My 5-year-old daughter Madeline is a total mini-me. From the top of her anal-retentive head, passing straight through her sassy lil’ body and right on down to her mildly airheaded toes. The girl is all me. And all of the things which are clearly so endearing about my own personality really drive me nuts when encountered in other people. Especially when I am basically required to maintain daily contact with
a person who, like me, enjoys watching herself cry in the mirror in order to increase the drama of the situation my daughter.
Kinda like FDR with his fireside chats, my sweet girl and I have been having an ongoing conversation about really important things in this country and life in general…You know, things like The Real Housewives of Every City except Atlanta, the necessity of wearing low-rise jeans before having children (cause no matter what, after kids, they will never fit right again) and common sense. I am typically the leader in these conversations, “So Madeline, I am thinking of running this red light up ahead….Do you think this would be a good idea?” To which my girl dutifully responds, “No, Mom. Common sense tells me to at least slow down and check for pedestrians before running a red light.” Now that’s my girl!
There are two things I
rarely occasionally do which totally make me feel like a superior Mom-Snob type. One is when I use my crockpot. There is just something about the aroma of garlic-lemon chicken wafting through the house at 10am that just gets me up high on my Mom-horse. The other thing is when I actually use my stove…or oven? I honestly don’t know which term is correct, but you know the appliance of which I speak. Six nights out of seven I can manage to get along just fine using my toaster oven, microwave, and rice-cooker. And on the seventh day, I drink wine. And the kids eat nothing but grapes for dinner…What? Hey, God told me to rest on the seventh day and I take that shit seriously.
So I rarely use that huge hot box contraption, but tonight I was feeling fancy. I made a knockoff recipe intended to be identical to Chicken Bryan at Carabba’s. It actually came out great! Even my anorexic 2-year-old ate some. I was prancing around the kitchen all proud of myself, more jovial than Richard Simmons until I noticed my daughter motioning dramatically towards the oven/stove contraption. Hmmm, apparently the plastic plate I inadvertently placed on top of a still-hot burner was creating quite a show for the kiddies. Smoke, mild flames, good stuff. And then Mini-Me piped in, “Hey Ma! Common sense! You shouldn’t put a plastic plate on top of a hot burner. Du-uhh. Com-mon se-hense!”
And then a few minutes later the lil’ bitch got me again. She is hooked on salt, almost as bad as Michael Jackson was on little boys. I left the kitchen briefly and came back to the dinner table to hear, “Yo, Mom. Common seh-hense. You shouldn’t leave the salt shaker on the table. You know I will just dump it all over my chick-enn. Du-huhhh. Common seh-hense.”
Little brat I taught her well.
And if you were wondering about the apple of my eye, young Baylor? I’m pretty sure the highlight of his whole day was just before bedtime. I was getting the kid dressed for bed, lovingly applying diaper cream to his sensitive man parts before fastening his diaper and phthwaulltheugh, the little fuck farted RIGHT ON MY FINGER! For the second night in a row. And how was your Tuesday?