I am having a difficult time understanding the structure of talking back. I don’t get why mommy and daddy get to yell at me and call me names and tell me no, but if I try to communicate in the same charming way, I get a time out or a serious tongue lashing or a hyper-extended-elbow-drag down the hallway to my room. I call bullshit. And mommy will demand that I look at her when she is talking to me, and I’m like look, you loony, fucking bitch, you’re not talking, your screaming at me like a crazed whore with brain-eating syphilis so I’d prefer not to make eye contact if you don’t mind. I’d rather look directly at the sun during an eclipse. Or into the eyes of a rabid Rottweiler. Or at an 83-year old granny crotch. The point is, she’s yelling, and that’s bad enough, and then she wants me to watch her perform her Mean Mommy routine from the front row, like I’m supposed to applaud and maybe throw her a fucking rose afterwards. So I don’t look at her, and I see her charge me with my keen peripheral vision, and I duck under my two arms and cower, and she flicks me in the ear. I. Hate. The Ear-Flick. If you Wiki-search how to chap a toddler’s ass in the worst way ever, there is a thorough description of the motherfucking Ear-Flick. I would rather mommy dot me in the eye. Or bring out the vintage wooden spoon and turn my ass purple. Or elbow me in the kidneys. You get the point. The Ear-Flick sucks. And so now, we have Mean Mommy yelling, and me defiantly avoiding eye contact, and then I get flicked in the ear, and my natural instinct is to scream back:
Me: Owwww! Mommy, you DON’T flick me in the ear ever again or I will punch you in the leg!
Mommy: You DON’T talk back to mommy (I turn my attention to Yo Gabba Gabba on the flatscreen), and you look at me when I am talking to you, do you understand?
Me: Well, you don’t be Mean Mommy or I will never play with you again!
Mommy: I don’t really care–I don’t even like playing with you–and I won’t be Mean Mommy if you behave and watch your mouth!
(Yes, she really said that. Who’s the toddler? I don’t’ even know sometimes.)
Me (this is the climax of my screaming, here): Fine! I WON’T! TALK! BACK! ANY! MORE!
And I am screaming so hard at this point, I pee a little in my Mickey Mouse underwear. Mommy points at me with a hard finger tells me to watch my tone. There is battery acid in her voice. I tell her to watch her tone. At this point, she shakes her head, and scowls at me. She is fully exasperated. She mutters something about it being noon somewhere and disappears into the kitchen. And that’s it. I feel like I just paid a hooker for some nooky. We are even Steven. She yells, I yell, she flicks, I threaten to punch her leg, what’s the big deal? This is the game. Mommy just gets so mad when I defend myself. The Gusman will always defend himself. I am not some kind of a douche-bag wussy boy. But I do like tea parties.
That’s all I really have to say about that. I’m going to cruise around the living room on my bike until mommy finishes her Black Russian coffee and then maybe we can do some puzzles.