La La How The Life Goes On

In a Word: Meshuggeneh

Posted on: March 14, 2011

It’s Yiddish, of course, for “crazy.”  And that’s pretty much the day that was.

BabyDaddy had a work-related board meeting ALL DAY, so I was flying solo with the cheedren.  I usually do, of course, on a regular day, but weekends alone just suck the big one because the kids are bummed he’s not here and so start acting like kooksters because their schedule and expectations are off.  So Baby Sister began the day by falling down the stairs because she was imitating Bambina who was running down the stairs.  It was all I could do to not yell out “Fuck!” when I saw her go down.  Luckily I just involuntarily  screamed her name over and over sans the expletive. But it was shit-your-pants not funny.  And then it got worse. She fell down AGAIN.  The same stairs. From the same spot.  Why? Because she was giving me the toddler finger, that’s why.  “Baby Sister, go SLOW, remember what just happened, okay?”  Her:  That “fuck you, authority figure” smile as she goes down once again. This time I was seriously trying to figure out if she needed to go to the ER, or whether I was going to ensure she needed to go to the ER.  Punkass kid!  For the record she was totally fine.  I, however, was not.  If I hadn’t had to drive them to Bambina’s horse riding lessons, I would have had the liquor cabinet opened and emptied before noon.

So we determine everyone is fine and begin to play.  But–gasp!–Baby Sister TOUCHES Bambina’s new (pretend) headphones.  The gates of hell open. “SCREEEEAAAAMMM! She’s touching my new headphones!!!”  Oh, okay.  Is she breaking them?  Is she taking them into her room to establish possession as 9/10 of the law?  Is she na-na-naing you with “finders keepers?  No?  Then shut the fuck up and don’t give her the attention she is so adept at extracting from you.  But poor Bambina is an easy mark when it comes to The Touching of Stuff.  She’s like that guy Psycho in the movie Stripes:

“The name’s Francis Soyer, but everybody calls me Psycho. Any of you guys call me Francis, and I’ll kill you… And I don’t like nobody touching my stuff. So just keep your meat-hooks off. If I catch any of you guys in my stuff, I’ll kill you.”

And in the role of Sergeant Hulka, me:  “Lighten up, Francis.”  To no avail. In ten seconds flat both girls were wailing from The Injustice of It All, and I said very bravely and courageously and mother-like: “Okay, I’m going upstairs to fold laundry while you two have your drama. If you want to come up and join me, you have to stop crying, stop fighting and stop touching each other.”  So up they came within 3 minutes.  I sat them on our bed and did what any talented and caring mother would do:  I gave Bambina my phone to play Angry Birds and Baby Sister my laptop to visit All with the caveat: “The first person to touch or look at the other goes downstairs to sit alone.”  Do not fuck with me, children.  I’m within an inch of scaring the shit out of you both with my “now you’ve really made mama crazy” eye-popping tirade. Let’s not go there, shall we?

But on the bright side, (oh, there’s always a bright side, darlings) I’ve now lost enough prednisone weight that I can fit into my old underwear.  Not “old” as in the B-team stuff you bring out for exercise or laundry day, but old in the “stuff I used to be able to wear” sense.  Friends, as much as I would like to have someone be able to say, “This woman went to her grave never having worn anything labeled ‘briefs,’ “the sad truth is that for the past year that is precisely what has been occurring right here in River City.  Briefs.  Or as Bambina always called them, “Big Lady Underwear.” And, boy, was she right.  For kicks today I put them side-by-side with my old underwear to show the girls (after lifting my “don’t talk/look fatwa on them), and even the two year old, who knows not a thing about a lady’s delicates, fell out laughing at the visual.  I then announced that I was officially throwing them out because it bludgeoned my spirit without relenting to open the drawer and see them.  (I didn’t actually say that out loud, but seriously: any half-wit can imagine that you’re not going to feel your personal best when wearing underwear shilled by people dressed as giant fruit and when the key marketing feature is a “comfort waistband.”  Oh my hell, that underwear stole a little bit of my soul every day.  But no more!  We sent them packing while yelling, “don’t let the door hit you in the ass!”

Speaking of “ass,”  Bambina schooled me today.  She said, “Mama, do you know what a boy’s penis is for?”  {oh crap oh crap oh crap, please give me something good to say in this millisecond)…

“Mama, that’s how they POOP!!”

Me: “My love, I’m thinking that’s not the case. They do pee out of it, but not poop. Boys poop the same way you do.”

Her:  Not true. Alex told me that it’s for poop.  I saw the horse do a big poop and it came out of that big dangly thing that’s the penis.

Me: I think you think you saw it come out of that, but I promise you it didn’t.  Horses poop out of their bums just like humans, boy or girl.

Her: Totally exasperated at my ignorance and pushback:  “Mama!! Enough! Who cares about penises anyway?!!”

I was going to have her repeat it on tape so her dad could sleep nights, but I figured I’d let the moment pass since she was so irritated at my total stupidity regarding human excretion.

And speaking of stupidity, I’m sitting here blogging while my cute husband, who has been gone all day, is sitting next to me on the couch at his laptop.  I’m going to go and chat with him, rather than with you. No offense.  Although, I’m not sure how he’ll feel when I say, “You leave on a weekend again, and I’ll kill you… And I don’t like nobody encroaching on our Sunday. So just tell your boss to keep her meat-hooks off. If I catch you in another all day weekend meeting, I’ll kill you.”  No wait! I know exactly what he’ll say (because he’s well-practiced after all these years):  “Lighten up, Mama.”


2 Responses to "In a Word: Meshuggeneh"

Possibly the all time best use of a movie reference….

“The Injustice of It All.” Classic.

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