“He’s teething”

“You’re not coming to my birthday party” and “You’re not my friend” are preschool rants for which I have little tolerance. I listen to the kids’ power play on the playground, but pay more attention to the parent’s response. I, for one, typically blame most things on my own son. He probably did it. I’m not one to rush to his defense or explain that “He must be tired”, “He must be coming down with something” or my favorite- “He must be teething”! Nope. It is probably his fault. The other kid is crying because of something my kid did- I’m quite certain. So if YOUR kid did do something- don’t pass it off as “He’s probably just hungry”- can’t we mothers just call it like it is? “Sorry. My son’s an a-hole”!

Advertisements

2 thoughts on ““He’s teething”

  1. the parallel here is uncanny and you’ve painted a picture that was identical to what i remember. well, maybe not what you’d think of as a mirror image but a pretty good reflection for the distortion that glares back at you from a fun house mirror.

    in the case of the Kimball Boys our taunt based turmoil was nearly always internal and held captive within the boundaries of our home. if someone wasn’t crying or running to our mother to referee or wipe away the tears, it was because dad was home. it’s those few cases that spilled over the property lines when our mother had to contend with an embarrassing truth. we were idiots. there was never any forethought given to our actions. the demand for immediate retaliation, for instant satisfaction, for answering the pull of curiosity or responding without the slightest thought of consequence, that seemed to be the order of the day.

    although the lure of flame and fire was nearly a constant draw for us, it wasn’t the only thing that had our parents shaking their heads in disbelief. it could be as common an incident as falling from a tall tree but because the fall was predicated with the dead-ended thought, “hmmmm, if i jump for that branch i wonder if it’ll hold me?”…. it became stamped with stupidity. a whole parade of mindless stunts strutted their false bravado before our mother. “how long can i hold a lit fire cracker before tossing it?” “maybe, if i throw this ice pick harder, i can get it to stick into the tree” (only to have it trampoline back and stick in your leg).” “i wonder if this burner on the stove is still hot?” (as it was tested with a touch that was anything but tentative.) “how high can i shoot this arrow?” (only to end up running in circles as it rapidly descended back to earth and upon us). or the commonly visited refrain, “i wonder if this will burn?” we did these things (or coaxed one another to do them) not because we were a-holes but because we were morons. possibly it was because we all ate too much lead paint from our crib railings or maybe because we were allowed to snack on things that was far more detrimental to our continued existence than the crap offered at this year’s State Fair – Chocolate Dipped, Deep Fried Offal. when our mother would ask us, “…but WHYYY??” we would respond with the same answer time and time again, “i don’ know.” the saddest part of the whole thing is that our answer was the truth. we had no idea why we had done it nor why we would seem to do similarly obtuse things (at the adult level) for the rest of our lives.

  2. stories of Real Kill flame throwers, arroyo snowballs, slinging June bugs, the excitement to be found in a July 2 pm garden hose, or the world of pleasure in one frigging match, or the ecstasy of a Zippo, or the abbreviated work load in a hammer and screw, or who says you need golf balls or baseballs when you have so many rocks, the list is endless……..

Leave a Comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s