An addendum to: “A comprehensive list of my toddler’s personality traits”

ldsn

One more thing: my son is an undefeated drunken boxing master

I know that being a master in the drunken boxing arts isn’t so much of a “personality trait” as it is a “warning” to the rest of the world to not come within arms-reach of mommy’s little killer. I keep forgetting to have his hands registered as lethal weapons with my local government.

I can never tell which angle the attack is going to descend from. He’ll be cuddling in my arms, curled in the fetal position, when suddenly he’s like TIGER STYLE and rips my glasses off of my face. Sometimes, he’s propped up in my husband’s lap playing with a Lego when out of nowhere he’s like HANNIBAL LECTAR ATTACK and clamps down on my husband’s supple arm flesh with his little Chucky teeth and takes a bite. Sometimes he gets all CRANE CLAW, and goes from innocently sucking milk from a bottle to cracking me in the face with said bottle. Most often, he’s trying to scale mommy’s legs while I’m standing at the stove trying to cook myself a meager breakfast of orphanage gruel when he’s suddenly like DONKEY PUNCH SURPRISE and takes me out at the knees.

You would think he’s giving us enough time to duck & cover from his assaults since he yells out the fighting style he’s about to throttle your ass with. Sadly, no. My reflexes have dulled with age, while his are razor sharp.

 

 

 

Damn farm animals

Note: this is NOT a picture of MY kid

Not long ago, I was a stoic and self-possessed person. Not unlike the Terminator, I was all cold and steely to the touch, not able to comprehend basic human emotions. Like, EMPATHY.

Damn hippies with their empathy.

YUCK.

And you know what? I LIKED being a Terminator. It was an easy way to live. I was easy, breezy, beautiful, TERMINATOR. All I had to worry about was myself, and making sure I gave Sallie Mae her pound of flesh tribute once a month (don’t play with Sallie Mae about her student loan money, she will send her goons to your house to take a kneecap as payment for every month she doesn’t get her money. TRUST ME).

But the simplicity of those days are OVER. Because now I’m married with children. I’ve got these people in my life now that I care about (*shudder*). I’ve got this husband guy running around, and he’s all attractive, and funny, and caring and dependable. And he sticks around despite the fact that I drive him mad with my neuroses. So I can’t help but to be IN LOVE with him. Jeez. And now there’s this other person running around my apartment, this toddler guy I gave birth to. And HE’S all adorable and shares my DNA, so I am programmed by mother-nature to care about his safety and well being. Yikes. And now, ever so slowly, the thick coating of ice that used to encase my heart has melted away and left a quivering, open wound of a heart in its place. And I. DON’T. LIKE IT.

So, when I was offered the chance to take some pics of Brandon being swarmed by diseased farm animals at a petting zoo, I was like YO, SIGN ME UP. Because I’m a SUCKER for that cutesy stuff now. Yeah, I said “diseased” farm animals, so before you whip out your trusty pitchfork, let me explain.

Hindsight is 20-20, as they say. I am a novice parent, and sometimes (maybe, most of the time) the obvious does not occur to me. Like the fact that farm animals are filthy, transient, scavengers whom have dookie perpetually pouring out of their exposed buttholes. And those shit encrusted buttholes are at exact eye-level with with a one-year-old. So, this begs the question: At any point, was Brandon overcome by the urge to plug a curious finger into a goat’s shitty butthole and then immediately touch his own face?

Probably.

Sadly, I can’t say for sure because I had to take my hawk-eye off of him for a few seconds now and then. Like when I was rudely side-swiped by an unaware llama who didn’t appreciate the notion of PERSONAL SPACE. The only thing I DO know for sure was the horrible aftermath of the petting zoo debacle, when my kid was sweltering with a 102+ fever ten hours later.

Damn farm animals.

I shook my fist at the sky and cursed our fate at 2am that night, because trying to nurse a sick toddler back to health TOTALLY SUCKS and is fraught with fear, bumbling incompetence, hallucinations (both audible and visual), and pickled with an extreme lack of sleep for both child and parent. It also lasts for DAYS. I rushed him to the doctor once his temperature peaked into the “he could have a seizure” danger-zone above 104 while chanting don’t die don’t die don’t die the whole way there.

Beautiful sleep after a dose of nearly vomit-inducing Tylenol. Note: my trapped arm.

Beautiful sleep after a dose of nearly vomit-inducing Tylenol. Note: my trapped arm.

After she gave him the once-over, the doctor assured me his fever had NOT been triggered by the now infamous petting zoo butthole cage match. You can stop blaming yourself, she said sympathetically. I was like YESSSS! Because up until then I had mentally logged this incident on my growing list of times he narrowly escaped death because of me. Turns out, it was just your run-of-the-mill virus that vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared. He was fine less than 48-hours later.

Damn farm animals.

I still haven’t realized that he’s not the faberge egg I anticipated a baby to be. These kids bounce right back!

A comprehensive list of my toddler’s personality traits.

1. He’s abusive
In every facet of the word. Physically. Emotionally. Verbally. Even spiritually.
Seriously, he beats us. By “us” I mean my husband and I. Someone send help, QUICK. He gave me a nice gash across the neck once. The next day, a concerned co-worker pointed at the gash and asked me what happened. I think she suspected my husband was to blame for the perceived domestic abuse.
“This is what happens when you burn dinner,” I said. “My husband warned me before, but I just don’t listen.”
What ACTUALLY happened was: my son enthusiastically snatched at my neck while demanding a hug, and a jagged fingernail gouged a trench across my skin. I’d been neglecting trimming his nails for days, so I’M probably to blame for that one (SEE? there I go blaming myself like a victim does). Seriously though, his little talons reach prison-shank-grade sharpness 24-hours after they’ve been trimmed. I really need to get on a better schedule about keeping them dull.
One day he bashed my husband across the face with house keys. It was hard to watch. I don’t think MY presence helped the situation, because my reaction was to yell out, “DAYYYYUUUM!” like an audience member at a rap battle.
No one told me we’d be victims of his throttlings like EVERYDAY. The worst part is the fact that he’s not inflicting any of the abuse on purpose (he’s still grasping the mind-blowing concept of cause and effect), so I have to temper my gut reaction when attacked. Especially since my gut-reaction is to immediately UPPERCUT my attacker.  I think there’s a biblical law against uppercutting a toddler. Thou shalt not uppercut thine toddler, or something to that effect.
But I’m not entirely sure, so I should check my bible.
2. He’s practiced in the art of torture
Specifically: sleep deprivation. It’s his specialty. He is a staunch advocate of using sleep deprivation as a cruel means of interrogation. I don’t know what more information he’s trying to squeeze out of me, I’ve already told him everything I know. Someone should tell him that torture has been outlawed by the UN and he should rethink his stance on human rights violations. I would tell him myself, but I’m too afraid of the repercussions.
3. He is a demanding and merciless despot
 Brandon likes eggs for breakfast.
So I acquiesce and make them lovingly for him, as is my want, because I am a domestic GODDESS! (just kidding, I totally suck at homemaking). I’ll sweat over a hot frying pan, probably sweating DIRECTLY INTO the eggs, thoughtfully seasoning those bad boys with a delicate blend of exotic spices, and then top them off with a light sprinkle of artisanal cheese like I was Gordon F*cking Ramsay up in here. Then I chop them up into toddler friendly bits and present my meek offering to his royal highness as he sits in his high-chair holding his scepter (and by “scepter” I mean a bright orange kiddie spoon). “I hope these eggs are to your liking, my lord. Please don’t have me killed,” I say, making sure not to make eye contact.
And what does this kid do after the first bite of my eggs? The same eggs I’ve been making for him everyday. My eggs, which are THE BOMB, and he always gobbles up without protest? He spits them out. He lobs a handful of the eggs onto the ground. He screams. He sobs. He starts doing that jerky, bucking, contorting he does when he wants to be let out of his highchair. Defeated, I try not to take his food critique personally, and I resign myself to removing the offensive eggs from his presence. But then, he does something unexpected. He snatches at the eggs before I can take them away, and starts devouring them, two fistfuls at a time. Confused, I take a quick step back and allow him to inhale his food so he doesn’t de-glove the skin off of my hand. I guess he just wanted to remind me of my new place in this hierarchy.
He likes to keep me on my toes.

the mustard incident

As I sat in bed this morning, Brandon entered the room to greet me. We exchanged pleasantries, and he walked past me heading straight for the bathroom. He entered the bathroom, busied himself in there for roughly 20-seconds, then exited.

Upon his exit, he was holding a bottle of mustard.

He flashed a broad, toothy/gummy grin as he walked past me again, affectionately bear-hugging the bottle of mustard to his chest and then they disappeared around a corner together.

Let me tell you something: I am not in the habit of storing mustard in my bathroom, or any room outside of the kitchen. Because, I run a normal household, goddamn it. We are normal people, and being normal does NOT include storing perishable food stuffs where we defecate. ESPECIALLY mustard. So this begs several questions, the first being: when the hell did a bottle of mustard materialize in my bathroom? I’ve been in and out of that bathroom at least 10 times since last night, and not ONCE did I spy a bottle of mustard. Which leads me to my second question: how did Brandon know there was mustard to be had in the bathroom? I didn’t know it was in there. How did HE know? What else does this kid know that I don’t? He entered and exited bathroom in less than a minute, leading me to believe he went in there SPECIFICALLY for the mustard. He was on a mission, a mission involving mustard, and he knew exactly where it would be. The smile he gave me spoke to a confidence he had in knowing there was mustard in the bathroom, right where it was supposed to be. Not unlike the confidence someone has when they leave something in a familiar place, and then come back to it later, because that thing was right where they left it. Where it always is. Of COURSE there’s mustard in the bathroom, Mom. Duh. That’s where it’s supposed to be.

Two seconds later, my husband calls to me from the front room.

“WHY DID YOU GIVE HIM A BOTTLE OF MUSTARD?” he asked.

“I DIDN’T,” I yelled back.

“WELL, THEN, WHERE DID HE GET IT?”

“THE BATHROOM”

[….silence….]

“OH REALLY? MUSTARD IN THE BATHROOM?” he says.

I don’t have any answers, and frankly, I’m getting annoyed because now my husband has adopted this tone in his voice that suggests I’m lying. Which is stupid, because who lies about mustard? In fact, his accusatory tone makes me not fully trust that HE isn’t behind this somehow.

“MAYBE YOU GAVE HIM THE MUSTARD!” I yelled.

“WHY WOULD I GIVE HIM MUSTARD?”

“WHY WOULD I GIVE HIM MUSTARD??”

[….more silence…]

Aaaaand now we’re at a stalemate. Which is annoying because we’re both too proud to give in and admit one of us is being childish (him). But now I’m legitimately mad because HOW DID WE ALLOW MUSTARD TO DRIVE US INTO A STRAIGHT UP YELLING MATCH? The day I let some mustard test the endurance of my marriage is a dark day.

We never did get to the bottom of the mystery of the mustard, but we did eventually kiss and make nice. I think it’s safe to assume Brandon stashed it in there for future use, days (maybe even weeks) prior to its discovery. But I’m not fully on board with that theory either, because it suggests that I am a shitty housekeeper who doesn’t even know when condiments have been hidden in her bathroom for days on end.