Mayhem
"I can scream at you all day, if you want. Do you really want that?"
My daughter looked at me with one eye closed, the oatmeal I had just overturned on her head dripping slowly down the right side of her face. Somewhere in that little brain wheels were turning. Not all of them, though. I had obviously snapped a few axles in there by my sudden regression to the behavior of a three-year old.
"Mommy, that was silly."
"Yes it was."
"Is oatmeal a toy?"
My brain, which was also feeling little these days, and slightly broken, started firing off random thoughts as I slowly looked around the kitchen, which was littered with the bright-colored plastic detritus of what felt like a thousand days of toddler hell. "Look, there's that library book! I wonder if the mailman is cute. How many licks does it take? Have you ever really been mellow? Really?" And while all this was going on, my mouth said
"Today, oatmeal is a toy."
I picked up a spoon and scraped some oatmeal out of my daughter's ear. I carefully took aim and flicked the glutinous mass across the room at the cat. The cat shot three feet straight up, turned in mid-air, and grabbed the tablecloth on the way down. The tablecloth flew off the table bringing with it the remains of my breakfast. The brown-sugar pop-tart was no great loss, and I knew there was more orange juice, but I also knew that the cup of coffee represented the last drop of caffeine in the house.
And that's when things started to get of hand.
My daughter looked at me with one eye closed, the oatmeal I had just overturned on her head dripping slowly down the right side of her face. Somewhere in that little brain wheels were turning. Not all of them, though. I had obviously snapped a few axles in there by my sudden regression to the behavior of a three-year old.
"Mommy, that was silly."
"Yes it was."
"Is oatmeal a toy?"
My brain, which was also feeling little these days, and slightly broken, started firing off random thoughts as I slowly looked around the kitchen, which was littered with the bright-colored plastic detritus of what felt like a thousand days of toddler hell. "Look, there's that library book! I wonder if the mailman is cute. How many licks does it take? Have you ever really been mellow? Really?" And while all this was going on, my mouth said
"Today, oatmeal is a toy."
I picked up a spoon and scraped some oatmeal out of my daughter's ear. I carefully took aim and flicked the glutinous mass across the room at the cat. The cat shot three feet straight up, turned in mid-air, and grabbed the tablecloth on the way down. The tablecloth flew off the table bringing with it the remains of my breakfast. The brown-sugar pop-tart was no great loss, and I knew there was more orange juice, but I also knew that the cup of coffee represented the last drop of caffeine in the house.
And that's when things started to get of hand.