Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Hell’s bells, is it Sunday again? The weekend is shriveling up like a raisin in the sun. Monday looms, and with it Responsibility. Ewwwww.

How to tell when you’re a terrible mother:

SELF: Go outside and play.

5YO: It’s too ho-ot!

SELF: No it’s not. It’s beautiful. Go outside.

3YO: But I’m ti-red!

SELF: Then you can be tired outside.

3YO: I have a tummyache!

SELF: Then you can have a tummyache outside. (pause) I don’t think I’m getting through to you guys here. What I am saying is GO. OUTSIDE. NOW.

(Children reluctantly repair to backyard… which, from the quality of their reactions, you would think was some sort of mercury-tainted wasteland. In fact, it boasts such child-friendly upgrades as a dirt pit [just what it sounds like], a fleet of Tonka trucks, two RC vehicles without batteries [less noisy that way, also they’re less able to chase the cats with them] and a $1100 play structure assembled with much blood, sweat, tears and beer by Papa and Papa’s best friend.)

Five minutes elapse.

3YO: (appears, Haley Joel Osment-like, at my side. Says nothing.)

SELF: Aren’t you supposed to be outside?

3YO: (leans in for a kiss)

SELF: (offers hug, kiss on dirt-scented little head) Honey, why don’t you go back outside with Fisher?

3YO: I wanna sit on your waaaaaap.

SELF: No, honey, Mama’s only going to be here for a minute. Go on outside.

3YO: (sinks to floor with immensely world-weary sigh… sticks hand down front of shorts)

SELF: Rhys, if you’re tired, maybe you should take a nap.

3YO: I have a tummyache.

SELF: Do you want to have a tummyache and take a nap, or have a tummyache and go outside?

3YO: (stubborn silence)

SELF: OK, it looks like you’re choosing nap.

3YO: NO! Mama, I’m finking! I’m finking about it!

5YO: (materializes) Mama, can I read you a story about a bug that’s THIS big? (holding up thumb)

OK, obviously blogging is not to be today…