Hasn’t Had a Hot Meal in Fifteen Years

I have officially become the mother from A Christmas Story. Serving my sweet child her dinner: 

“Mom, the buttons on this dress are going up my butt.” 

Take it off. 

“Can you do it?”

*washes hands/leaves kitchen/unzips dress/walks back to kitchen*

“Mom, can you get me something to wear? I am freezing.”

I think you can do that. *attempts to prepare own dinner*

“Mom. This tag is killing me. Cut it out.” 

You’ve worn that shirt a thousand times.

“Cut. It . OUT.”

Can you say ‘please?’

“Please?”

*washes hands/leaves kitchen/grabs scissors/cuts out tag/walks back to kitchen*

“Mom, can I have more water? And I need a napkin.” 

*washes hands/leaves kitchen/grabs cup/refills water/grabs napkin/delivers/heads back to kitchen*

I am glad you’re eating all your cucumbers, but don’t forget to eat your spaghetti.

“I won’t.” 

*heads back to kitchen*

“Mom, can you get me some ham?”

*washes hands/gets ham/slices ham/serves ham/heads back to kitchen*

“Mom, I dropped some spaghetti.*

*washes hands/stuffs face full of bowl of spaghetti/gives up*

 

How I Rate: Above Socks with Cracks in Them and Below Barbies

So, my daughter has show-and-tell every Friday. I’m sorry, WUT? Show-and-tell should be a privilege, not homework. Which brings me to Kindergarten Homework–. Dude, srsly. Isn’t that just punishment for parents?

Your daughter isn’t very good about turning in her homework.

“Oh, really? That’s funny. She also hates being chained-up outside.”

Basically, any Kindergartner can flunk Kindergarten because their parent can’t remember to throw an A thing or a K thing or a V thing (because OH NO, we can’t go through the alphabet the way it actually goes, THAT would be too easy for the child GOD forbid) into their backpack. So, she gets a zero for not having anything for show-and-tell because I couldn’t remember to put it in her bag because I was too freaking busy KEEPING HER ALIVE and such.

I just remembered that tomorrow is Friday (the first Friday back from spring break). I walked into daughter’s room and said, “You want to take this for show-and-tell?” She said, “A train? Sure.” I said, “Not just any train. It’s the J train. The one I rode home when I lived in New York City.” She starts whining and writhing around on the bed (two things I HATE almost as much as listening to people chew with their mouths open, and eggplant). “I’LL NEVER REMEMBER ALL THAT!” she yells.

I walk over to her toy cubbies and say, “How is it you can remember where every toy in Target is located, but you can’t remember your homework?” I am a mother, after all.  “You could take me. My name starts with a J.”

She looks at me like Woman, please and says, “I’ll just take Justin Bieber. Put some clothes on him.”

Sure. Fine. Whatever.