This morning was one of those rare, perfect bits of alchemy where we got the children ready for school in a choreographed piece of Disney magic. Even after one of the kids shat himself.
“It’s a shart,” I proclaimed gleefully, breaking all parenting codes by teaching him a new swear, “A cross between a fart and a shit ha ha.”
I never claimed that my parenting style was conventional, as I will say do or say anything to make my kids feel better, unless they’re being bratty. If that includes swearing or making a fool of myself, then so be it. So sharting ended up just another fun part of this morning’s Great Adventure.
The children are doing so well since we told them about the separation that I’m beginning to think we totally overblew its potential to wreck their young lives. As a bonus, mommy’s rage, which was the main problem they had to worry about before is no longer an issue, now that mommy is blissfully sauntering home at 7:15 a.m. straight from the arms of her boyfriend, He That Shall Not Be Named.
It is amazing the inverse correlation between hysterical yelling, and orgasms. The more I get of the latter, the less I’m inclined to do the former. I thought I would check in with my kid on the way to school, to make sure I wasn’t being overly self-congratulatory.
“Do you notice that mommy’s happier in the last three months?”
David smirked as he replied, “Yes.”
“And I don’t yell anymore, do I?”
He stopped and thought as if it was just occurring to him, “No-oh.”
Two nights ago we were having a somewhat difficult evening, after I spent forty minutes telling the kids to wash their hands while they still stared at me blankly and shoveled in more dinner-wrecking snacks. I forgot to do what works, as you do sometimes (like threaten them with no video games) as I got too overwhelmed, between cleaning the detritus off the dining table so they could do their homework and cleaning up puppy shart (seeing as I can’t threaten it with taking away video games, the potty training is not going so well.)
Then there was the usual
crippling pressure daily joy of cooking the kids’ dinner. Because I can no longer yell (or drink, or take drugs, or pump whipped cream into my mouth directly from the nozzle) I simply walked away, sat on the couch and stared into space, contemplating yet again how ill advised the decision to have children.
Only once they saw the life drain out of my eyes, did my kids approach the couch tentatively apologize and start being nice to me. Samson even made “our famous kale salad” himself; I’m not sure what makes it famous since we are the only ones who know about it, but I love that he calls it that. Even better was that he washed his hands before he made it, so Gastro Enteritis was not on the menu.
At that point I began texting with my boyfriend, whom the kids haven’t met yet, for moral support. In a moment of abandon I asked He Who Shall Not Be Named to come over, and warned David that I had.
“I want my friend to come over, but I don’t want to upset you,” I said obliquely.
David understood my meaning right away. After all, my boyfriend and I text so much that the iPhone has become surgically molded into my palm like a cyborg. It’s not like the kid hasn’t noticed.
“Is it the guy you’re texting?” he asked,
“Yes,” I replied, as H.T.S.N.B.N texted back if I was serious?
“Are you ready?” I asked David, not invested in the response. The kids will meet my boyfriend when they’re ready and not a moment before.
David looked perturbed for a moment, then looked me in the eye. “No,” he said simply, “Not today.”