Driving in the car.
We are about 15 minutes into what will likely be a 30 minute trip.
Maj is hungry and because she is Maj? She will not shut up about it.
I have a box of dog treats I carry in the car for just this sort of occasion, and I offer her one.
“Mother, that is disgusting. Why do you even offer? I am not eating a dog biscuit.”
Kallan interrupts, “I ate a few. They’re not that bad.”
The dog treats are in the car because we went through a period of time in which Kallan couldn’t get into the car without dying of whiny starvation. The whining was killing me, and I got so fucking sick of discussing Kallan’s hunger? I bought a box of dog treats.
And told her that the dog treats were in case of emergency, to hold her over until the paramedics arrived with IVs and shit.
Kallan has stopped complaining about being hungry in the car. But first? Kallan ate one or two dog biscuits, because she is that sort of girl.
Maj is not that kind of girl, and she announces loudly into the car, “You cannot starve a child under the age of 18.”
I look over at Mark incredulously, but then I rally, “Oh, but you can, Maj. Children under the age of 18? If you don’t feed them? They die. There’s no magic to being a kid, Maj. You could starve.”
“That is not what I meant and you know it. I am your child and I am hungry and you are supposed to keep me from starving.”
She sounds like a testy little social worker.
“Are you threatening to call the authorities, Maj? Be sure to mention the cereal and fruit and yogurt you had for breakfast. And the love, Maj. Be sure to mention the love.”
Maj annoys me sometimes.
And so I wave the dog biscuit again, “Are you sure you don’t want this? Just to tide you over until your father and I manage to eke out your next meal?”
She goes glowery and silent.
Fine by me.
Kallan is not silent. Kallan is never silent.
She sings. She talks. She hums. She discusses in great detail the fact that her fingernail polish is chipping off. She complains about the radio station we have selected, and then sings along with our songs in great mocking fashion. She hopes to annoy us enough that we will change the station, but Mark and I just crank up the volume.
And the three of us sing along badly as Maj sulks.
Maj’s real family? They are out there somewhere being all reasonable about life. And they have snacks. Maj is pretty sure.
Anyway.
Fast-forward through the next several hours. And yes, we fed Maj lunch. And now we are back in the car, headed home.
For whatever reason? Kallan is going insane with evil button-pushing glee, and in short order? She manages to piss off everyone else in the car.
So I start giving her 5 minutes for every new offense. She hauls ass all the way to 35 minutes before she stops to consider . . .
“Thirty-five minutes of what, Mom?”
“Thirty-five minutes in your room.”
“Oh, man! I don’t want to go to my room for 35 minutes.”
“You should have thought of that just a few short minutes ago.”
She thumps herself back into her seat, kicks her feet . . . thinks.
“Is there any way I could get this number lowered?”
I am about to say no, but Mark interrupts, “If you are willing to do the time-out in the unfinished portion of the basement? We’ll take it down to fifteen.”
Kallan is nervous about the small unfinished room in the basement.
I am all shocked at Mark’s sassiness, and Kallan is momentarily stunned.
But only for a moment.
She is in a bargaining mood and her voice is all thoughtful, “What would I have to do to get even less than 15 minutes?”
And before I can stop them?
These words come out of my mouth, “Bound and gagged in the basement room? I’ll take it down to five.”
And now Mark looks at me, because I?
Have gone insane.
But Kallan doesn’t even pause for a moment, and she responds with all the confidence of a veteran deal-broker in her best This is My Final Offer voice. . .
“Here’s what I’ll do. In the basement room, ten minutes, loosely tied, no gag.”
And then Mark and Kallan and I? We laugh until we cry.
Oh my god.
We pull into the driveway.
Kallan heads upstairs to do her 35 minutes in her room.
And Maj lectures me angrily about how, “Not everything in this life is funny, Mother.”
And I giggle.
Somewhere?
Maj’s real family? They are out there being all reasonable about life.
We are not Maj’s real family.
She is pretty sure.
Plus also?
Mark says it’s a good thing I am writing this shit down.
So that I will have a record for the authorities.
That Maj may at some point be calling.
Let me make a note here of the fact that Maj has not starved today.
For lack of food or love.
There is much love.
Crazy love.
Snort!
Love it! Like always!
Love you.
Like always.
Also, you do realize the sort of perverts you’re going to get with your first two tags, right? I mean, seriously fucked up people will be reading about your pretty little life….okay not a good argument considering the regular readers and especially the sex “enthused” writer.
Accidental porn seekers?
Amuse me.
I admire Kallan’s negotiation skills! Especially her willingness to compromise her punishment.
Kallan is one day very soon?
Going to outsmart her parents.
And Mark and I?
Will end up bound and gagged in the basement room.
Snort!
Where does Kallan come up with her stuff? Seriously, she is quite the comedian.
Has Maj always been wound so tightly?
Kallan has always been a comedian.
Always.
And Maj has always been tightly wound.
Always.
So you’re saying that–hypothetically–if I were to bind Sophie’s hands and feet and mouth with duct tape, put a burlap sack over her head, put her under the kitchen sink and go off into another room to do my internetting in peace and quiet, that might be considered bad parenting and I could go to jail?
Shit.
Be right back.
We could both go to jail!
I’m sure they would let us be cellmates.
That would be awesome!
I call dibs on the top bunk.
And keep your hands to yourself, lady.
Don’t make me shank you.
You know I would never make you do anything you didn’t already want to do.
HA!
I don’t want to shank you.
I just to have to establish my pecking order in the joint.
Also, I’m going to kill someone before we go in, so I can get one of those awesome teardrop tattoos.
Facial tattoos are just so sexy.
Pecking order . . .
Snort.
You may be above me in the bunk?
But rest assured? You would be pecking somewhere below me.
And the tears on your face?
Real, babe.
Sorry about that.
Just wait. I’m not smuggling all these cigarettes in just because I like having tobacco shoved up my ass.
I’m going to be running the joint before I’m through, and then we shall see who is pecking who. Whom. Which.
What?
I’m just thinking that if you have room for the tobacco with which you plan to buy your crown?
There will be lots of room for . . . ummmmm . . . storage of all sorts.
And I think that means you are the pecked, not the pecker.
Pecker.
Snort.
We could go on and on about this, but I just suddenly wondered: where exactly in America is this co-ed prison that you think we’re going to be shipped off to?
Do they have cable?
Because prison might be a nice vacation from our everyday lives, you know.
And that might be worth the price of a little anal rape, thank you very much.
It’s in Oregon, not far from my home.
Yes, there is cable.
And yes, I need a vacation.
Willing to pay the price.
Next topic!
I am the queen of segues!
I always hesitate when considering taking my son with me to the grocery store. The help with the bags would be awesome, but there’s always the chance he’ll break out into his “I’m Starving” one-act play right in the check-out line. And begging “please, please, please Mommy…can I at least have a pack of crackers?” I’m withering under the glare of a pack of over-indulgent soccer moms and raise my voice enough for them to hear as I remind him he just had a sandwich, chips AND dessert less than 20 minutes ago.
He’s a very convincing actor. I should ship him to Hollywood.
Kris has probably said those same words b/c her one “I’ll never” parent moment that she’s stuck to is not allowing her children to open food in the grocery store. She always pays for her food and then eats it. Not like TV prostitutes who always get paid after the fact….so now I’m wondering do real prostitutes get paid first, or after? ( I have no idea how this connection happened for me by the way and no I’m in no way, shape, or form a prostitute or a stripper.)
I can answer that prostitution question.
No, wait.
Nevermind.
Mandie -
My limited expertise in this area?
Suggests it is wise to get the money up front.
But I am sometimes stupid and get caught up in the moment.
And Nigel?
You owe me.
My tab in this establishment?
Epic.
As I said, Mandie?
Better to get the money up front.
Nigel is all kinds of epic fun.
But I?
Am penniless.
Bobbi -
I always address this nonsense by speaking in a huge loud voice about how embarrassed I am about the fact that my 9 and 11 year old daughters still need to wear pull-ups.
That shuts them up very very quickly.
See…now I’m going to have to take him to the store and hope he starts acting up so I can use this gem. OMG, I’m dying laughing.
YAY!
Report back.
My daughters?
Hate me sometimes.
It is awesome.
I snorted so loudly when I read this that the entire family stopped what they were doing to stare at me. I looked at them and said, “You are so lucky that I am your mother. That is all. If you ever forget that, I will ship you off to Kris’ house where she will announce loudly in public that you still wear pull-ups.”
Their response? “MOTHER!!!”
I suspect my daughters would fit seamlessly into your family.
The idea that my words are being used to threaten other children?
Is just awesome, I can’t even tell you.
So awesome.
So funny, that Maj! Love it.
Maj is awesome.
She really is.
She is way more grown-up than I am.
Actually, she arrived more grown-up than I am.
*giggle* this reminds me of my three year old, always fighting for food when I have none with me in the car, but as soon as we are home, she doesn’t want what I offer. And I heart the snorts, hehe, they litteraly make me giggle out loud!!
Snorty giggles at that lovely image.
Snort!
I was a very good punishment negotiator when I was a kid. Kallan and I have that in common.
I never offered to be tied up though. That’s a new one.
I have mentioned elsewhere?
That the girls recently bought a lot of rope.
With their own money, they bought hundreds of feet of rope from Harbor Freight Tools.
They have ropish needs, they tell me.
I am a little scared.
Your kids are brilliant. (And now, I’m going to stop stealing your thunder and commenting on all your comments and actually look like I’m working for the next thirty minutes. BUT, I’ll be back after work to steal thunder again :) )
Thunder away.
Big love for you, babe.
Ropish needs? There are no words, only laughter and awe.
I’ve ate dog biscuits before…they taste like wheat. Also? When I was younger, my sister wanted to go to the movies whilst she was baby-sitting me and since she didn’t want me to go with her, I was tied to a closet. I stayed put ’til she got home.
My sister? Used to dress me up like Ursula, while she got to be Ariel. And she used to burn my head frequently with the curling iron while she “practiced” on me. And, she tried to dye my hair once just to see if she could do foils b/c they “looked easy to do.”
Your sister? tied you to a closet.
Seems like we were both tortured.
There is a lot of sibling torture going on.
YAY!
These stories make me feel all normal.
Well, not ALL normal.
But normal-er.
Hee hee!
Sound like you and I could go round and round with torture stories because this? Isn’t even the tip of the iceberg.
Nikki?
I am not going to tell my daughters that story.
But that?
Is an awesome fucking story.
And I have eaten a dog biscuit or two in my time as well.
Kallan doesn’t get to have all of the fun.
so here I am all reading and commenting when I am at work and should be working on those lesson plans I will have to deliver in just a few short weeks.
But i hate lesson planning.
But I love your writing.
So here I am.
I picture you in a car–not SUV or van. is this right? are you in a four-door car?
They may have been in this story, but Kris totally has a Honda Van. She posted about it once, I believe. (Kris, am I right b/c if not, I’m totally not stalking you correctly.)
You are correct!
You are an awesome stalker!
Swoon!
I love disrupting others!
That is one of my very favorite things.
But the car?
We are all Middle-America’d over here.
Honda Minivan.
With cardboard seats. ;)
OH YES! I remember the “cardboard seats” now! Ha!
Another stalker heard from!
Love you, Nichole.
I remembered the Honda part. and thanks to Nichole, I remember the van. is it blue (please say yes). I picture your vehicle blue. I am probably wrong on this too…and really the only reason I say blue is because my mom made me drive the family Astro Van one summer (I was 18). That screams cool.
Good Lord I am all rambly and all over the place today.
The minivan is a silvery green.
The girls get annoyed when I say it’s green.
According to them? It’s just silver.
Whatever.
well i am just wrong all over the damn place today.
maybe eddie’s grouchy roseola lack of sleep is rubbing off on my brain.
stupid brain.
You are all kinds of right.
Always.
I’ve said it before, but I have the 17 year old version of Maj living in my house. You have no idea how much I enjoy reading about your life – wish I could put things into words as well as you do. If you ever want a double dose of Maj – let me know and I’ll send my 17 year old your way. Of course she would roll her eyes and huffily say, “As if”.
A double-dose of Maj.
Would be fatal, I believe.
Maj in moderation is key.
One per family.
Snort!
ROPISH NEEDS!
I know, right?
My children are nuts.
How did that happen, I wonder?
Snort!
I love your blog!!! I need to keep dog biscuits in my van for my kids lol.
I am writing a parenting book that will be filled with all sorts of dysfunctional gems.
The dog biscuit thing?
Absolutely works.
Hee hee!
Totally works.
Hate fake-ass whining in the car.
Hate it.
God I wish the dog treats would work for us. But T, is like Kallan. He’d totally just chow down and then wonder why we didn’t have them for dinner when we got home.
sigh.
Kallan grew bored with the dog treats after just a few.
I think she thought I would stop her.
But what do I care?
Plus?
Her coat? Has never been shinier.