Sunday, September 27, 2009

"She Does Trash?"

I walked out to my car and my petite neighbor was dragging her garbege cans to the curb.
I teased her, "Isn't your husband supposed to do that?"
She smiled back to me, "Yes, but Laurie, he won't do it. He says, "Just hire someone!"
I said, "That's not fair."
She said, "Well, it's a fair trade, he never asks questions when I spend $20,000 on jewlery for myself."
I said, "Can I take out your garbege?"
"Can a Demon be five?"

Her eyes gloss over, her back arches and I think I hear her hissing.

Every morning (no, I'm not exaggerating) my five year old daughter behaves so horrible, so odd, so out of character from who she is during the rest of the day, I want to ask her, "Did you sleep with Satan?"

Instead I dream of calling that Nanny TV show where they send out the lady with the british accent (I want one of those) who will fix my daughter and get our lives back to normal. but then I'd have to be on TV as one of the 'bad' moms that everyone judges and decides she's the point of the problem. NO. I won't be calling Nanny lady.

Where did I go wrong? How did I end up with a child that whines instead of speaks. Her younger brother will talk his way through any upset moment, yet princess Meg, will yell, "Ahnn!" and point. Lines like, "Hellen Keller, knock it off!" never get a laugh from my under age nine audience. So I resort to sending her to "quiet time" in the garage where we keep an abundance of smelly lizards and fish, my son calls 'pets,' so she can feed them, take a breath and relax. It works....for like three minutes, then she's back to hissing.

Then again, from what I heard about the teen years, I'll take the hissing any day.
"Barf...not a song"

I heard it from my sleep. "Blah." While I prayed it was a dream, my eyes were still closed as I also debated with myself if I had enough time to run to the kitchen, grab a bucket, bowl or other deep item and get back to my 3 year old before the 2nd wave of barf came. Before my thought was completed, it was too late. I not only heard the second heave, but smelled it too.

Then the my mind hesitates what to do first?
1) Comfort the crying vomit covered child and risk having vomit on my person?
2) Hold child at a distance, de-robe him and shout for husband who'll pretend he's still asleep?
3) Turn the lights on, hoping its just liquid and not that bad so then I could cover it and go back to bed?

Well...I did none of those. Instead, I threw a towel on my shoulder, picked up my son, who turned three on this very day, and played witness to the vomit: In his hair, under his neck, on the blanket, the wall, the cat (who was already bathing herself, by the way).

Why does vomit never look like what it was when it went in? If I dare to look (and I don't, cause I will get sick as well) why does it always look like Feta?

The husband cleaned up (I offered sex for assistance) and I took my baby in the shower where I hugged him as only a mother could do when the vomit is gone.

Then he threw up on me.