butt!" he upped the ante hoping for a more satisfying reaction from me.
"I don't even HAVE a penis" I reminded him, kindly. These kinds of details escape him until we're in the shower and he's eye level with my missing piece. Getting no response that was all that interesting he slid down to the floor and went off to reek havoc elsewhere.
It amuses me, though. That he, (and likely every toddler) discovered that calling someone a penis is a thing to do so early in life. That it made him laugh. Not an elbow or an ear or a foot… a penis. To already know that at two is pretty big. What else is there? Why do we keep going on and on so long after we make all the major discoveries? And then I realized he has more to learn, he still doesn't know that you can "Dammit" and you can "Fuckin'" and you can even " You penis"…but you do not "dammit", "You penis" or "fuckin'" yer mom.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
On Inappropriate Coed Roommate Behavior
Do not answer a knock on your bedroom door wearing a knee sock as a shirt under any circumstances even if it's the sort of knocking one might do in the event of a fire as opposed to a phone call. And no it does not matter that it gave complete coverage. It is the idea that were you stacked the sock would not be enough that is just too much. It’s the motherfucking almost of it all that kills.
On Decking the Halls:
The lit Christmas tree makes me want to weep. I seriously cannot fucking stand it. I want to wrestle the postulating piney prick out onto the porch and beat the sparkling joy right the fuck out of it. I swear to you all it mocks me. Yes I know this is a full turn around from two weeks ago. What are you gonna do about it?
On Almost Thirty:
It’s such a goddamn relief to almost be unarguably an adult. Perhaps now I’m finally allowed to be childish. You’re going to want to back away as I’ve been saving up tantrums for about twenty five years of unfair. I need room for kicking.
*finger*
December 23, 2009
On Decking the Halls:
The lit Christmas tree makes me want to weep. I seriously cannot fucking stand it. I want to wrestle the postulating piney prick out onto the porch and beat the sparkling joy right the fuck out of it. I swear to you all it mocks me. Yes I know this is a full turn around from two weeks ago. What are you gonna do about it?
On Almost Thirty:
It’s such a goddamn relief to almost be unarguably an adult. Perhaps now I’m finally allowed to be childish. You’re going to want to back away as I’ve been saving up tantrums for about twenty five years of unfair. I need room for kicking.
*finger*
December 23, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
To Keep You
I hide behind your ambiguity with you not to shield myself from hurt, I’m not so stupid as to fool myself into thinking this doesn’t and won’t hurt.
I hide behind your forced uncertainty with you to avoid blame, to keep the hurting we’re doing mine alone; to keep it a familiar self-inflicted wound.
To keep it. To keep you.
I’m not sure you would be under there if I unraveled all the equivocality. Not sure that isn’t who you are. Or I am. Or we are together. Not sure when my wishes can begin and yours will end.
Pretending to make-believe with you.
Pretending there’s-no-reality-for-us isn’t our choice.
Feigning naivety of my own vulnerable exposure, as though I’m not naked when draped with your maybe and probably and almost.
Twisting and turning in wish-you-were-mine is probably just like you holding me always.
Choking and strangling on make-me-yours is almost filling me up forever.
Letting you maybe love me in-between the last one that didn’t work and the next one who might because in-between happens to be now and that should be all I want.
If all I want is everything you have to give.
December 22, 2009
I hide behind your forced uncertainty with you to avoid blame, to keep the hurting we’re doing mine alone; to keep it a familiar self-inflicted wound.
To keep it. To keep you.
I’m not sure you would be under there if I unraveled all the equivocality. Not sure that isn’t who you are. Or I am. Or we are together. Not sure when my wishes can begin and yours will end.
Pretending to make-believe with you.
Pretending there’s-no-reality-for-us isn’t our choice.
Feigning naivety of my own vulnerable exposure, as though I’m not naked when draped with your maybe and probably and almost.
Twisting and turning in wish-you-were-mine is probably just like you holding me always.
Choking and strangling on make-me-yours is almost filling me up forever.
Letting you maybe love me in-between the last one that didn’t work and the next one who might because in-between happens to be now and that should be all I want.
If all I want is everything you have to give.
December 22, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Should Be Sleeping
*If I ever admitted to feeling anything at all I almost might tell you I seem to have some sort of PTSD that gets triggered with any jolt of adrenaline leading to anxiety rivaling the pot incident of 1999. If this was a television drama it would be the kind of scene where I’m in bed and the camera shows my perspective and it’s all ceiling fan swooshing around until even a toddler would be yelling HELICOPTER, MAN!! HELICOPTER!! And then I would get all red faced and strangle someone. Except I do it all on the inside.
Where it counts.
*The repetitious minutia of my daily life seriously wears me down. It’s this slow quiet death. Make the little people dress themselves. Make the little people undress and wash. Make them dress again. Fill the dishwasher. Empty the dishwasher. Use dishes. Fill the dishwasher again. Take dirty clothes downstairs. Put in washer. Put in dryer. Fold. Take up two flights and put away. Start over. Sweep. And Sweep. And sweep again. Nearly crap pants when almost run down by wild little man speeding through the pile you just swept on tricycle. Thank Gawd you did not crap pants because you REALLY don’t need more pants to wash-dry-fold. But it’s not just that you have to do all these endless never complete tiny terrible tasks… it’s that all the people you have to do them for RESENT you for it. You have to FIGHT them to get them to BARELY cooperate. And they LIE!!! They will say they did things they did not do!! *snaps* FOR THE LOVE OF GAWD JUST BRUSH YOUR GODDAMN TEETH! DO IT FOR YOU!!!!!!!!
*You know that old joke about how men don’t notice the details of housework? Ya know what I‘m talking about? How women are insane about dust or socks strewn about and raving bitchy lunatics? I’ve discovered men notice the details of housework much more when they’re sexually frustrated. Both as something to complain about and something to do in an attempt to earn physical affection. This isn’t a discovery for the world. I suspect wives know all about this and it relates very closely to feminine “headaches” not related to mothering. It’s just I never knew it before. Not in such an obvious way. It’s not a useful discovery for women living with men they’re fucking unless they’re interested in negotiating with their body and/or giving up sex hoping for help with laundry. I mean that’s just sort of stupid if you ask me. You know what a laundry pile is? A decent place to have sex. So it’s not useful or anything- It’s just interesting for "scientific" observation argument type purposes. What might actually be useful information for husbands is that I’ve heard women don’t notice the details of housework in as bitchy a fashion when they're sexually satisfied. Just saying. Of course it takes more than washing my sweaters wrong so that they can now be sold on ebay for Chihuahuas to get me in a pile of laundry. More might be the wrong word. Something else. Yeah. It takes something else.
December 15, 2009
Where it counts.
*The repetitious minutia of my daily life seriously wears me down. It’s this slow quiet death. Make the little people dress themselves. Make the little people undress and wash. Make them dress again. Fill the dishwasher. Empty the dishwasher. Use dishes. Fill the dishwasher again. Take dirty clothes downstairs. Put in washer. Put in dryer. Fold. Take up two flights and put away. Start over. Sweep. And Sweep. And sweep again. Nearly crap pants when almost run down by wild little man speeding through the pile you just swept on tricycle. Thank Gawd you did not crap pants because you REALLY don’t need more pants to wash-dry-fold. But it’s not just that you have to do all these endless never complete tiny terrible tasks… it’s that all the people you have to do them for RESENT you for it. You have to FIGHT them to get them to BARELY cooperate. And they LIE!!! They will say they did things they did not do!! *snaps* FOR THE LOVE OF GAWD JUST BRUSH YOUR GODDAMN TEETH! DO IT FOR YOU!!!!!!!!
*You know that old joke about how men don’t notice the details of housework? Ya know what I‘m talking about? How women are insane about dust or socks strewn about and raving bitchy lunatics? I’ve discovered men notice the details of housework much more when they’re sexually frustrated. Both as something to complain about and something to do in an attempt to earn physical affection. This isn’t a discovery for the world. I suspect wives know all about this and it relates very closely to feminine “headaches” not related to mothering. It’s just I never knew it before. Not in such an obvious way. It’s not a useful discovery for women living with men they’re fucking unless they’re interested in negotiating with their body and/or giving up sex hoping for help with laundry. I mean that’s just sort of stupid if you ask me. You know what a laundry pile is? A decent place to have sex. So it’s not useful or anything- It’s just interesting for "scientific" observation argument type purposes. What might actually be useful information for husbands is that I’ve heard women don’t notice the details of housework in as bitchy a fashion when they're sexually satisfied. Just saying. Of course it takes more than washing my sweaters wrong so that they can now be sold on ebay for Chihuahuas to get me in a pile of laundry. More might be the wrong word. Something else. Yeah. It takes something else.
December 15, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Hair Today Gone Tomorrow
“Do you think we should be sorry for bald people?” I asked her idly.
“I’d be sorry for others if I were bald.” She did a voice, “I’m so sorry you have to see my scalp!”
“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Yes! But WHY? It‘s just hair or no hair. What makes the head so different? We don't want hair anywhere else.”
“What is it about balding that makes men get shorter and rounder?” Deon remarked “It never fails. They start losing their hair and suddenly they’re shorter and rounder.”
“ahahahahha! Except basketball players. I think it has to do with too much testosterone. But probably I learned that from a late night infomercial from a hair club and it doesn‘t explain your theory, just the balding.”
“They just give up. They figure they’re bald so they may as well get fat and slouch.”
“Ahahahahahahahha! I wish I could go bald and get fat and just roll places. I bet they’re warmer. Yes! They gain the weight to stay warm ‘cause they’re losing body heat through their heads!”
“There’s this hairless basketball player. Freaky. No eyebrows at all. It‘s scary. I saw him at that game I went to. No armpit hair even!”
“Gawds we're mean. Just ‘cause we have an overabundance of hair.” *obscenely large hair gets tossed over shoulder*
“You started it!”
“No I didn’t! You did! Anyway, this is what I’m saying… is balding really the sort of handicap we’re supposed to tip toe around? It’s not even a handicap. Do we really feel sorry for them? It’s fucking hair. It’s not like they’re losing limbs.”
“They need hats. We should have fundraisers and hat drives. For the bald. Let’s do something for people living with cold naked heads.”
“I’ll blog it. Get the word out.”
“You do that.”
December 08, 2009
“I’d be sorry for others if I were bald.” She did a voice, “I’m so sorry you have to see my scalp!”
“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Yes! But WHY? It‘s just hair or no hair. What makes the head so different? We don't want hair anywhere else.”
“What is it about balding that makes men get shorter and rounder?” Deon remarked “It never fails. They start losing their hair and suddenly they’re shorter and rounder.”
“ahahahahha! Except basketball players. I think it has to do with too much testosterone. But probably I learned that from a late night infomercial from a hair club and it doesn‘t explain your theory, just the balding.”
“They just give up. They figure they’re bald so they may as well get fat and slouch.”
“Ahahahahahahahha! I wish I could go bald and get fat and just roll places. I bet they’re warmer. Yes! They gain the weight to stay warm ‘cause they’re losing body heat through their heads!”
“There’s this hairless basketball player. Freaky. No eyebrows at all. It‘s scary. I saw him at that game I went to. No armpit hair even!”
“Gawds we're mean. Just ‘cause we have an overabundance of hair.” *obscenely large hair gets tossed over shoulder*
“You started it!”
“No I didn’t! You did! Anyway, this is what I’m saying… is balding really the sort of handicap we’re supposed to tip toe around? It’s not even a handicap. Do we really feel sorry for them? It’s fucking hair. It’s not like they’re losing limbs.”
“They need hats. We should have fundraisers and hat drives. For the bald. Let’s do something for people living with cold naked heads.”
“I’ll blog it. Get the word out.”
“You do that.”
December 08, 2009
Friday, December 4, 2009
Dew Be Random and Don't Hold Back
*I like listening to Tim McGraw’s Greatest Hits in my car when I’m feeling all fuckered or alternately when I’m really grooving on my own personal sense of wholesome and wanting to “watch my corn pop up in rows.” I’m not ashamed of this or anything. It’s just something people probably don’t know and wouldn’t guess. I have zero interest in acquiring any of his other albums or any other pop country music. I’m good, you can keep ‘em just “don’t take the girl.”
*I think of random romantic/fabulous/funny/wonderful/touching gift ideas. All the time. I don’t DO them. When you think about it most great love acts are essentially harassment or stalkerish or at the least creepy outside the exact right context. I feel like that; like the pebble on a moonlit window, the finger sliding through the steam on a mirror in the bathroom, the box of butterflies just waiting for the right reflecting pane, the hot enough shower, the correct shadow box frame to be pinned down in.
*I keep having this strange urge to get inside a Christmas tree. I mean I always like getting a Christmas tree. The entire ridiculous tradition. I like going to get the tree. I like watching them cut it. I like the ordeal of attaching it to a vehicle and the edge of your seat drive home. I like trying to get it to stand up in the shitty stand we have and I like the tantrum fight I have with the lights every goddamn year. I like our mismatched stupid ornaments. I like that it falls over on someone EVERY FUCKING YEAR and it‘s usually ME! I like all of it. The smell, the outside in, the insanity of it; it all tickles me to no end. But … this whole wanting to shimmy my body in the branches of pine thing… that’s weird. All sappy and pine scented and pokey and whatnot. Fuck tree hugging. I wanna be a tree humper. I wanna crawl right up IN a fucking tree. It’s weird but I doubt I can resist.
*…..it’s this getting warm thing. Damn it. There was a part in the last book I finished (This Book Will Save Your Life) about that.... I would quote but downstairs is a long ways away, it‘s about… coming in from the cold and how much everything has to hurt before you can feel again. How it’s just too fucking much. I’m having that except I can’t get enough. More more more. Again again again. It’s new and it’s old and it’s me alive. It’s that game the kids play where the prize is hidden and they wander the house shouting warmer! Getting warmer! Getting hot! On fire! You’re on fire!!! Keep going it’s right there you’re burning up! It’s burning me in spots but I’m not warm yet so I can’t stop. and I don't want to. :) I want to the max. No use holding back 'cause you don't get to keep anything anyway.
December 04, 2009
*I think of random romantic/fabulous/funny/wonderful/touching gift ideas. All the time. I don’t DO them. When you think about it most great love acts are essentially harassment or stalkerish or at the least creepy outside the exact right context. I feel like that; like the pebble on a moonlit window, the finger sliding through the steam on a mirror in the bathroom, the box of butterflies just waiting for the right reflecting pane, the hot enough shower, the correct shadow box frame to be pinned down in.
*I keep having this strange urge to get inside a Christmas tree. I mean I always like getting a Christmas tree. The entire ridiculous tradition. I like going to get the tree. I like watching them cut it. I like the ordeal of attaching it to a vehicle and the edge of your seat drive home. I like trying to get it to stand up in the shitty stand we have and I like the tantrum fight I have with the lights every goddamn year. I like our mismatched stupid ornaments. I like that it falls over on someone EVERY FUCKING YEAR and it‘s usually ME! I like all of it. The smell, the outside in, the insanity of it; it all tickles me to no end. But … this whole wanting to shimmy my body in the branches of pine thing… that’s weird. All sappy and pine scented and pokey and whatnot. Fuck tree hugging. I wanna be a tree humper. I wanna crawl right up IN a fucking tree. It’s weird but I doubt I can resist.
*…..it’s this getting warm thing. Damn it. There was a part in the last book I finished (This Book Will Save Your Life) about that.... I would quote but downstairs is a long ways away, it‘s about… coming in from the cold and how much everything has to hurt before you can feel again. How it’s just too fucking much. I’m having that except I can’t get enough. More more more. Again again again. It’s new and it’s old and it’s me alive. It’s that game the kids play where the prize is hidden and they wander the house shouting warmer! Getting warmer! Getting hot! On fire! You’re on fire!!! Keep going it’s right there you’re burning up! It’s burning me in spots but I’m not warm yet so I can’t stop. and I don't want to. :) I want to the max. No use holding back 'cause you don't get to keep anything anyway.
December 04, 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)