Kid Sensation: Living dangerously

Hey, you guys!  I’m sitting procrastinating because I’m supposed to go bake a pie and I have NEVER baked a pie.  The only reason I’m doing this is because my husband happened to mention that he had never had sweet potato pie.  My initial reaction was, “Of course not.  You’ve always had pecan because you’re melanin deficient. ”  Ignorant, I know.  But since I live where I live, most of the white families I’ve met do pecan, most of the Black families, sweet potato.  Tomato, tomahto.

But then two things happened.  One, I realized that, blonde though my hubby may be, he’s been married to a Black woman with a Black family for almost twelve years.  Two, my son also said he never had tasted said pie.  Conclusion:  I am a failure.

So I wildly overreacted which ended with a declaration that I’m going to make this pie.  I’m sure hilarity will ensue that I will be compelled to tell ya’ll about later.

Anyhoo, I don’t know why I decided to spill those particular beans.  I meant to tell you about how Kid Sensation cheated death.  And, no not at the hands of Wondergirl.  No.  This time he took on the Big Man.

So we’ve all been cooped up here for the last few couple days together.  Kid Sensation has been in front of a screen for the entire time.  Like, only stopping for meals and potty breaks.  Which would be fine if he was in college or building an online empire.  However, he’s just looking up cartoon theme songs and offbeat British animation.  (I don’t know.)

I know, I know–we’re terrible parents.  I’m not gonna front though.  It beats listening to him and Wondergirl fighting non-freaking-stop. I mean, it’s like living with Captain America and, well, Wondergirl.   The other night, I didn’t hear anything for like, ten minutes and I was all, “Finally.”  But then I realized that it was ten p.m. and they had just fallen asleep. Mid-fight.

ddbw
All day, every day.

 

Yesterday, the Big Man figured that ol’ K.S. needed to get some fresh air.  We live in the Pacific Northwest and it’s not raining. AKA:  Get your butt outside.

Kid Sensation ignores the first missive, choosing the dangerous path of ignoring his dad.  But this, you guys, this is not where things went left.

The Big Man repeats himself.  He hates repeating himself even more than I do.  Still, not in quite in Fatality country–just cruising the border.  Not until Kid Sensation says, and I quote:  “Okay, Okay.  Be calm.”

I know you know what I’m talking about here.  When you have repeatedly issued an order to your child and they want to act like you’re crazy and that your craziness isn’t their fault, it’s maddening.  No, maddening isn’t right.  It’s infuriating.

The Big Man turns beet-red.  I know this description is overused, but he really was the exact shade of supermarket beets. All I heard was, “GET IN HERE!  NOW!”  It was so loud that at first I thought the Apocalypse had begun and I was going to be called into account for my bogus pie claims.

I immediately remove myself  from the room.  I am not trying to give eyewitness testimony.  I remove myself from the room, and immediately begin fabricating plausible reasons for Kid Sensation’s disappearance. “Okay, we’re poor, so boarding school is out.  Living with Grandma?  No, she lives half a mile from here.  Think, Vida, think!”

Next thing I know, I’m witnessing the single most tearful shoe putting on ever.  He even managed to have one lonely tear stop mid-cheek on both sides of his face. It was so, so, pitiful, you guys.  But he brought it on himself.

I still don’t know which particular boom was lowered that day.  I’m a coward, so I’m afraid to ask.  I’m just glad Kid Sensation is alive and well. And fighting with Wondergirl as we speak.

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Random Round-Up

He you guys!  So I was not feeling well this week.   You know, cause I sent the kids back to that petri dish they call school. Also I have been writing for other folks, and again I am too shy to share. I just straight up told Mama Prime I would direct her to my work and when I got home I cried because I don’t want her to know how awful my work really is.  Yes, I said shy.  Why are you surprised?  Oh, because I am a butthead loudmouth on here?  Yeah, well.

Anywhoo.  Pop question:  When everyone in the house is sick, who do you tend to first?  A) Your oldest, B) the middle child who never gets enough attention, or C) the baby because he’s the baby?  Haha, trick question—the answer is D) the Big Man.  Because he is pathetic.  Or pitiful.  I can’t decide. Pathetiful? Yes.  YES.  No one copyright this until I feel like it.

Now.  To my random thoughts.

I told the Destroyer that if he goes to a school dance, and a girl he’s dancing with dances anything like I do, he should call me immediately and get away from her as fast as he can.  If a girl can booty roll and shake the way I could (and, *ahem* still can) I don’t want him anywhere NEAR her.  #parentalhypocrisy

I finally gave away my hope jeans.  You know those jeans you hold onto hoping you’ll lose weight back into them?  Yeah, well I lost hope.  Also, they are now out of style. I wish you well in your Goodwill endeavors, hope jeans.

The Destroyer, my son, who came from my own body, didn’t know how to spell Vegeta.  Or Super Saiyan.  I have failed him spectacularly. Don’t call CPS.

Yeah, Vegeta. That's how I felt, too.
Yeah, Vegeta. That’s how I felt, too.

Remember how I said Skeletor was undateable?  Well, I follow him on Twitter and he seems cool.  Danzing  is still undateable, though.

My grandma’s in town!  This is awesome because she’s awesome.

I live in Vancouver, Washington.  I thought it was cloudy today, but I think I’m wrong.  I think it may be the haze of smug coming across the river from Portland.  Yes, smug.

I was late taking Kid Sensation to school the other day.  He was up in his room playing so quietly I forgot he was there.  You guys, he was being so nice and quiet that I was validated as a parent.  I mean, if I can forget you exist, you’re a pretty good kid, right? Please don’t call CPS.

I want to have a cooking show.  But I can’t because I wouldn’t know how to cook without being interrupted. Or having to break up a fight. Or getting into a fight.  Or putting out a small fire.

On second thought, my cooking show might be pretty good.  Will you guys watch it?

SHALLOW. Like son like mother.

Again, I admit I’m a terrible person.  It’s kind of my running theme.  And I’m passing it on to the next generation.  Thank me later.

So I was talking to The Destroyer about a girl he likes.  Liked.  Here’s the deal:  I try to instill in my children that looks aren’t everything.  I try to tell them that what makes a person special is on the inside.  Stay with me here.

This is how the conversation went:

“Hey, whatever happened to ____?”  (At this stage, I’m not trying to remember their names.)

He shrugs.  “She’s not my type.”

“What does that mean?”

Another shrug.  So, I think, she’s tore up.

“Destroyer, everything can’t be looks.  I mean, is she smart? Funny? Interesting?”

“She’s smart.  I just don’t like her, mom.  Leave it alone.” I wasn’t about to leave it alone.  Me?  Nerd extraordinaire? Raise a shallow kid?  Not gonna happen.  If he can’t see inner beauty, then he’s the same as all those shallow jerks that I went to school with.  You know, the ones who couldn’t see my inner beauty.

“Listen, there’s a such thing as inner beauty.  I mean—wait.  Is that her?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.  Oh, my. WOOF. Jaysus. My goodness, Destroyer. Did—did you know what she looked like?”

“I was trying to tell you.”

“Okay.  Duck.  I’ll peel outta here before she knows you’re here.”

Don’t get mad, you guys.  I really do want my son to be with a woman of substance.  I just don’t want her to be tore-up ugly.  And I don’t mean like a big nose or overweight or a limp.  I mean looking like a Garbage Pail Kid.

Sweartogod, this is HannahMckaylaBrittneyEricaAleshaRenee
Sweartogod, this is HannahMckaylaBrittneyEricaAleshaRenee

And I know there are parents out there who wouldn’t want their son- or daughter-in-law to be fat like me.  I’ve decided not to be mad about that.  (Especially since I know that my mother-in-law wanted her son to marry a pretty, petite, blonde.  Which is the polar opposite of me and I decided not to be mad about that.  Especially since I make the Big Man very happy. Also, I’m sexy-fat.  So there’s that.)

The thing is, men get to be shallow about ALL KINDS OF THINGS. Like if a woman has hammer toes.  So, I feel like I get to be shallow about some things.  And this is one of them.  I get to think that my smart, beautiful son is out of a particular girl’s league.

I happened to marry an attractive man.  And I know that they’re my kids, but my kids are pretty darn good looking.  And I would like to have good looking grandchildren.

I don’t worry about this too much with Wondergirl.  She already has criteria in place for the man she wants to meet in 2026.  (That’s the year she has projected, not me.) She actually said, “He has to be reasonably handsome.  Not way fine, cause I’m not trying to fight over him. ” (This is a lie.  She wants any excuse to fight.) “And rich,” she added. “He has to be rich.”  Of course he does.  How else would she fund her world-dictatorship campaign? (Omega Prime, I’m looking at you, kid.)

Look, I guess it boils down to this:  If a dad can tell his son to date hot chicks, so can a mom.  Also, I hope that she’s kinda dumb. That way, I can trick her into telling the truth about what her and my son have been up to.

Oh, and then, THEN, another girl had the nerve to tell the Destroyer that she didn’t want to talk to him because some kids said that his mother is crazy.  WHAT?!?  Only SOME kids think I’m crazy?  Well, I must be losing my touch.

Howareya?

Hey ya’ll.  I know I promised all sorts of things and I have not delivered.  What had happened was I wrote a few and I lost some of my work and then I blamed my blog.  So I stopped writing for a while.  Also, I’m pursuing an MFA in creative writing, so I’ve been writing (my own stuff) and editing (other people’s stuff) for that and then not wanting to even look at a keyboard or monitor after that.

Anyhoo, how have you been?  Yeah, yeah, now back to what’s important—me.  Just kidding, you know I love you guys.  But seriously, back to me.

One, Wondergirl is eleven.  Or as I prefer to call it:  Eleventeen.  Wondergirl has never been easy, but good gravy, you guys, this chick is acting brand new.  Like she has never met me or the Big Man before.  Well, in the words of Kevin Hart, “She gon’ learn today.”

So she’s stomping around here, slamming doors and such, when finally, the Big Man has had it.  Now, the petty stuff he lets me handle—I enjoy being petty.  I really do.  I will argue with a seven-year-old and fight a baby.  (BTW, shout out to Birdie for teaching me how to fight a baby.  It’s an art, you know.)  Apparently, however, door slamming isn’t petty.  From what I surmise, it’s tantamount to property damage and the Big Man ain’t having it.

He looks at me and says, “I warned her.”  And in all fairness, he did.

Okay, so a few weeks ago, she was acting all stompy and mean and door-slammy.  The Big Man was not cool with this, so he called her down to his almighty recliner and told her:

“Look.  If you ever slam that door again, it’s coming off.” And then he went back to watching Miami Vice.  The show, not the terrible, terrible movie.  Colin Farell? Really?

Anyway, I guess Wondergirl forgot.  I forgot too, but then, I’m not the one running around slamming doors.  (Sidenote:  I used to be the Door Slam Empress.  But then one time my dad had enough of my reign and decided to overthrow me with the Bust-the-Door-Open-So-Hard-It-Put-a-Hole-in-the-Wall technique.) The Big Man did not forget and he had had it up to hyeah (“here”, for those not familiar with parental grammar).  So he looks at me and says, “It’s coming off.”

At first I thought he meant his calm demeanor and that he was planning on hulking out, which I wasn’t cool with.  But he saw the confused and ready-to-argue look and my face and says, “I mean her door.  Everything isn’t comics, Veeds.”  He’s wrong about that, but I’m just glad he meant her door.

So he goes and gets all these dramatic tools from the garage and trudges upstairs like he’s walking the Green Mile.  Wondergirl suspects nothing.  I am profoundly grateful for this, because I really don’t want K street to fall victim to what happens when an unstoppable force meets an unmovable object.  (I do know that this is supposed to be physically impossible; this would be the first time people–I PROMISE. It would destroy mathematical academia as we know it.)

So maybe this? Except I'm not there.  I'm making ice cream.
So maybe this? Except I’m not there. I’m making ice cream.

You know that time Roseanne took down Darlene’s door?  This was nothing like that.  The Big Man removed the door and Wondergirl said nothing.  Nothing.  She just looked at him.  Then she cried a little bit and continued to say nothing. And then cleaned her room in silence.

Y’all ain’t hearing me though.

Background:  I have to BEG Wondergirl to clean her room.  BEG.  So now, after punishment, she does it voluntarily?  I’m not buying it. It seems like she’s getting her affairs in order so she can assume a different identity. You know, like after committing a horrific crime.

I’m a coward, though, so I didn’t say anything.  I’m just acting nervous around her and offering lots of ice cream.  Who knows? Maybe being a widow won’t be so bad.

Oh. OH.  Remember I was telling you guys about Omega Prime?  This kid is so awesome I can’t even. So just wait a bit.  It’ll happen.

Why can’t I be Bruce Wayne?

Okay, so I you read my blog on a regular basis (and I know you do, because it’s just that entertaining) then you know that I love me some superheroes. Marvel, DC, Justice League, Avengers, all of it. I’ve already done a post about which super powers I would like to have.  Now I’m going to do this one about which superheroes the people in my life actually are.  I mean, if you think about it, we all have people in our lives that have traits of certain mutants or aliens.  Like, my sister Birdie and I have mutual acquaintance that would be Rogue because she sucks the life out of everyone.  Like that.

Of course, I would be Batman. Wait–The Destroyer has just informed me that I am not Batman.  He is insane.

“Of course I’m Batman.  I’m fabulous all day and then I lurk around all night fighting dirt and crime.  Mostly dirt. Also, I always wear black.” Not sure if Batman wears black because it’s slimming, but whatever.

“Yeah, but Batman carries out his threats.”

“Not the point, look, I’m trying to type here–”

“You’re actually the Punisher.  You just go around busting up everyone’s fun.”

What?  I thought I was fun, not the fun-buster.

“No, it’s just that being the fun-buster is fun for you. That’s why you smile when you do it.”  (Note:  This is not why.  I just have this weird quirk where I smile when I’m angry.  Don’t ask me why, I wish I looked fierce and scary and intimidating.)

“You shut up and let me be Batman before I punch the air out of your lungs.”

He laughed, said “Punisher” and went to eat all the food out of the refrigerator.

I have previously called the Big Man my own personal Hulk.  But now that I think about it, that’s not quite right.  He has no Bruce Banner side to him;  he always just walks around being huge and intense.  He’s the Juggernaut. Like this:

He does that several times a day.

Wondergirl is Captain America.  She doesn’t make the rules, but she sure will enforce them.  With violence.  Sweet, sweet, justified violence.

The Destroyer.  He’s Beast.  No, he’s not blue, and he’s not even really hairy yet.  But he does run around on all fours (not joking)  and can physically do some pretty amazing crap. He’s also pretty smart when he feels like it.

Kid Sensation.  I almost put Kid Sensation down as Iron Man, because of how good he is with technology. But Iron Man talks too much.  So I gave him Cyborg.  I would ask him what he thinks of that, but he won’t say anything, anyway–he’s on the computer trying to buy something behind my back.  Haha, Kid, there’s no money in that account.  There’s no money in any account.  Joke’s on–well, all of us, I guess.

Birdie is Storm.  She’s usually the voice of reason, until she gets mad.  Then it’s lightening bolts and tornadoes for everyone.

Yay!  Family dinner!
Yay! Family dinner!

Ah yes, Supermom.  No, she is not Superman, she is Darkseid.  I’m dead serious.

What about the folks you know?  Who are you?

Just plain weekend.

I have to admit, I sometimes feel that everyone is having a better weekend than I am.  So I documented my weekend and realized that they probably are.  But that’s okay, because mine wasn’t half bad. Here it is:

Go to the farmer’s market with your six-year-old. It is so nice to go with someone who doesn’t have any time constraints or an agenda. Kid Sensation was cool to wander with me, sample food, be the only one dancing to the live band, and tip the violinist. Although, apparently balloon animals are okay, but the prospect of getting paint on his face on purpose is terrifying and definitely not okay.

Throw the football with with your twelve year old. Ask him what him and his friends talk about at school. When you suggest boobs, he will emphatically tell you not boobs. Which probably means boobs. You will also find out that his friend, Optimus Prime is a serial dater but that The Destroyer has incredibly high standards for someone who still loses arguments to his six-year-old brother. And who smells like old hummus by the end of the day.

Go boot shopping with your ten-year-old. She will be picky. You will be impatient if you are the Big Man and feel like you should be at home watching football—but you promised. She will hug her Daddy and you will be caught smiling.

Fight with your six-year-old. He will have stayed up late to sneak-watch Frozen, so he won’t be on one, he’ll be on all of them. The final showdown will come at 1 p.m., right as you’ve arrived to your Sunday meeting, where he will melt down as you try to tuck his shirt in in an effort to avoid someone thinking you just brought some random homeless Ewok with you. (He also needs a haircut.) You decide it’s time to go nuclear and call in the Big Man. Kid Sensation is taken out for a few minutes, comes back tearstained and chastened, and instantly falls asleep.

ewok

Have cramps and be cranky and mean.

Eat chips and dip. Feel better. Have a mimosa. Feel even better.

Have your kids make dinner under your direction. Wonder if The Destroyer’s spaghetti is better than yours. No one says it isn’t. Have hurt feelings.

Watch Peyton Manning break Brett Favre’s record. Realize again how cool it is watching history being made with kids.

Pray and be thankful for everything and everyone you have.

Idle threats.

So I admit, I believe in spanking. It happens very seldom, though, reserved for things like running in the parking lot or telling me I’m fat. I do love an idle threat, though. I am forever threatening my kids with the beating of their lives that they know will never happen. They laugh at me. Hysterically. Well, all except Kid Sensation; he ignores me 75% of the time. I have actually gotten pretty creative with my threats.

Some of my greatest hits (ßsee what I did there? I’m funny) include:

“Do it again and I’ll slap your hair straight!”

“You’re going to make me feel like messing you up!”

“Hey, you, let’s fight. Them’s fightin’ words.” (Courtesy of the Simpsons.)

“If I have to get up from here, everyone’s gonna get it!”

“Do you want it from my slappin’ hand or my other slappin’ hand?”

“You must want to wear handprints.”

“Oh, since you said that, I take it you’re ready to rumble.”

“If I wasn’t over here, I’d ruin you.”

“Come over here so I can ruin you.”

“Say it again so I can slap the words out of your mouth.”

“Oh, yeah, come over here and say that while I step on your foot.” (This one sent Wondergirl into a fit of the giggles. My feelings were slightly hurt.)

“Mom SMASH!”

“It’s clobberin’ time!” (Then I had to explain to them what it meant to clobber someone and it took all the fun out of it.)

Like this, except with an amazing afro.
Like this, except with an amazing afro.

“What time is it? Time to kick some 12-year-old-butt, that’s what time it is!”

“You talkin’ to me? Boy, I’ll Jackie Chan you!” (Interchangeable with Chuck Norris and JCVD.)

“You wanna talk crazy to the Mom? Well, the Mom says this….” (This actually scared them a little, as they weren’t familiar with the Rock’s lingo and I was speaking of myself in the third person.)

“Don’t make me….” (This sentence ends in a variety of ways.)

“I’ll slap you over to Grandma’s house.” (She’d just make me come pick them up, and everyone knows I don’t feel like doing that.)

“You like CDs? Well see these fists!” (Actually, that one didn’t work because they don’t like CDs, only mp3’s and “mp3 these fists” makes no sense.)

They know it’s all in good fun, my actual punishments are quite sadistic. Like the time I made The Destroyer and Wondergirl clean each other’s room for fighting. For a week. Or when The Destroyer had to be Wondergirl’s servant for three hours after he said something mean to her—she absolutely relished it and contrived some of the most menial tasks possible, like fanning her nails dry. It was awesome, and it worked.

But they still enjoy my threats of bodily harm. They might be as off as their mother.

Do you randomly threaten? Or are you a good parent? (If you are, you can’t sit with us.)

 

 

 

 

 

Ask first. I beg you.

Today’s hate is for people who refuse to respect boundaries. Like personal space.

Let me start at the beginning.

In order for you to appreciate the rest of this tale, you have to know two things: I have a big, curly Afro and I live in a predominately White area.

So I’m minding my own business, waiting for an appointment when a lady that I do not know walks by and ruffles my hair. No lie. Like I am a puppy. While I am quite adorable, I do not like to be petted. (Petted? Is that right? It doesn’t sound right. It is? Huh. Well, okay.)

She says, “You hair is so cute! I bet people do that to you all the time.”

I look at her, wide-eyed, and exclaim, “Nooooooo! They don’t!”

This heifer had the nerve, the unimaginable nerve, to look offended.

I was beside myself for the rest of the day. I must have describe the event to the Big Man at least a dozen times.

“And then, she has the almighty nerve—“

“To be offended. How dare her.”

“Are you making fun of me?” I may have been screeching in a tone usually emitted by peacocks.

“Listen, sweetheart. Your hair is pretty awesome.”

“I know.”

“People like touching awesome things.” Oh, I hate it when he’s so succinctly sensible.

“I know that too.”

“So what’s really bothering you? I’ve seen you let people touch your hair before.”

That’s what it was. The word let. She touched me and she didn’t ask me first.

Image
Except Kid Sensation. He doesn’t have to ask because he’s the baby that’s why.

 

Okay, background. One thing about me: I don’t like being touched. I never have. I think it’s a family thing. I am so serious when I say if my father gave me a spontaneous hug, I would assume he was dying. Not dying in an I-just-found-out-I-have-cancer kind of way; more like a I-was-shot-while-standing-next-you-and-have-minutes-left-to-live kind of way. My family is a close-knit, loving family. We just aren’t very touchy.

I have cried at work over a death in the family (my Doberman) and my co-workers were like “Can I…, I mean…, is it okay, to um, hug you?”

When I met the Big Man, he thought that was weird. He said all of his past girlfriends were always wanting to cuddle and hug. He got used to my physical aloofness, though, because everything else about me is pretty great. Also, I at times have to restrain myself from pushing the kids off me. Especially The Destroyer. He has always been and it seems like he will always be a cuddlebug. (Kids can be like little blast furnaces, too. So there’s that.)

Back to what I was saying. Many, many people have asked to touch my hair. I get it, because they probably don’t see an Afro up close on a daily basis. Some people have never seen an Afro in person at all. So I generally let them touch it when they ask. But for some reason, when people don’t ask permission, it doesn’t just upset me—it enrages me. I try my hardest not to be rude (I despise rudeness) but sometimes I can’t help it. Oh, and I’m not sure what these people thought my hair was going to feel like, but I guess it wasn’t hair. “It’s so soft,” they say. Well, you guys, I’m not a hedgehog.

You want to know something, though? I have never in life wanted to touch a stranger’s hair. NEVER. And I have seen some beautiful hair.

Look, all I want is for someone to ask me first. That’s it, really. Ask. Then I don’t have to go home and sound like a peacock. Seriously, those things sounds much, much, worse than they look.