Thursday, March 22, 2012

Parenting Plan


Yeah, well the parenting plan with these last two went a little something like, “Hey, let’s run down to Guatemala and pick ‘em up, ok?”  That’s it.  That was the extent of the plan.  And somewhere in the whole grand scheme of the non-plan-plan something seems to have gone horribly, terribly awry.

I don’t mean it’s gone awry in the omg-my-kid-pulls-the-wings-off-butterflies way because that would be BAD, really bad.  It’s more of a holy-crap-why-isn’t-there-a-training-guide-out-there kind of awry, which isn’t so terribly bad so much as it is funny.  And I have to admit, it’s giving me a long list of possible items to present on future big occasions like graduations and weddings and such so that I can embarrass the ever-loving crap out of my kids.

Holy-Crap-Parenting-Moment #1
Whilst playing a rousing game of Angry Birds with the boys (the board game, not the video game), Jadon was preparing to launch his red bird through the air.  I have to stop here to give you a smidge of background information.  Angry Birds are known as ‘Bad Birds’ in our house.  I don’t know why, but that’s what the boys have chosen to call them, so for the context of this little anecdote, they will hereby be referred to as ‘Bad Birds.’

So we’re playing Bad Birds, and Jadon is looking all serious-like, aiming his catapult toward the structure I have carefully built on the table for him to knock down.  He pulls the bird back in the ready-to-launch position and ever-so-calmly, like he says it every single day of his sweet, innocent little life says, “Bad Birds, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

So after I finish choking on my pita chip, give myself the Heimlich maneuver over the kitchen chair, and force myself to refrain from laughing and/or scolding too harshly, I very calmly (yay, me) say, “Jadon, we don’t say that.”  (And by ‘we,’ clearly I mean HIM, because clearly SOMEONE says it, and it’s probably Mommy.  Ooops.  Damn.)

Holy-Crap-Parenting-Moment #2
So Jason is still out of town, and I’m considering voluntarily becoming an alcoholic, but for the sake of the children I’m trying to hold off just a while longer.  And the other night, in an effort to diminish the ever-growing mountain of laundry, I was in the laundry room stuffing yet another load into the washer when the two boys appear in the hallway outside the laundry room.

Why is it that my ‘parenting moment’ stories almost always seem to involve these two?  I’m starting to believe they are partners in crime, hell-bent on sending me to the crazy house before my time.  I mean, I know I’m headed to the crazy house, but seriously, there’s no need to rush the timeline.

So this story also needs a bit of background.  As you know, we fairly recently got THE DOG.  The lovely American EskiGoat that eats everything and growls and barks at everyone who does not belong in our house…and then proceeds to act like a giant marshmallow the second he is alone with us.  Yeah, that dog.  Well, the boys love him, and Jadon misses no chance to tell us how much he loves his dog.  Every day he says something to the effect of, “I wuv my wittle puppy dog,” as he squeezes it around the neck.

So recently, the boys have taken to playing puppy dog.  Jadon is always the master, and Jordan is the puppy.  Jadon will walk around the house and say things like, “Look at my puppy.  He can wag his tail!”  And Jordan will wag his butt.

Or, “Look, my puppy can sit.”  And Jordan will sit and pant like a good, obedient puppy.

So, the other night, outside the laundry room, they were once again playing puppy.  Except this time, it went terribly, terribly wrong.  I heard it before I saw it, and as soon as I heard it, I looked  skyward and said a little prayer that went something like, “Oh God, please don’t let it be what I think it is.”  But it was.  And oh, God.  Why am I always left home alone to deal with these things on my own?!  And why don’t I have a liquor cabinet?

Here is what I heard.

“Hey, Mom!  Look, my puppy is hunking just like Rudi!”

Now, for those of you who haven’t heard, Jadon has observed us yelling at Rudi to stop humping things—because he’s a bit of a humper.  But he thinks we’re saying ‘hunk.’  Thus the word ‘hunking.’

So after my quick prayer, I dropped the laundry on the floor, looked out into the hallway, and to my utter disbelief and mortification saw my youngest boy dog-humping the leg of the other boy.  Sweet Lord in Heaven!

I am a word nerd.  Everyone who knows me knows this.  But at this very moment in time, I could get nothing to come out.  Not a single syllable.  I swear at least 3 full seconds passed before I finally got out one single word.  “Inappropriate!”  I yelled.  And they stopped what they were doing.  They looked at me all innocent-like with their big brown eyes as if to say, “What?  We were just playing puppy.”

Crap.  Where the hell is the parenting manual?

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