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God made daddies because mommies don’t have bounceable heads
I’ll admit I sobbed hysterically when Mr. J left on Sunday for a two-month vacation business trip. (Though I was over it by the third time he came back for something he forgot, which discredited everything I told Junior about how he wouldn’t see Daddy for two months…)
The sobbing wasn’t from being without my soulmate for two months, rather, it was because I was stuck alone, all alone by my miserable self, with the Temper Tantrum Throwing Maniac for two Alaskan-winter-long months. Just the thought of it alone will bring any grown woman to tears.
And don’t even think about calling me insensitive towards my husband. I’m not. In any way. This is how our communication generally goes these days.
(After not being available to talk on the phone because he was “studying and preparing” for the next day, i.e., watching football, he texts me.)
- Him: Good lord, AJ is a lucky, lucky man.
- Me: Who?
- Him: Bama’s QB. Have u not been watching?
- Him: Holy cow his g/f is smokin’.
- Me: Do you not know who you’re talking to?
- Him: R u homosexual?
- Me: THIS IS YOUR WIFE.
- Him: Oops, that was meant for Jeff…
Luckily, at the time I was rearranging my side of our shared closet. So I set all his clothes on fire and sent him the following picture of his “new” side of the closet. If you notice the red thing hanging in the middle, it’s his work ID badge in which I Xed out his eyes with a Sharpie.
So needless to say, I clearly do not need Mr. J around, however, I’ve been noticing that Junior might….
Reasons God Made Daddies:
1. Daddies clearly let little boys eat whatever they want.
So I’m making Sir Junior dinner last night and the twit refuses to eat anything. And trust me, he’s hungry. So I tell him the spaghetti squash is pasta (“ON WHAT PLANET???” he shrieks as his mouth hangs open with his tongue flailing around because, God forbid, if they touch the Fake Pasta for one more second they will explode into fireballs and he’ll never enjoy another french fry or ice cream sandwich again).
Moving on, I kindly remind him he loves meatballs. Apparently he has no recollection of this.
So then I try to give him some sweet potato. He pokes it with his spork, doesn’t like the feeling of it, and refuses to even look at it.
Finally, I sit down to eat my now cold dinner and tell him he’s just going to have to sit there and watch me eat the poisonous noodles and ugly meatballs. Feeling guilty (okay, more just feeling a little crazy from all the hysterics), I tell him the sweet potato tastes like apples.
Suddenly, it’s like he’d never thrown a fit in his life and he’s gobbling up the sweet potato and asking for more faster than I can blink. Apparently my meatballs look like sweet potatoes (that can’t be good) because he accidentally ate one in the Sweet Potato Chow Down Challenge, remembers he LOVES meatballs, and eats the rest of those, too. As I tell Mr. J that night how his son behaved at dinner he says, “He never does that for me.” Of course he doesn’t.
2. Daddies mean business at bedtime.
Junior has specific books that he wants me to read to him at bedtime, and others that he wants daddy to read to him. Actually, okay, there are only 3 books he lets daddy read. One is a picture book, one is a book of bodily noises, and the third is The Potty Train.
(Don’t act like you haven’t caught your own husbands emerging from a 45-minute trip to the john with this book in hand.)
Because i’m so good at reading stories, Junior keeps begging for more bedtime stories each night. We’re on a 6-book stretch so far. He’s pushing for 17. And as his luck would have it, this happens to push back his bedtime. Way back. The kid is good. My question is what is daddy’s secret to reading one book and (literally) throwing the kid in his crib!?
3. Daddies let little boys pound on them as much as they want.
Junior’s favorite thing to do these days is climb and/or jump on anything and everything, i.e.; his toys, Kitty, furniture, Kitty’s condo, me, etc. I guess it’s what little boys do. (I wouldn’t know, I was a girl.)
So when he starts to wear me out, I play dead and lay motionless on the floor. Usually this works (apparently because he’s still got daddy to whomp on). Then daddy left. That sonofabitch.
Now I’m laying on the floor, resting peacefully, when suddenly the kid takes a running start the way only a toddler can, goes flying through the air landing square on my back, then jumps up and down for a few minutes ilke I’m a human trampoline, pulls on my hair as if he’s got reigns to a horse, pounds my head into the ground a few times, turns around and bounces on my head like he’s on a bouncy ball, and finishes with a side-spinny flying move to the floor, resulting in our legs getting tangled together so I can’t actually get back up and save myself.
It’s. Awesome. (When are you coming home, Mr. J?)
I’m hungry, I’m tired, my head hurts, and I’ve got more bruises on my body than anyone my age should ever have. No wonder Mr. J doesn’t think he’s as lucky as this AJ prick.
All Things Unlearned chronicles my journey in unlearning everything I already thought I knew through my experiences as a wife, a mother, and an American through funny, overly-opinionated, witty, sometimes offensive, and yet always entertaining banter. Come be amused.
2013-02-17 00:04:43
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