After kind-of intently listening to my children for the last thiscloseto 8 years, I consider myself to be an avid semi-listener. Like cliff notes, I mostly have a firm grasp of the topic you’re spent 3 hours of our 3 hour drive detailing. There’s no real reason for them to know that I learned to sleep with my eyes open 5 years ago.
Here’s the thing, while generally they are speaking in code recognized only by Tom Cruise and senior Scientology overlords, I am actually saying important things like:
“Hey, you’re about to get hit by a car.”
“Yes, and that car too. In fact, all of the cars are driving in your general direction. You’re seriously running in a parking lot.”
“OH MY GOD, STOP RUNNING IN THE PARKING LOT. PEOPLE DIE!!!”
“Fine. Fine. Run in the parking lot. NO, SERIOUSLY…STOP RUNNING!”
and then my face combusts and through clenched teeth, I whisper-spit, “Get. In. The. CAR!”
And then we all go home and mommy cries.
I’ve spent a lot of time trying different methods of getting the children to acknowledge my existence and none of them work. I’ve tried the Mother of the Child/Mother of the Earth method: “Hey, I’m coming to you from a place of promise and understanding, OK? I just, I feel like you need to truly accept the words I’m about to say because, it’s important that we communicate authentically; soul to soul. So, could you please stop throwing Crispix at me? It’s a fair request and, if you search your heart, I think you’ll agree. Namaste, child of my loins.”
I have a corneal abrasion from breakfast cereal.
I’ve tried the Batshit Crazy: “If you put your underwear under the couch one more time, I’m going to burn your underwear outside in a bonfire that can be seen from space and I will invite every single one of your school friends over to watch your underwear burn. And, I won’t even get a local fire permit. I will illegally burn your drawers on the front lawn. DO YOU HEAR ME?”
Underwear? Still under my couch.
I’ve tried The Interventionist: If you promise to go to cookie rehab today, I will drop all cookie-related charges. I will not charge you for breaking into my secret stash or, for the rug you ruined when you turned on the food processor in the living room…without the lid. I’m willing to let this all go, but, you have to stop hiding and shame eating cookies. Can you do that? Can you make this promise to me today? Are you ready to come with me right now? Let go of the Oreos. We love you and we want you to LIVE…without diabetes.
Yeah, there are still cookies all over this bitch.
What’s a woman without options, but possibly with bi-polar disorder to do? That’s right…you give up.
I was tired of the sound of my own voice anyway.