I don’t want to incriminate anyone but I am pretty sure my Mommy has some issues and might, secretly, be bearing some unfortunate resentment of me. I can’t say I blame her, I did yell, “My Mommy has a vagina kind of penis!” at the grocery store the other day, but she really needs to look into some parenting classes or something. She’s a little bereft of the Mommy skillz.
Case in point, our trip to the car wash yesterday. Now, she KNOWS I don’t like the car wash. She might even delight in the fact that I get a little nervous when we go through it. She refers to the giant spaghetti monsters as “octopuses” and “sea creatures.” Well, all I know is that I am pretty sure we will one day die in a car wash. Especially since my Mom left the window open a crack yesterday when we went through it.
More Like Death Wash
“Close it! Close it! Close it!” I cried. Petrified of the sea monsters that were going to come into the car and eat me. She just kept saying, “I can’t close the car wash, buddy, don’t be scared.” Once the soap bubbles started flying all around the car and little pretty Celia was covered in suds, Mom the genius was singing a different tune. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry Parker.” And she rolled the window up. Thanks, Mom. I already am pretty sure that there is a man living under my bed at home while I sleep but now I have absolutely NO FAITH in you keeping me alive in a car wash. Great job there with the parental supervision. Maybe try to be a little more observant while you chat up your former student car wash attendant. Maybe take a second to keep your children out of harm’s way?
Arsenic in my Applesauce
As if that was not life altering enough, Sweet little Bridgette tried to serve me orange apple sauce. Orange. Applesauce. Do you know why? Because that little health nut thought that mixing in sweet potatoes might help me have a healthier meal. Does she know that I survive basically on milk and slices of white bread? Doesn’t she get that I have a sophisticated palette that only really enjoys the delicacies of popcorn, cookies and vanilla ice cream? I mean what kind of animal eats ORANGE applesauce? Seriously.
As I am sure you can tell by now, I wear glasses. One unfortunate catch of this cute accessory is that some lame doctor has said I need eye drops twice a week. Yeah, that’s a lot of fun. Watching Mr. and Mrs. Tricky try to give me these things while I thrash, kick, pinch and bite is always interesting. I am convinced that they do it just to torture me. No matter the bribes or silly games they play, one thing is evident: clearly, they enjoy seeing me cry.
Humiliation via Pajamas
Since my Mom apparently wants more days off in order to better ruin my life- she was really, really hoping for a snow day last week. So much that she MADE ME put my clothes on backwards and inside out for good luck. I mean, it’s not bad enough she just wants to make me look stupid (more about that coming up;) but then she wants to go all Instagram photoshoot on me after. I swear that woman just capitalizes on my cuteness. When she’s not inventing new made up ways to get days off from work, that is.
And then, after I endure about all I can of the car wash and the applesauce and the eye drops, Mommy Dearest wants to put SOAP in my HAIR. From the time it touches my scalp, I can feel it running down my face headed for: you know where— my eyes. It’s like she doesn’t even want me to be happy. She just chooses a different torture based on her mood. Tough love doesn’t even describe it. This is the work of a devil.
So, I let her have it after all of this. I told her two things this weekend that really put her in her place.
“Here’s the thing, Mom. If you give me another time out, you will be a bad girl.” I just laid it all out there on the table. She should know her reputation is plummeting by the day.
and (my personal favorite):
“What words start with C? Celia! And STUPID! STUPID STARTS WITH C!” Now, this is funny on multiple levels. First, my mother is an English teacher. Whenever I don’t recognize a letter she goes all “Hooked on Phonics ” on me and starts talking in her teacher voice. Thinking that I have mixed up C and S actually bothers her. Which means she has to engage in a conversation with me and repeat the word stupid over and over again. And, do you see the irony her? Priceless.
If you can learn anything from this post, it’s how you should really, really not subject your children to the absolutely terrible parenting that Bridgette Gallagher is guilty of. Guaranteed your kids will be well-adjusted to car washes, enjoy foods where the ingredients are identifiable and might even have a bath without a nervous breakdown. If you are interested in helping me stage an intervention with my Mom, please contact me because I am really starting to get concerned for my baby sister at this point.