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.