It seems the older my kids’ get, the more the word “No” leaves my lips. I assume this is the natural progression of life – BUT DAMN – I get exhausted just repeating it. Totes. Yet the cool thing about being a mom is you can almost predict, to the 99th degree, exactly what question is going to come out of those babies mouths even before they manage to get it out.
See, it’s a skill-set that takes years to master. Tougher to earn than my Bachelor’s degree and more valuable than The Cullinan Diamond. It’s a touch expectation, a dash of precognition, and a shitload of mama intuition.
Yea, this shit is the real deal. And throw in the fact that I have two kids almost 7 years apart proves to be a challenge all on it’s own. My first-born is almost 11 years old. A pre-teen. Budding hormones, breasts and an increasing interest in any boy that pays attention.
Jeebus save me now!
Her world revolves around her looks. Every morning is a faux fashion show in my kitchen. So while I’m slappin’ peanut butter and jelly on a piece of organic wheat bread at 7AM, she makes me smile. My little fashion rebel, a saucy apple that fell off a juicy tree.
It takes a hella lot to make me smile at 7AM, yet she does. Usually. However, a couple times a week, she comes out looking like a hot mess. I’m talking Lady Gaga mess. Before she has the chance to say boo, I’m snapping my fingers and screaming ‘ohhellnogetbackinthatroomandchangeyourenotleavingthehouselikehthat.’
When the degenerate neighbor boy comes within 20 feet of the front door, asking to ‘play’ with you? Oh hell no. About to put that piece of chocolate in your mouth before dinner? Oh hell no. About to request to put off your chores until tomorrow? Oh hell no. Raising your hand to bitch-slap your brother because he went into your room? Oh hell no. I see all, it’s a gift. And sometimes I shock her with this gift.
My little one, however, is a different story. Most sentences will start with “Mama can I” followed by a simple request. Of course baby, I’m more than happy to accommodate. Yet multiple times a day, I will watch his eyes wander as his questioning stutters. “Mama, can I…” eat the candy you found hidden in the cabinet? “Mama, can I…” have chocolate chip cookies for breakfast? “Mama, can I…” eat a half-brick of cheese in one sitting? Bite the dog’s tail? Run towards traffic? Play in the sandbox without pants?
Oh Hell No!
The requests are never freaking ending. If I had a dime for every damn time I said ‘No’ every day in this house, I’d be rich, living off the royalties of my genius and not blogging for the masses. Although, I’d probably still be blogging, bitching about how to spend my millions. “Mama, can I…” buy cheap wine? Crap caviar? The smallest yacht? Wal-Mart clothes?
Oh Mama says Hell No!