Sunday, February 14, 2010
This is Forty Telling Eight to... SHUT UP!
I love my kids more than anything ever in this world. Anything. Morning coffee. That first bite of a hot slice of pizza. More than getting an A when I felt I deserved a B. I even love them more than when I lose five pounds without actually dieting… Now for all that know ol’ Forty, you know that’s love. Big time, huge love. But seriously… my kids are my life. The absolute loves of my life. (Even if I'm totally bashing them on Valentine's Day.)
That being established, as much as I do love them, those two kids of mine are little manipulative, spoiled fuckers.
Part of the reason I don’t sleep at night is because I’m so excited to be watching my television alone on my tattered, worn, ripped and stained ugly fucking floral couch. I sit there exhausted, eyes all blood-shot and burning, yet relishing in the fact that I am finally by myself. In my own quiet. Again, I love those kids, but one of them doesn’t shut the fuck up and the other won’t speak to me unless asking for lunch money, video game paraphernalia or food. So, this blog is dedicated to the big mouth in my life, Eight.
When I wake up, especially on a weekend morning, I really look forward to my pot of hot, liquid breakfast with a splash of vanilla creamer. No rushing out the door in thirty degree weather with a wet head, no ironing work clothes - it's just me, browsing Crackbook at my leisure, checking all my e-mail and if I'm feeling ambitious, I might do a word scramble to make sure I didn't lose any brain power during my three hours of sleep. But the second my foot hits the bottom step, all I hear is (what starts out to be) a sweet voice coming from the depths of the sagging couch cushions.
Eight: “Mom, I want a bagel.”
Ol’ Forty: “We don’t have bagels.”
Eight: “What do we have?”
Ol’ Forty: “English muffins, toast, pancakes, waffles, eggs, cereal, cereal bars…”
Eight: (who must have apparently lost her hearing during the night) “Can I have a bagel?”
Ol’ Forty: “We don’t HAVE bagels I said.”
Eight: “We don’t have anything!”
Ol’ Fucking Pissed Forty: “How about chocolate chip pancakes?”
Eight pauses. Then: “Can I have a bagel toasted with butter?”
Now this is always in the first three minutes of my (barely) wakefulness. I stand there, vision all blurred because I always forget my glasses and there are always clumps of mascara in my eyes. Plus, I still have to free the morning pee.
Ol’ Pissed, Tired, Already-Impatient Forty: “WE DON’T HAVE ANY BAGELS, DAMN IT!”
Whimpers from the cushions.
Eight: “Why do you always yell at me?”
I ignore the crocodile tears and the incessant chatter that follows which is coming from the living room as I make my pot of breakfast. I wait with my mug under the dripper, willing it to pour out faster so I can sit down. I’m already exhausted.
Just as I sit:
Eight: “Mom, watch ICarly with me.”
Ol’ Forty: “Okay, let me drink my coffee first.”
Eight: “I want coffee.”
Ol’ Forty: “No.”
Ol’ Forty: “No.”
As I pour her a cup of coffee in her Disney mug, adding a ton of vanilla creamer to it, I think to myself how she can’t possible talk while sipping and it will grant me a few minutes of morning peace.
Eight: “I Carly’s on!”
Ol’ Forty: “Wait until I’m ready. Give me a few minutes.” Pause. “Drink your coffee.”
I sip, I read, I think about all kinds of shit I have to do. I glance up at the paused DVR.
Ol’ Forty: “What are you doing?”
Eight: “Waiting for you.”
Ol’ Forty: “No, just watch something else until I am done!”
Ten minutes later, she’s staring at the paused screen still.
Eight: “Mom, remember when I was two and I wore that raincoat….?”
I can’t remember making the fucking coffee at the moment.
Eight: “Mom, can I play with someone today?”
Fuck, here comes the barrage of questions, requests, and the “I want that/get me/buy me” demands.
Eight: “Mommy, can we play the Wii? Mom, remember when the dog came home for the first time? Mommy, can we get another dog? Mom, when the cats die can we get another cat? Mommy, can we go to Canteen and get a new shirt? Mom, where’s my bagel?”
I finally tell her she has to SHUT up. Yes, I really do. I am evil but my ears hurt.
While she takes a deep breath to prepare for her next slew of demands, I take advantage of the 30 seconds of quiet and tip toe to the bathroom to pee. The moment I’m in there, the door swings open. Eight forgot to tell me that her teacher made fried rice for snack the day before and that she needs to bring glue to school. I try to make a mental note to lock the door next time, although the little thing knows how to break in anyway.
Forty-five minutes and half the pot of coffee later, I plop myself onto the spring-less, ripped couch that really needs to be brought outside and set fire to. Eight presses ‘play’ on the DVR remote and ICarly comes on. I actually love the show and watching it also gives me an excuse to still remain in a sitting or laying position.
We sing the opening song and then wait for the first scene. A minute into it, Eight is now playing with her bag of Japanese erasers, her American Girl dolls and the dog’s hairbrush, talking and chattering to herself.
I glance over at her.
Ol’ Forty: “Didn’t you beg me to watch this with you?”
Eight: “Yes, I’m watching,“ she says as she’s hanging upside down on the couch, brushing her doll’s hair, singing some Selena Gomez song and yelling at the dog in between verses.
Ol’ Forty: “Shhhhhhhhhhhh already!”
So, there I am, sitting through the show she hounded me to watch from the second I walked down the steps and now that I’m doing what she wants, she lost all interest. I watch it by myself as she ignores me and when it’s over, I get up to do my own thing.
The moment my computer is open, there goes the mouth again.
Eight: “Where’s my bagel?”
(P.S... Happy Valentine's Day, you sweet, demanding, chatterbox.)
(P.S.S. Eight, although slightly miffed at first, gave me her blessing to post this)