So after yesterday's post, you're probably wondering if I still have posession of my two sons? If they talked to me when I came to pick them up, if they decided to classify me as "known adult to whom I can talk" versus "stranger to whom I cannot talk and must run away from." Did they follow me home? Yes, unfortunately they did. No, I don't mean that. OK, usually I don't mean that.
They did follow me home, but the talking was enough to have sent a stranger running into the woods far, far away from them. What was I worried about? A kidnapper wouldn't last three minutes with them.
Picking up Julian from his daycare in Jersey City, the "talking" went something like this:
"I don't wanna go home," he whines when I pick him up in his classroom, my car double parked outside. What is he talking about, he doesn't want to go? He usually screams "child abondonment!" at the top of his lungs when I drop him off. He writhes and goes limp so that I can't possibly get a jacket sleeve over either arm.
"I wan't PIZZA!" he then says. OK, we'll talk about it. My standard answer.
"I want pizza NOW!!" he then says again. OK, that's enough out of you, Mister. My other standard answer.
Come to think of it, you could just put a pair of D-cells in my back and just let me chatter off a few patent lines every day and you'd probably never know the difference between me and a real, human mom. Sad, isn't it?
When I get Julian home, after a ride-full of ordering me around, Ian has his own show to put on.
"I cannnn't eat, I'm tooo tirrreed." He splays himself over his chair like a dying man, arms and head out one side and his skinny doesn't-eat-enough legs out the other.
"OK, if you're tired, then you must be too tired to watch Dora and Diego before brushing teeth." Another patent line. This threat perks Ian up for about a tenth of a millisecond.
"I dooonnnn't like this," Ian says, pushing his food away. I push it back.
"I caaaannnn't eat this," he says again. Push away. Push back. Meanwhile, Julian is climbing up my left leg because he's either decided he's a cat that needs to scratch his claws, or he wants my attention. I can never tell the difference.
Once in the bathroom, Julian informs me he wants to take a bath without getting wet. I have nothing clever to say in response to this and just continue to fill up the tub with two inches of water.
"Get in," I order.
"Nooooooo!" he hollers.
Jeez. Why couldn't I just be a stranger? Then they wouldn't talk to me, they'd just call me a poopy and run away. I'd be OK with that.
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