My neighbours asked me to watch their baby so Mr. Neighbour could take Mrs. Neighbour out for her [undisclosed]th birthday - their first date night since Neighbour Baby was born.
Oh. My. Gawd. It's so cute to see couples who actually like each other! I said yes.
Thursday night I put on my most spit-up friendly outfit, tucked my laptop under my arm, and headed across the lawn to my first babysitting job in nigh on fifteen years.
Huh. New job. Fifteen years. Small human life. Man, that's... that's kindof intimidating... I knocked on the door.
Mr. Neighbour said, "Hello."
I said, "I brought my homework," and sortof flailed my laptop at him.
Mr. Neighbour gave me an odd look, conducted a brief risk assessment, then invited me in anyway. "Thanks so much for coming over, we really appreciate it."
I felt... strangely compelled to state my credentials. "Both my kids are still alive."
Somehow, in the seven metres from my door to the Neighbourses, I had regressed from being a competent, decidedly grown-up, thirty-something woman who had just finished feeding and bathing and tucking in her own two children, to a timid, tongue-tied, tit of a teenager.
Sensing a possible upside to the situation, I looked down.
Dang. Couldn't I have at least gotten my old body back while we were regressing my shit? Worst of both worlds.
The Neighbourses toured me around the house, demonstrating how to warm bottles and latch baby gates; describing Neighbour Baby's routine; setting up monitors in case he cried. All very standard items, yet somehow the spiel only succeeded in shoving me further back down my personal evolutionary progression:
"Then you test it on the inside of your elbow." ...17...
"Here's a sanitized soother in case you drop the other one." ...16...
"I'll put it right by the couch so you're sure to hear him." ...15...
The final blow came as they were walking out the door: "Help yourself to some snacks!"
Boom. Rock bottom.
Oh my gawd, I thought. I feel twelve years old. This is terrifying. What am I going to do if that kid actually wakes up?
Okay. Ridiculous. You're thirty-three. You've done this before. For Pete's sake, they just showed you how to work the baby gate that you gave to them after Small Fry outsmarted it.
Yep. You're right. I'm just feeling like this because I'm associating a new babysitting job with the way I used to feel with all my new babysitting jobs. This is all in my head. Maybe.
Hmm, I wonder what else is left over in my head from when I used to do lots of babysitting? I'll bet some snacks would help you remember. Oh yeah, that's right. You loooooove snacks. Too bad I don't have a boyfriend I could call to come over... hey, let's see if there's anything on TV that I'm not allowed to watch at home...
Just as I was getting settled in with some solid PG-13 viewing and all seven varieties of available snack food, Neighbour Baby woke up.
Ohmygod. Ohmygod. Shit. Okay, think. Think. What should I do now? I can't just ignore him for four hours until his parents come home... I can't call DH, 'cause then he'd want a cut of the snacks... I can't call the Neighbourses because then they'd know that I don't know what I'm doing and I really need this job so I can buy a new t-shirt for that party tomorrow night. Okay, that settles it. I'm just going to have to go in there and deal with Neighbour Baby by myself.
I went in.
I looked at Neighbour Baby. He looked at me. I said, "Luke, I am not your father." He vocalized his lack of amusement. I picked him up. He went totally berserkers. And then - ah. Suddenly, all my trepidation was washed away in a surge of oxytocin and muscle memory, and I was once again the world champion baby bouncer and shusher I had become in real time.
Five minutes later, Neighbour Baby was asleep again. Success.
Yet another still-alive child to add to my babysitting resume. I'm going to need a raise.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Friday, October 7, 2011
The Cozmo Guide to Coffee
Coffee. Everybody's drinking it, but it seems like no one's really talking about what it can do to a gal. You can't get enough of the smell of it; the taste of it; the heat of it spreading through your body until the caffeine hits your bloodstream and suddenly - ooohhhhhh yeaahhhhhh. Your heart races, your eyes roll back in unabashed pleasure, and you're pretty sure you're making one hell of a C-face but damned if you can stop yourself now!
We asked our readers for your deepest, most top-secret fears about coffee, caffeine, and that crazy C-face we all love to hate, and you delivered! Here, Cozmo dishes - uncensored! - on everything you wanted to know about coffee but were afraid to ask.
* * *
Dear Cozmo,
The first time I had coffee with my new boyfriend, he totally LOLed at my C-face! He says that it was just that he had never seen such a "cute" C-face and it took him by surprise how much it looked like I was enjoying our coffee. He is the sort of guy who laughs a lot, but now I'm super embarrassed about it! I'm afraid to drink coffee with him anymore. Please help me get my mojo (and caffeine!) back!
~Cute C Pie, Age 24~
Dear Cute C,
If you looked like you were really enjoying yourself, that probably means you were - and who wouldn't be, drinking coffee with a fun-loving dude like your BF? He's likely telling the truth - that he was really digging your obvious enjoyment of the coffee. So relax. It's no fun having all your coffee in the dark! Besides, his C-face is probably just as adorkable - relish these intimate moments together!
Dear Cozmo,
I've had quite a bit of coffee in my life, but I don't think I've ever made a C-face. Is there something wrong with me?
~C-Minus, Age 19~
Dear C-Minus,
Everyone is capable of having a C-face - you can't help it when it's that good! - and rest assured you will know a C-face when it happens. Often, not having achieved a C-face is a function of just not having experimented enough with drinking coffee. First off, make sure you're not drinking decaf (taking the C out of coffee since, like, forever!). Second, there are countless ways to enjoy coffee - try yours sweet or strong; fine or coarse grind; morning or night; every which way until you find the combo or combos that work best for you. And third, have coffee every day - even several times a day! You can never have too much coffee. We're certain that it won't be long until you experience your first C-face, and we're positive you'll enjoy yourself having all that coffee along the way!
Dear Cozmo,
I'm only able to get my C-face on when we're perking it and my BF always wants instant! I love having coffee with him however we do it, but it just doesn't seem fair that he gets a C-face every time while I'm left wanting more. How can I convince him to put a little more time and effort into our daily grind?
~Percolatin' Maiden, Age 22~
Dear Percolatin',
It's easy for your guy to achieve his C-face, but it sounds like he's not feeling any real incentive to wait for your pot to boil. If he's not willing to invest a little extra effort to ensure his lady love is satisfied, what else is he taking for granted in your relationship? Have a heart-to-heart to him about this, but go into it knowing that you can have excellent coffee by yourself, too, and be 100% in charge of creating your own C-face instead of relying on some inconsiderate fella. If he's unwilling to change, ditch him and treat yourself to some state-of-the-art equipment to help you get the quality coffee you deserve.
Dear Cozmo,
Sometimes I'm just not in the mood for coffee, or I don't have enough time for it. I've heard that some people take "wake up pills" to get their C-face on. I'm considering trying it - what do you think?
~Impatient, Age 20~
Dear Impatient,
Experiencing a C-face is a worthwhile destination, but it's only one stop along what should also be a pleasurable journey. From grinding the beans to plunging the French press to melting the sugar lumps into a mug of hot, creamy goodness, coffee is a sensual cornucopia that shouldn't be rushed. Sure, "wake-ups" might ultimately land you a C-face, but it will inevitably pale in comparison with the real deal. Make time in your schedule for some quality coffee. You're worth it!
~Cozmo~
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Liver of Steel
I have a tendency to over-think things. As a result, my decision tree probably looks more like a decision heavily-browsed-riparian-shrub: where other people might have a 'yes' branch and a 'no' branch, I have countless numbers of 'maybes' and 'yes, buts' and 'if I only had a little more information to work withs'... all of which conclusions I tend to arrive at simultaneously, culminating in endless mental gridlock.
On my more euphemistic days, I prefer to think of it as quantum superdecisioning. Sounds more like a superpower that way.
Whitewashed flaws aside, I do happen to be blessed with a great many superpowers. Not all of them are fit for publication in a family-friendly blog such as this, but I can tell you that one of my personal favourites - I used it just today! - is that I don't get hangovers. Ever.
And so, in absence of any perceivable disincentive, the decision whether to imbibe is one of the few I can reliably make in life without an awful lot of hand-wringing or second-guessing. In fact, my decision shrub for whether or not to drink is more like a decision... stick. With 'yes' being the foregone conclusion.
And there might not even have been a question.
Here's a recent example:
"Ooo, I'm so excited about this party, I'll grab a glass of this nice chardonnay and mingle a bit."
"M'mm, that first glass went down pretty easy. Better grab another just to be sociable."
"Oh my goodness, what a delightful time for a refill!"
"You know what this cheese would go well with..."
"Shit, my glass got all empty again."
"Now onto the reds!"
"Don't mind if I do!"
"I love you, man!"
"More = YES."
"YES = YES."
"Paaaaartay!"
"WOOOO HOOOOOO!"
I lost track after the first twelve glasses or so, but you can see how the Decision Stick works: the fact that wine was present in the vicinity functioned as an implicit question, to which the answer was, invariably, 'yes'.
Okay, so it's a bit of a blunt stick, but what the heck.
DH gave my Decision Stick a try at the wine party we hosted last night, and his trajectory more or less paralleled mine throughout the evening (see above). Unfortunately, the results of his experiment seem to indicate that he doesn't appear to possess quite the same degree of hepatic fortitude as myself.
But don't worry - I was able to force the bathroom door open wide enough to get a blanket more or less on top of him and check his pulse every couple of hours throughout the night. I'm sure he'll be back to normal in a couple of days.
On my more euphemistic days, I prefer to think of it as quantum superdecisioning. Sounds more like a superpower that way.
Whitewashed flaws aside, I do happen to be blessed with a great many superpowers. Not all of them are fit for publication in a family-friendly blog such as this, but I can tell you that one of my personal favourites - I used it just today! - is that I don't get hangovers. Ever.
And so, in absence of any perceivable disincentive, the decision whether to imbibe is one of the few I can reliably make in life without an awful lot of hand-wringing or second-guessing. In fact, my decision shrub for whether or not to drink is more like a decision... stick. With 'yes' being the foregone conclusion.
And there might not even have been a question.
Here's a recent example:
"Ooo, I'm so excited about this party, I'll grab a glass of this nice chardonnay and mingle a bit."
"M'mm, that first glass went down pretty easy. Better grab another just to be sociable."
"Oh my goodness, what a delightful time for a refill!"
"You know what this cheese would go well with..."
"Shit, my glass got all empty again."
"Now onto the reds!"
"Don't mind if I do!"
"I love you, man!"
"More = YES."
"YES = YES."
"Paaaaartay!"
"WOOOO HOOOOOO!"
I lost track after the first twelve glasses or so, but you can see how the Decision Stick works: the fact that wine was present in the vicinity functioned as an implicit question, to which the answer was, invariably, 'yes'.
Okay, so it's a bit of a blunt stick, but what the heck.
DH gave my Decision Stick a try at the wine party we hosted last night, and his trajectory more or less paralleled mine throughout the evening (see above). Unfortunately, the results of his experiment seem to indicate that he doesn't appear to possess quite the same degree of hepatic fortitude as myself.
But don't worry - I was able to force the bathroom door open wide enough to get a blanket more or less on top of him and check his pulse every couple of hours throughout the night. I'm sure he'll be back to normal in a couple of days.
Friday, September 23, 2011
HazelNut
I always used to say to my ex-husband, "I didn't marry your mother!"
It was one of the biggest sources of friction in our relationship: I am a delightful, sensible person, while she is an overbearing, meddling lunatic. Who eats fish heads. (Not even kidding.)
In some sort of horrible cosmic comedy, the fact that I didn't marry her not only had no bearing whatsoever on her decorum for the duration of my ill-fated first marriage, but it also meant that I couldn't divorce her, either. Somehow, in her mentally-unstable fish head-eating haze, she's construed the fact that she and I are not divorced to mean that we must be good buddies, from which it (il)logically follows that she should phone me seventeen times a week to complain about her boss and ask whether Medium Fry needs a new jacket because she just saw some on clearance at Wal-Mart.
My ex phoned me this week to tell me his mother had phoned him to complain that I never answer the phone or return her messages when she calls.
First of all - she tattled on me? And secondly, what the hell did she think he was going to be able to do about it? The moron can't even hold down a cell phone account, I'm not about to start taking his advice. Thirdly, the kid doesn't need some shitty discount Wal-Mart jacket! I buy her nice jackets! What is with that woman and her Wal-Mart jackets?!
*pant, pant*
But I didn't say any of those things. You know why? Because I am a delightful, sensible person. So I put on my most thoroughly delightful saccharine-yet-terrifying-because-it-is-only-thinly-veiling-my-actual-rage voice (with which I assure you he is very familiar) and made an exceedingly sensible point, namely:
"Ohhhh, I see. So how many times a day would you like to converse with my parents? I'm sure I could arrange something..."
... ... (Have patience. It always takes him a while to process.) ... ...
... "Oh. Yeah. Uh, I guess it is kinda weird that she calls you so much. Maybe I'll tell her she should stop phoning you."
"I doubt she's going to be able to go cold turkey after all these years."
"Yeah, you're probably right. So how much can she call you?"
"I think a couple times a month is about the maximum I should reasonably be expected to handle politely."
"Okay, I'll tell her. Oh, hey, by the way, I've been having trouble with my cell phone..."
"You mean it got cut off again?"
... ... (processing... ) ... ...
"Um... yeah. So don't call me on it."
"Roger that."
It was one of the biggest sources of friction in our relationship: I am a delightful, sensible person, while she is an overbearing, meddling lunatic. Who eats fish heads. (Not even kidding.)
In some sort of horrible cosmic comedy, the fact that I didn't marry her not only had no bearing whatsoever on her decorum for the duration of my ill-fated first marriage, but it also meant that I couldn't divorce her, either. Somehow, in her mentally-unstable fish head-eating haze, she's construed the fact that she and I are not divorced to mean that we must be good buddies, from which it (il)logically follows that she should phone me seventeen times a week to complain about her boss and ask whether Medium Fry needs a new jacket because she just saw some on clearance at Wal-Mart.
My ex phoned me this week to tell me his mother had phoned him to complain that I never answer the phone or return her messages when she calls.
First of all - she tattled on me? And secondly, what the hell did she think he was going to be able to do about it? The moron can't even hold down a cell phone account, I'm not about to start taking his advice. Thirdly, the kid doesn't need some shitty discount Wal-Mart jacket! I buy her nice jackets! What is with that woman and her Wal-Mart jackets?!
*pant, pant*
But I didn't say any of those things. You know why? Because I am a delightful, sensible person. So I put on my most thoroughly delightful saccharine-yet-terrifying-because-it-is-only-thinly-veiling-my-actual-rage voice (with which I assure you he is very familiar) and made an exceedingly sensible point, namely:
"Ohhhh, I see. So how many times a day would you like to converse with my parents? I'm sure I could arrange something..."
... ... (Have patience. It always takes him a while to process.) ... ...
... "Oh. Yeah. Uh, I guess it is kinda weird that she calls you so much. Maybe I'll tell her she should stop phoning you."
"I doubt she's going to be able to go cold turkey after all these years."
"Yeah, you're probably right. So how much can she call you?"
"I think a couple times a month is about the maximum I should reasonably be expected to handle politely."
"Okay, I'll tell her. Oh, hey, by the way, I've been having trouble with my cell phone..."
"You mean it got cut off again?"
... ... (processing... ) ... ...
"Um... yeah. So don't call me on it."
"Roger that."
Sunday, September 18, 2011
It Ain't for Sissies
At first, the signs were subtle. If you weren't paying attention you wouldn't even notice them.
Then one day you walk out of the liquor store and think, Gee, that guy didn't even ask to see my ID when I bought this.
In fact, you realize that you can't think of the last time anyone asked for your ID.
Or, for that matter, your phone number.
Oh my gawd, you think. How long has this been going on? How far gone am I?
Maybe it was just the lighting. Yeah, the lighting. The lighting in that place was total shit.
You rush home and scrutinize yourself in a magnifying mirror. You discover what appears to be - although the sighting has not been confirmed - something resembling a line on your forehead. A permanent line.
Although it could have just been the lighting in your bathroom. The lighting in your bathroom is total shit.
Just to be safe, you make an emergency appointment with your hairdresser to get some side bangs.
But by the time it reaches this point, no amount of side bangs can help you. The signs start coming hard and fast, and all of them are pointing to one thing: Old. Here are some handy ways to know if you've arrived at Old:
- The pimply young grocery store clerk calls you "ma'am".
- Actually, everyone does.
- It takes you two months to fully recover from an all-nighter.
- "Now why did I come upstairs...?"
- You're in a long-distance relationship with your breasts.
- Your idea of a good time is a glass of red and a nap.
- It requires conscious effort to refrain from buying purple clothing.
- Your tweezing schedule has begun to interfere with your social life.
- You could swear that chocolate bars used to be way bigger.
- If someone would just get you some fucking coffee right now, no one would have to get hurt.
- Mascara has changed in your estimation from special-occasion accent to indispensable crutch.
- Someone of the opposite sex compliments your appearance and you become faint with gratitude.
- You used to be free to flirt with abandon, but now you're pretty sure you're going to be arrested for the dirty joke you just told that handsome young fellow.
- And, finally:
Frankly, Old is a scary place, and I'd like some company - if any of the above sound familiar, give me a shout. I'm thinking we could start a support group.
Then one day you walk out of the liquor store and think, Gee, that guy didn't even ask to see my ID when I bought this.
In fact, you realize that you can't think of the last time anyone asked for your ID.
Or, for that matter, your phone number.
Oh my gawd, you think. How long has this been going on? How far gone am I?
Maybe it was just the lighting. Yeah, the lighting. The lighting in that place was total shit.
You rush home and scrutinize yourself in a magnifying mirror. You discover what appears to be - although the sighting has not been confirmed - something resembling a line on your forehead. A permanent line.
Although it could have just been the lighting in your bathroom. The lighting in your bathroom is total shit.
Just to be safe, you make an emergency appointment with your hairdresser to get some side bangs.
But by the time it reaches this point, no amount of side bangs can help you. The signs start coming hard and fast, and all of them are pointing to one thing: Old. Here are some handy ways to know if you've arrived at Old:
- The pimply young grocery store clerk calls you "ma'am".
- Actually, everyone does.
- It takes you two months to fully recover from an all-nighter.
- "Now why did I come upstairs...?"
- You're in a long-distance relationship with your breasts.
- Your idea of a good time is a glass of red and a nap.
- It requires conscious effort to refrain from buying purple clothing.
- Your tweezing schedule has begun to interfere with your social life.
- You could swear that chocolate bars used to be way bigger.
- If someone would just get you some fucking coffee right now, no one would have to get hurt.
- Mascara has changed in your estimation from special-occasion accent to indispensable crutch.
- Someone of the opposite sex compliments your appearance and you become faint with gratitude.
- You used to be free to flirt with abandon, but now you're pretty sure you're going to be arrested for the dirty joke you just told that handsome young fellow.
- And, finally:
Frankly, Old is a scary place, and I'd like some company - if any of the above sound familiar, give me a shout. I'm thinking we could start a support group.
Monday, September 12, 2011
The Ol' Hydraulic Frolic
Hey, did you hear about that French fellow who had to pay damages to his wife for not having sex with her for "a period of several years"?
I have to admit I'm appalled at the injustice of it. No, no, not that someone saw fit to attempt to legislate someone else's sex life - what really knots my knickers is that Monsieur B. failed to comply with Unspoken Spousal Agreement Number 6, a.k.a. the Proper Quantity and Type of Sex Agreement, as follows:
6 With respect to the Proper Quantity and Type of Sex to be entertained in the marriage:
6.1 The spouses shall participate in some quantity of sex;
6.1.1 at least some, and preferably all, of which shall occur with the marital partner;
6.1.2 the spouses' fantasy lives notwithstanding;
6.1.3 chance encounters with George Clooney also notwithstanding.
6.2 The quantity of sex to be allotted within the marriage shall be mutually disagreeable to both parties;
6.2.1 the sex shall be distributed spatially such that it occurs in a non-random manner;
6.2.2 the sex shall be distributed temporally such that it occurs in a non-random manner.
6.3 The type of sex to be allotted within the marriage shall also be mutually disagreeable to both parties;
6.3.1 the sex shall be enacted in a non-random fashion.
6.4 The disagreeable nature of the sex lives of the spouses shall be trotted out regularly;
6.4.1 in any and all arguments longer than 10 seconds in duration;
6.4.2 in moments of pique, as seen fit by the parties; and
6.4.3 whenever drinking with friends.
So you see, Monsieur B. was clearly acting in violation of clauses 6.1 through 6.3, and one may infer 6.4 as well, although this is not essential to the case.
I'm an advocate of alternative sentencing in these types of rulings, so I would be very interested to know how exactly the judge assigned a dollar figure to the judgement. Perhaps Madame B. presented receipts for any "alternate means" she was forced to employ?
Although, even at cost plus 10% over several years, it hardly seems possible that one woman could burn through that many thousands of dollars' worth of hardware... she must have been awarded a battery stipend as well. Plus maybe a wee "pain and suffering" amount for any carpal tunnel incurred. Then multiply the lot by Madame B.'s subjective Hotness Factor - as determined solely at the discretion of the judge - and you've got yourself a quality alternative sentence.
I applaud you, crazy French judge.
Coincidentally, I predict a 6oo% increase in job security for positions within the French legal system as a result of this precedent-setting/ floodgate-opening case.
I have to admit I'm appalled at the injustice of it. No, no, not that someone saw fit to attempt to legislate someone else's sex life - what really knots my knickers is that Monsieur B. failed to comply with Unspoken Spousal Agreement Number 6, a.k.a. the Proper Quantity and Type of Sex Agreement, as follows:
6 With respect to the Proper Quantity and Type of Sex to be entertained in the marriage:
6.1 The spouses shall participate in some quantity of sex;
6.1.1 at least some, and preferably all, of which shall occur with the marital partner;
6.1.2 the spouses' fantasy lives notwithstanding;
6.1.3 chance encounters with George Clooney also notwithstanding.
6.2 The quantity of sex to be allotted within the marriage shall be mutually disagreeable to both parties;
6.2.1 the sex shall be distributed spatially such that it occurs in a non-random manner;
6.2.2 the sex shall be distributed temporally such that it occurs in a non-random manner.
6.3 The type of sex to be allotted within the marriage shall also be mutually disagreeable to both parties;
6.3.1 the sex shall be enacted in a non-random fashion.
6.4 The disagreeable nature of the sex lives of the spouses shall be trotted out regularly;
6.4.1 in any and all arguments longer than 10 seconds in duration;
6.4.2 in moments of pique, as seen fit by the parties; and
6.4.3 whenever drinking with friends.
So you see, Monsieur B. was clearly acting in violation of clauses 6.1 through 6.3, and one may infer 6.4 as well, although this is not essential to the case.
I'm an advocate of alternative sentencing in these types of rulings, so I would be very interested to know how exactly the judge assigned a dollar figure to the judgement. Perhaps Madame B. presented receipts for any "alternate means" she was forced to employ?
Although, even at cost plus 10% over several years, it hardly seems possible that one woman could burn through that many thousands of dollars' worth of hardware... she must have been awarded a battery stipend as well. Plus maybe a wee "pain and suffering" amount for any carpal tunnel incurred. Then multiply the lot by Madame B.'s subjective Hotness Factor - as determined solely at the discretion of the judge - and you've got yourself a quality alternative sentence.
I applaud you, crazy French judge.
Coincidentally, I predict a 6oo% increase in job security for positions within the French legal system as a result of this precedent-setting/ floodgate-opening case.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Damn You, Flynn!
I used to think the most dangerous place to leave toy cars would be on the stairs. Now that I have children of my own, I realize that it's actually the bathtub.
You can always trust kids to one-up you like that.
This leads me to a related conclusion at which I also couldn't have arrived without having been a parent. Be brave, this is gonna hurt a little: your kids are smarter than you.
Not just statistically smarter, or better at texting, or whatever it is you routinely tell yourself to help yourself sleep at night, but actually smarter. Sure sure, you can tie your own shoes and snicker at the dirty jokes in the Pixar films that are still going way over their little heads, but otherwise they are floating like butterflies and stinging like bees while you are basically standing around scratching your ass. Intellectually speaking, anyways.
Now to be fair, they have a lot less going on than you do - no work, no responsibilities - but all this means is that they are able to devote 100% of their formidable processing powers to a) obtaining junk food; b) shedding whatever work or responsibilities they are handed; and/or c) formulating "non-linear interpretations" of rules.
Cases in point:
a) We recently saw twin eight-year-old boys at Superstore get the old "One treat, do you hear me? ONE!" from Mom, then - having made artful use of Dad's inattention during the remainder of the shopping trip - waltz out of the store a half-hour later with one of them cradling a family-sized chocolate bar and the other a bag of marshmallows. (Pwned!)
b) My girlfriend finally hit on a potty training incentive that worked: every time her daughter used the potty, she would get a sticker. When she earned ten stickers, she got a trip to the store to pick out one treat, whatever she wanted. Once at the store, she looked her mother straight in the eye and requested a roll of stickers. (PWNED!!)
c) Small Fry. All the time. *sigh* pwned.
And if the three-year-old is running laps around my best efforts I'm thinking I'll probably need to retain a lawyer before Medium Fry hits her teen years, to help me through curfew negotiations.
You can always trust kids to one-up you like that.
This leads me to a related conclusion at which I also couldn't have arrived without having been a parent. Be brave, this is gonna hurt a little: your kids are smarter than you.
Not just statistically smarter, or better at texting, or whatever it is you routinely tell yourself to help yourself sleep at night, but actually smarter. Sure sure, you can tie your own shoes and snicker at the dirty jokes in the Pixar films that are still going way over their little heads, but otherwise they are floating like butterflies and stinging like bees while you are basically standing around scratching your ass. Intellectually speaking, anyways.
Now to be fair, they have a lot less going on than you do - no work, no responsibilities - but all this means is that they are able to devote 100% of their formidable processing powers to a) obtaining junk food; b) shedding whatever work or responsibilities they are handed; and/or c) formulating "non-linear interpretations" of rules.
Cases in point:
a) We recently saw twin eight-year-old boys at Superstore get the old "One treat, do you hear me? ONE!" from Mom, then - having made artful use of Dad's inattention during the remainder of the shopping trip - waltz out of the store a half-hour later with one of them cradling a family-sized chocolate bar and the other a bag of marshmallows. (Pwned!)
b) My girlfriend finally hit on a potty training incentive that worked: every time her daughter used the potty, she would get a sticker. When she earned ten stickers, she got a trip to the store to pick out one treat, whatever she wanted. Once at the store, she looked her mother straight in the eye and requested a roll of stickers. (PWNED!!)
c) Small Fry. All the time. *sigh* pwned.
And if the three-year-old is running laps around my best efforts I'm thinking I'll probably need to retain a lawyer before Medium Fry hits her teen years, to help me through curfew negotiations.
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