It has come to my attention after my last entry that a lot of people are under the impression that all mama needs is a cape and she’d be declared a superhero. Diary – I do have a pretty cool mama, don’t get me wrong. But do you have any idea how hard it is to properly train parents? I have put in so much time; I’ve shed blood, sweat, and a tsunami of tears, all in an effort to adequately train my parents so they behave appropriately.
It would take too long to list all the things they didn’t know before I taught them. Suffice it to say that they were absolutely clueless about the order of things before I began laying down the law. I’ll give you just an example or two, Diary, so that maybe you can understand my frustration with mama getting so much credit for MY work.
One of the MOST important things I’ve had to advise my parents about is the order in which a meal should progress. If you’re not stern about this in the beginning, Diary, then sometimes you wind up in a completely untenable situation – like when they mix foods all willy-nilly on a plate, thereby turning each perfectly good component into a mass of inedible glop. Noodles are delicious (ditalini and UNSTRIPED elbow macaroni only please – don’t think for a second that shells or rotini taste the same. Everyone knows you can’t eat a seashell or a corkscrew). Corn is maybe the perfect food. But if you MIX noodles and corn together, it causes a chemical reaction that turns the entire plate into battery acid. I don’t know what third rate school mama went to but they obviously didn’t teach her about dangerous food interactions. Plus this summer mama has started handing me sticks of corn like I’m supposed to do something with them. What am I, a toddler sized piranha? Give me EDIBLE corn. Daddy seemed to have a firmer grip on the food segregation concept early on, but with mama I went through an exhausting regimen of throwing whole plates of tainted food to the floor before she finally got the freaking point. I just don’t understand, Diary, the obsession with sullying delicious morsels by carelessly smushing them together. What’s the point of divided plates?
The last meal related point I’d like to touch on is the conclusion of the meal. Dessert. Diary, every child is entitled to dessert after every meal. It’s definitely in the toddler handbook and I am a rule follower. At the end of each meal, when I’ve eaten as much as I want, I grab mama’s hand and fling it in the direction of the refrigerator. Most of the time she obeys (now) but every now and again she thinks she’s soooooooo clever and fakes not knowing. This is, obviously, unacceptable. So I yell. Or throw my plate as a sign of solidarity with the yogurt that’s confined in the bowels of the refrigerator. The yogurt I would prefer was trapped in…well, my own bowels. I’ve taught mama that she must present me with two cups of different flavored yogurt from which to choose, and that I will crown one winner, and one can go back to the hole until my next meal.
Lastly, Diary, as I wrap up this overview of parent training to date, I have to touch upon parents’ expectations that their small children perform menial jobs. Things like handing them a scrap of soggy paper towel and asking them to throw it in a remote trash can. This entitlement to slave labor that parents feel they’ve birthed into the world. We are autonomous. We will not be held down by the (wo)man. But can I confess something to you Diary? I love jobs. I LOVE JOBS. Diary, I can’t get ENOUGH jobs!! I have to turn the bedroom light on to alert mama and daddy that it’s morning. I have to let the kitties outside. I have to make my breakfast. I have to put my dirty diapers in the Diaper Genie when she’s done torturing my bum. This is the one we clash on the most. She “absentmindedly” moves to throw them out. She is straight up trying to steal my work and I am having no part of this nonsense. I have been known to employ my No Bones tactic to express displeasure. And it’s hard for her to scrape my boneless jellied body off the floor holding a toxic diaper in the other. It seems to bring her back to reality and help her see what she’s done wrong (everything).
Anyway Diary, I’m sure we’ll talk much more about order and parent training in the near cure. I have so much more to say. I did want to give you this heads up: mama has discovered my Diary. In exchange for not being grounded for the rest of my natural life, I have agreed to allow mama to guest blog in this space OCCASIONALLY. Boundaries must be maintained. Ok. So. When you hear from mama directly, you’ll know it’s sanctioned. Begrudgingly.
Love and order,