Pretty hard sometimes. I find that small children have given me a snapping threshold that would make Gordon Ramsay say “Whoa, cool it lady.” Inanimate objects seem to be the main focus of my wrath because they won’t be taken away from me if I really start spitting cherries (best. phrase. ever.) Instead, I find myself hulking the tabs off the effing nappy because they won’t peel up, drop kicking a basket of socks across the room because I can’t find a pair that matches or swearing that if I ever find the murther furking jackhole that put 14 previews on every kid DVD, I will chant “Kali Ma” as I plunge my bare fist into their chest and pull out their still-beating heart. Breeeeeeeathe.
“I would never let my kids become my whole life.”
I used to go over to my “previously cool” friend’s place and think how sad it was that her house was overrun with sippy cups, Polly Pocket shoes and Dora the Explorer crap. Now I lay in my hippy bed reading Goodnight Moon until my right eye twitches and they fall asleep. Then I look at their perfect, little faces and wonder how I ever lived without them.
--Excerpt from "When I Have Kids, I Will Never..." by Amy Morrison
Okay. I had to include these excerpts for two reasons.
- N has a bookcase built in to his bed; there are loads of beautiful little boy books for beautiful sweet little boys, and I love getting to relive my childhood while I read him those stories. But for whatever reason, after we finish Goldilocks or Jungle Junction or Dr. Seuss, he insists that I read him the Boobah book. I have no idea what a Boobah is or why they are made to be so absolutely horrifying, but I read N the Boobah book every single night before bed. Every. Single. Night. Apparently they have squeaky voices, and I
freaking refusepolitely object to making them. The Cat in the Hat, the three bears, Toadhog in the Jungle - they all get fun voices. But the Boobahs and the loony-toon who created them can bite me.
[Seriously... What IS this? The longer you look, the scarier it gets.]
- More importantly, even as I typed that, I knew it was a lie - the Boohbahs occasionally get a fun voice because N loves it and I suddenly become some kind of crazy bedtime guru that cures all fears of the dark and "I want another drink of water!" meltdowns. Ever since I started the Boohbah book before bed, it's been an amazing bonding experience, I love him a little more each night, and he finds it hilarious that he gets the "snug as a bug in a rug" chime from me after every story time.
Fun bonus: by reading the Boohbah garbage and avoiding the Kali Ma-jackhole-heart-plunge-I-don't-wanna-go-to-sleep disaster, I give Daddy and me an extra hour of "adult time." Mind you, I use the term loosely. Last night after the kids went to sleep, we watched Far and Away, practiced our Irish accents, and viciously tickled each other for twenty minutes.
The Boohbahs are getting to us.