Skip to main content

On a sugar low...

Our son is learning a lesson. A life lesson. A hard-knock lesson about how we don't always get what we want. Especially when all we've done for the past 73 minutes is whine and complain and cry and stomp and yell and call our parents inappropriate names and refuse to eat our broccoli and stick our fork out pretending to shoot Mommy with it.

What is it that he is not getting, yet so desperately wanting?

Chocolate.

Damn. Don't we all.

Thing is, if he'd just done what we asked and been polite while doing it, we were planning on giving him a piece of nutty, gooey confection that Mommy picked up from a new chocolatier in a nearby 'burb.

The demon-child-fit-from-the-pit-of-Hades effectively nixed that plan.

So for the past -- what is it now -- 78 minutes, we have heard this...

Wwaaaaaahhhhhh. I really want chocolate. Pleaaaaasseee. Pleassse. Oh I really want it. Pleeaaaasssee. I really want chocolate. That's all I want, I'll be good. I promise. Pleaaassee. Waaaaaaahhhhhh. Waaaaaaaaaahhhhhaaahahahahahhahh. But pleaseeee. I really want it. I do. Ohhhh...I really really really want it. Pleaaaasse. Chocolate. Chocolatechocolatechocolate. Pleasseeee. Wwaaaaaahhhhhh. I really want chocolate. Pleaaaaasseee. Pleassse. Oh I really want it. Pleeaaaasssee. I really want chocolate. That's all I want, I'll be good. I promise. Pleaaassee. Waaaaaaahhhhhh. Waaaaaaaaaahhhhhaaahahahahahhahh. But pleaseeee. I really want it. I do. Ohhhh...I really really really want it. Pleaaaasse. Chocolate. Chocolatechocolatechocolate. Pleasseeee. Wwaaaaaahhhhhh. I really want chocolate. Pleaaaaasseee. Pleassse. Oh I really want it. Pleeaaaasssee. I really want chocolate. That's all I want, I'll be good. I promise. Pleaaassee. Waaaaaaahhhhhh. Waaaaaaaaaahhhhhaaahahahahahhahh. But pleaseeee. I really want it. I do. Ohhhh...I really really really want it. Pleaaaasse. Chocolate. Chocolatechocolatechocolate. Pleasseeee. Wwaaaaaahhhhhh. I really want chocolate. Pleaaaaasseee. Pleassse. Oh I really want it. Pleeaaaasssee. I really want chocolate. That's all I want, I'll be good. I promise. Pleaaassee. Waaaaaaahhhhhh. Waaaaaaaaaahhhhhaaahahahahahhahh. But pleaseeee. I really want it. I do. Ohhhh...I really really really want it. Pleaaaasse. Chocolate. Chocolatechocolatechocolate. Pleasseeee.

And oh, now what is Tim doing? He's walking over to the...oh no. Tim. Don't do it. Don't don't don't. He's opening the box. He's handing the demon-child-fit-from-the-pit-of-Hades a piece of stinking candy.

"Why did you do that????" I ask, dumbfounded. We just went through 79.5 minutes of agony and it's all for nothing. We've been had by a criminally savvy preschooler. Either that, or we're the world's dumbest enforcers of parental law. Which would YOU say?

"He promises he'll be good until December," Tim says.

Great. I'll pass that along to Santa.

Comments

Anonymous said…
I wasn't sure what to get Henry for his birthday to make him like me, but now I know. Thanks for the shopping advice.

Chilly Dog

Popular posts from this blog

Holy Separated-At-Birth, Batman!

Gary Oldman...meet Uncle Knit-Knots from Imagination Movers.

So, I Changed My Mind

More than four years ago, the blog and I parted ways. I needed a change. A whole lot happened in my world since then. I switched jobs a couple times. My kid went from an elementary school tween to a teenage high schooler. We built a new house and moved. Both my parents and my sister have passed. The world around me changed as well. Mass shootings, racism, the #metoo movement, a misogynistic bigoted narcissist in the White House ... go ahead, add to the list. Toss your woes into this dumpster fire we call 2019.  I appreciate my previous sentiment, that I was no longer wandering. But let's be honest, we're all trying to find our way through this mess. I decided to reboot the blog to give myself a creative outlet, a way to sort through the confusion and frustration and attempt to make sense of it all. I have a voice, and I'm not keen to silence it anymore. Guess what? I'm back, bitches.

In memoriam...

I remember the first time I heard the name "Les Anderson." A bunch of Wichita State University communication majors were sitting around on campus, talking about classes they planned to take. Several people warned me: watch out for Les Anderson. He was tough. He had a murderous grading scale. It was nearly impossible to get an A. They weren't kidding. But he wasn't tough just to be a tyrant. From his teaching sprang a fleet of incredible, successful journalists, writers, editors, broadcasters, public relations experts, advertisers, non-profit professionals...I could go on and on. Most importantly, he created a legion of people who wanted to make a difference in the world. The greatest gift Les gave to them all? He believed in them, cared about them for their own personal stories as well as the stories they told for class assignments or in the pages of his hometown newspaper. Les was my teacher. My boss. My mentor. My conscience. My champion. My friend. When I started c...