Who the hell gave mommy permission to lock me in my room?
Those motherfucking strong-willed children books, that’s who.
I am not okay with this. If I refuse to sit in a time-out anymore, mommy doesn’t chase me. She doesn’t reset the kitchen timer 107 times because I either throw things at her, say “shit,” or try to kick her in the shins when she walks by. She doesn’t yell or call me names. Nope. None of this. She simply grabs my arm and calmly walks me down the hall to my room, advising me to cool down for a while. Immediately, I slam the door and shout that she’s a mean mommy, but this elicits no response whatsoever. I put my ear to the door and listen. She is sing-songing to Leona about how I need some quiet time, and it’s not in the fake nice voice that she talks to Leona in when I am being naughty and she wants to piss me off. No, there is no fakeness. This is a genuine sing-songy voice with no underlying murderous rage. It’s like she’s fucking happy that I am being a punk. Something is off. Something is seriously off.
I have to take action. I pull a piece of my racetrack out from under the bed. I opt for the piece that has the car trigger because it’s the heaviest part of the track. I start whacking the door with it. It is very loud. I chip some paint off the door. I whack it again and wait. Still no yelling. I am about to reallllly put my back into a third whack when mommy opens the door. Can I have that please? Thank you! and the bitch walks out with my race track car trigger. In the next five minutes, I proceed to whack the door with a large rubber triceratops, a Weeble, and a basketball. All three times mommy breezes in calmly and takes them. Still no yelling, hitting, name-calling or drinking. Red flags are going up. It’s time to bust outta here. I go to open the door. The knob hardly moves. I twist and grind and grunt. Nothing. The old hag is hanging on for dear life on the other side. She is strong. I yell at her to let me out. She tells me I need to cool down for a while. Cool down? If I wanted to cool down, I would shove some ice cubes in my butthole and drink a slurpee. No, I do NOT want to cool down. I want to get the fuck out of this room and punch my mother in the face.
I finally accept that I cannot get out if she is hanging on to the door knob. So I sit still for a full minute. Then I tell her I am ready to come out. Are you ready to come and sit in a time-out properly? she asks. Yes, I say. She opens the door. I stand there, sizing her up in a new light. She raises her eyebrows and nods down the hall, in the direction of where she thinks my time-out will be. I decide to slam the door in her face as hard as I can. Heh, heh. Time-out my cute little ass. I wait for her to come storming in to whop me one. Nothing. Instead, the door won’t open again. Dammit. I tell her I want to sit in my time-out. She doesn’t respond. The door knob doesn’t budge. Shit fuck. I think the door slam pissed her off. I resort to tears. I beg and plead with her to please let me out, that I promise to be good and to sit in my time-out. Nothing.
What the hell, it’s time for an Oscar-winning performance. I gather all my friends–my giant pink bunny, Doggy, George, and Bear–on the bedroom floor and I break the news to them tearfully:
Guys, we’re never gonna get out of this room. Never ever! Mean mommy locked us in here and she’s too strong. We’re NEVER gonna get outta here, guys. We can’t ever go play outside, or to the movies, or in Leona’s room. We can’t go to the park, or to Happy Hollow, or Gilroy Gardens. We can’t go potty. Oh, maaaan. We’re stuck in here forever. We’re never gonna get out of this room.
I repeat this speech to the gang several times until I hear mommy laughing on the other side of the door. In my severe angst, she has found the joy of laughter. What a bitch. Seriously. I cry a little harder. I hiccup. I sob. And she finally comes in, trying not to look like she thinks it’s hilarious that a three-year-old is entertaining the idea of solitary confinement for the rest of his life. Are you ready for your time-out, now? she asks. I have nowhere to go–but to my time-out on the dog-hairy rug in the kitchen. So I go.
Point: Mommy. But if I don’t give her one once in a while, it’s just unfair. Still, it looks like I’m going to have to sharpen the knives in my bag o’ tricks.
Game on, hag.