After about a month of relatively passable behavior, I can officially announce that the Gusman has his swagger back. Mommy has the fear of Toddler back in her eyes. She won’t make eye contact with me because she knows I will raspberry the air in her direction with defiance. She talks to me like she doesn’t like me even when I’m not doing anything particularly wrong. I catch her giving me dirty looks when I am less than three feet away from Leona, like she can read my naughty little mind. Granted, all of her behavior is justifiable. I’ve been a total asshole. Two days ago, I not only beat my all-time personal best record for time-outs in one day, I created–and set the bar high in–a different category: Most Back-to-Back Time-Outs. Oh man, the hag didn’t have a prayer.
The day started out with some pretty minor offenses, like accidentally spilling my Kix all over the living room floor, then intentionally stepping on each and every one of them until there were little piles of cream-colored dust decorating the entire area surrounding the coffee table. When Leona got the hang of it and started giggling along with me, mommy came running out of the kitchen, haggard as an 83-year-old prostitute, firing coffee-breath threats at the top of her lungs. At breakfast, there was another dusty cereal incident, this time involving multi-grain Cheerios in a Thor Pez dispenser. If you were to ask the hag about Cheerios in a Pez dispenser, you’d get a not-so-cheerful those don’t go in there. Who knew? I’m three for fuck’s sake. Also on the list of misdemeanors: slapping a blubbering Leona in the face moments after mommy scolded her for climbing on the coffee table (hey, really she was crying for no reason–mommy doesn’t even yell at her, it’s bull shit–I thought I’d give her something to cry about), repeatedly calling mommy “mean mommy,” which built up to “meanest mommy EVER,” which, guess what? The more you make the accusation, the more mean mommy you get, etc., etc. By 10:30 a.m., I had over 15 time-outs. By the way, can I throw this out there? Any of you mommy geniuses out there think that maybe these three-minute rendezvous’ on the dog-hairy rug…umm, hmm, maybe don’t fucking work? I mean, I hate to point out the fat chick in a room of crack whores, but if she’s gnawing on her own fucking leg…
Anyway, mommy’s feeble attempts to control me are not really my concern. Someday she’ll figure out that the only way to keep me in her good graces is to send me to a boarding school in Hong Kong where I can get a dorm room full of Lucy Lius to tutor me some, and Dim Sum more, and Dim Sum more after that, if you know what I mean. My point is, she’s lost her edge, and I’ve gained mine. After I refused to go down for a nap, she threw in the proverbial towel and used it to wipe the tears when she called Gramma Mic to tell her what a dick I am. By the way, name-calling is so cheap, mommy dearest. But I get it! I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut. No matter what she said, asked of me, commanded me, I had to flap my gums at her like a rogue in heat. Time-out after time-out after time-out I spat in her direction, called her names, sliced at her shins with my imaginary pirate sword, up-turned rugs and doggy water bowls, threw shoes at her head…it was not her finest moment as a parent because, hey, the truth is, her greatest adversary has come from her own womb. I almost felt bad for her. And I say this every so often, when I am really blasting bastard at a high volume–you have to feel bad, right? Yeah, well, I’m lying out my ass. The drunk bitch deserves it. She flicks me in the forehead sometimes, and tells me she’s going to sell me to the crazy neighbors, one of which screams dementedly all through the night. Sympathy for the Devil? I think not.
The day sort of peaked when she called Gramma Mic and turned into a sniveling wretch. I caught bits and pieces of the phone conversation, but I heard several words and phrases in particular from mommy that described her drinking habit: awful, doesn’t stop, bad mom, out of control, and I don’t need another one. When she hung up, she was crying. I came and straddled her on the couch and put my arms around her neck. I asked her if she was crying. She said yes. Then I started to fake cry as hard as I could. She just looked at me, shook her head, and probably cried harder. Then I told her she couldn’t be crying, because I was crying. And I was crying harder. She sat back and looked up at the ceiling. I pulled a tissue from the end table and gave it to her with a winning smile–through my fake tears.
At the end of the day, I love the hag. I really do. But I feel strongly that I was put here to…challenge the norm, you know, make her work a bit. And every day, I get better at it. Better and better. Pretty soon, all my toddler peeps out there will want me to bottle up my inner spice and sell it on the fucking internet.
Save your pennies. It won’t be cheap, bitches.