Parents of the year.

I know it’s not normal to find your child’s tantrums entertaining. It may even be a bit cruel. But untitledhusband and I simply could not control ourselves.

The other night, an over-tired untitledson decided that he wanted to take his shirt off himself before hopping into the bathtub. I let him work on it for about 10 minutes (it was a tricky shirt) before I started helping. And oh my god, was THAT ever the wrong thing to do. I would’ve held back, but we were starting to cut into my “Project Runway” and “American Idol” time. And that simply cannot be tolerated, people.

My good intentions sent him tailspinning into a world of fury, body flails and donkey kicks unlike anything I’ve ever seen. He even busted out a move I had never seen him do before (wherein one lies on his side while propelling around in a circle, using only his feet). It seemed fairly reminiscent of Pete Townshend, and had I handed him his red plastic Wiggles guitar, I am convinced he would’ve ripped out a few chords of “Teenage Wasteland.” Oh, and did I mention that he was buck-ass naked at the time? Well, he was. And I’m here to report that his face isn’t the only thing that gets all red and shriveled when he’s mad. I’m thinking it’s a self-defense mechanism. “Retreat, boys. RETREAT!”

untitledhusband broke lose from the tethers of his freelance work long enough to come upstairs to see what all the ruckus was about. Once he appeared, we both started laughing uncontrollably at the site before us. Not wanting to throw a molatav cocktail into this barn burner, we closed ourselves into the bathroom. We commenced to laughing so forcefully, it made no sound at all, aside from a few snorts, gasps, and some involuntary glottal clicks usually only spoken by young Masai warriors.

Once untitledson realized that no one was witnessing his antics, he began battering the door with his little butterball foot. I would’ve let him in, but I was afraid I’d find him chucking crucifixes around like ninja throwing stars or something.

Eventually, I did open the door. But I’ll have you know that he screamed through his bubble bath. He screamed through putting on his jammies. He even screamed through “Olivia,” which he did not deserve to hear. But this seemed like an Olivia moment to me – untitledson throwing a hissy over an article of clothing. I can only imagine how he is going to react when I want to dress him in onesies when he is 16.


My hubby, if he knows anything, it’s how to put down the Diet Coke. To the tune of 24 stomach-eating cans a week. As a result, it’s not uncommon for him to tear the house off its moors with one of his primevil burps. It happens so often, in fact, that our 2 year-old son has taken to acknowledging these sonic acts of gastrointestinal anarchy by simply saying, “Nice.”

I’m not sure whether to laugh (it is funny, no?) or to be appalled that Little Lord Fauntleroy isn’t summoning the proper answer, as so clearly spelled out in the lift-the-flap book on manners I so responsibly bought for him at T.J. Maxx. Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking. “Why not teach your brute of a HUSBAND some manners?” Well, folks, that train has left the station. At this point in my life, I only take on the battles I know I can win.

All strategy aside, I see that I am losing ground as I write. It’s becoming clear that my son has inheirited this debilitating crudeness gene. The other night, the little guy farted. Respectable mother that I am, I said, “Now what do you say?” He replied, “Ta-daaaaa!” Ta-da, indeed.