The Daddy: “Jay!”
Me: “What?”
The Daddy: “Fridge is open!”
Me: “Okay.”
The Daddy: “Jay! Fridge is open!”
Me: “Okay!”
The Daddy: “Jay! The fridge! It’s beeping!”
Me: …
The Daddy: “Jay! The fridge! Do you hear the fridge? Do you hear it??”
How to Eat a Donut and Thereby Begin Global Domination
Featuring Wee One
- Demand waffle.
- Ignore argument that you don’t like waffles. Stay strong until waffle is made.
- Refuse to eat waffle.
- Pout until donut is procured. (Warning: This step is crucial. Do not back down).
- Disarm Mommy. Turn on the charm.
- Decimate donut into crumbs. Delightfully toss crumbs like confetti.
- Make Boy Child laugh by decorating self with crumbs. He is a useful ally.
- When donut is 100% pulverized, scream. Demand that Mommy brings you another donut.
- Repeat until Mommy is in fetal position, powerless over your whims.
- You are now in position for total world domination. You may begin.
Prime Real Estate
Post-Dinner Time, also known as Threat Level Midnight (Thank you, Michael Scott).
Bathtub has water running. Yell at Boy Child: “Get in the tub!”
Boy Child: “Okay!”
Rush to the kitchen to grab broom. Fuss at Wee One: “Tub!”
Wee One: Something that sounds like “Glue ball!”.
The Daddy: “What?”
Sweep kitchen. Five minutes of scraping leftover rice off the floor. One minute of chastisement for serving rice. No offspring in the tub.
Yell at fruit of my loins: “Get in the tub!”
Boy Child, annoyed: “Okay!”
Wee One: Something that sounds like “Cake snot!”
The Daddy: “What?”
Scour chairs and table with organic bullshit. Decide to actually clean with chemically concoction. Satisfied.
No children in tub. Frustration reaching Mount Saint Helen.
Step into living room.
Wee One jumps on The Daddy, showcasing a trinket.
Wee One: Something that sounds like: “Pink Trill!”
Boy Child: “Hey you, wanna fight?”
The Daddy Smiles.
Bath Time will wait.
Mission Report: School Supplies
Take a deep, self-affirming breath and say: “I solemnly swear I will not go over budget.” Hitch on the Avenger’s backpack I commandeered from Boy Child and gather the troops.
Conveniently forget Boy Child no longer tolerates Paw Patrol tennis shoes. Battle ensues. Boy Child is now wearing too small flip flops held together with a bread tie.
Arrived at Destination: School Supply Aisle. Other parental units spat with their own small humans. I attempt to hold Wee One on my hip and simultaneously search for the list. First objective: Plastic folder with pockets and brads. Obviously ignoring the focus, Boy Child pulls out a composition book with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on it. It costs our entire shopping budget and the blood of a virgin goat. Whispered arguments begin. We agree he can hold it.
Find everything but folders. Wee One, having wriggled free, gleefully pulls out thousands of erasers from a bottom shelf. Boy Child cries huge crocodile tears.
Target acquired! Folders!
Damn. These have pockets, but no brads. Wee One is now eating erasers. Boy Child’s whimper is gaining volume. Tactic: Ignore.
More folders! These have brads, but no pockets. Wee One abandons erases and chews on a pencil box. Boy Child’s whines are getting louder. Assume emergency mode.
Finally! Other folders! No pockets, no brads.
We go to the check-out line and purchase half chewed erasers, a nibbled-on pencil box, and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle composition book.
Mission: Success.
Snippets 