When I picked the boys up from day care, the teacher in the 2’s told me that Little Dipper (LD – I call them Little Dipper and Big Dipper because they like ketchup) was “extra sensitive” today. This is not a good thing.
At some point on the way home, BD asked me what we were having for supper, and I responded with, “Fish sticks.” This was apparently my undoing.
LD cried most of the way home about random happenings, some of which were apparently “cry.” It wasn’t enough to cry; he had to tell me that he was crying about having to cry. Not boding well for the Mom.
We got home and I was in the process of directing BD in the process of putting his coat in the bin (again) and putting his boots in the bin (again) and how to eat a banana while doing so. Daddy grandly acquiesced to making the Fish Sticks of Doom, mostly so that he could escape to the sanctuary of the toilet.
Whilst the oven was warming up, LD started wandering around and murmuring about “dick.” Now, I know he did not mean what I thought he meant, as we call it a “penis” in our house, at least in the public areas; in the romantic confines of our bedroom, I might call it the Babymaking Instrument of Death, but that is a story for another time. So no, he was not referring to his penis. It took approximately 27 minutes for us to figure out that he was saying “fish stick.” By that time, he was so angered by our inability to understand this pure and simple English that he had thrown himself zombielike from the kitchen, arms out in front to protect the face, and then flopping backwards (conveniently in Mommy’s direct line of vision) and screaming out his agony to the uncaring ceiling.
The heels thrummed against the carpet. The body flopped dramatically like a freshly caught carp. The squeals rose and fell like an arpeggio in an opera house in Hell. And Mommy and Daddy stoically wished that the oven would Hurry. Up. Already.
To his everlasting credit, BD charmingly told Mommy to stop laughing at his little brother, and then cooed to LD and told him that everything was ok. Alas, this did nothing to help whatsoever.
Mommy had this conversation with the screaming toddler.
Mommy: Do you want a banana?
LD: No!
Mommy: Do you want some juice?
LD: No!
Mommy: Do you want some chocolate milk? (Almond milk, dammit, don’t judge me)
LD: No!
Mommy: Do you want some fruit snacks?
LD: No!
Mommy: Do you want to suck the life out of Mommy until she is a dessicated husk of lifelessness?
LD: Yes!
Mommy jokes. But literally, it went on for twenty minutes of gutwrenching sobs of fish stick angst. Finally, to the relief of everyone living within a three-block radius, the screeching quieted and finally ended in contended chomping of squishy minced fish in a soggy crust. With ketchup.
Mommy is already on her second glass of wine.
spains2012 