Today marks the first day of an entire week that mommy will not drink. I am torn between wanting to call her bluff and wanting to go stay with Gramma Jett and Papa Tim for the next seven days. Mommy minus wine or vodka is a terrible idea, and frankly, if I could figure out how to unlock the antique hutch with all the liquid niceness in it, I would spike her fucking bran flakes. Alas, this is not possible, and so I will build a fort and hide in it with all my stuffed animals and wait for the storm to pass. At this very moment, she is civil enough…you know, doing laundry, unloading the dishwasher, giving me snacks and milk when I demand them. But it’s only 8:45 a.m. Undoubtedly, this is her coffee buzz in full effect. Around 1 p.m., it will wane somewhat, and as I get closer to needing a nap, she will get closer to being a bitch, and our worlds will collide. She will drag me into time-outs and re-set the kitchen timer thirty-seven times because I will be throwing daddy’s shoes across the room instead of sitting nice and quiet, thinking of what I’ve done wrong. I will call her a bad mommy, and she will call me a Little A, which means Little Angel, I think, or maybe it’s short for Little Awesomeness. She calls Leona a Little B sometimes when she is screaming bloody murder before her naps, and I think that means Little Booby-Freak, because that fucking rat is STILL hanging off the nipples and she’s about to be one year old. Clearly, we know mommy loves her more because I was clambering about those flap-jacks at eight months, dying for a dribble, and all I got were visions of tumbleweed and sand in my ears. So sad. Dried up like the Mojave. Anyway, back to the bigger problem. Mommy’s attempt at sobriety.
So, I will take a nap around 3 p.m., and then it will be coming upon Happy Hour in our happy home, only, there will be no happy, only long, dry, hours for days to come. Then the irritation and shortness of temper will kick in. I will try to ride the dog like a horse, and mommy will threaten a time-out. I won’t listen, and instead of putting me in a time-out, she will declare her seriousness, and tell me she is going to beat me if I don’t leave the dog alone. I will take this as a challenge. I will kick the dog, and then run, and she will chase me with hair-raising venom words and psycho eyeballs. I love this game of chase. That element of danger–or, antagonizing my sober mother–really gets my blood pumping.
Hmm, what else? Oh. Let’s talk about lunch time two days ago. It was very interesting. By interesting, I mean total bullshit. Mommy made tuna fish sandwiches for Leona and I. Here is how the conversation went upon being presented with two triangles of squishy canned fish and bread:
Me: What is this?
Mommy: Tuna fish.
Me (sniffing): I’m not gonna eat this. Take it away.
Mommy: Fine, leave the table. No snacks and no milk before your nap.
Me: And no treats after dinner. And no dinner, either. And no movie or popcorn after my bath. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zippo.
This always throws the parental unit for a loop, you know, when you punish yourself to extremes before they are able to indulge in the pleasure of doing it themselves. Also, you sorta get away with being a sarcastic prick, because who can really peg sarcasm in a three-year-old? Therefore, mommy did not have a response to this. Heh, heh.
Two minutes later, Leona was flinging her tuna squishies on the floor. And all mommy said was, Gus, let the dog in so she can clean the floor. What the fuck is that about? I don’t eat my tuna sandwich and I get the book thrown at me (or I throw it at myself, whatever). Leona hurls her shit on the floor and mommy barely raises an eyebrow. This is classic Mommy Loves the New Baby More than Me crappola. And this isn’t self-pity, people. There are lots of reasons I know that I am not the favorite. Leona cries, and mommy picks her up and kisses her all over the place. I cry, and beg to be picked up, and mommy says she has to finish plucking her eyebrows. Sometimes she doesn’t even make up an excuse–she just ignores me. I lightly tap Leona with my fist, I get a time-out and a date with Mean Mommy. Leona sneaks in some hair-pulling and I shake her off me like a river crab, I still get a fucking time-out. Oh, I must have been antagonizing her. Leona monster-shits herself, mommy sings a song and dance-carries her down the hall, off to her magical changing table where there is cooing and smiling and lubrication and music boxes the whole diaper change through. I get a little piss on the front of my pajamas because there is something really funny on T.V., and I am threatened with those awful rubber underpants because big boys don’t go pee-pee in their pants. And I have to sit back and worry that they’ll put those rubber underpants back on me and I will go back to sounding like a fat chick in running pants when I walk down the hallway. This would be a tremendous blow to my pimp game on at the park. It’s a really mean threat.
Anyway, it’s time to sign off. Mommy is going through my toys today and organizing shit. This is very atypical behavior for her. I’m sure it has something to do with keeping her mind off of a giant cup of vodka and diet coke. Six ice cubes. Two squeezes of juicy lemon.
She’s never going to make it through the week.