Sometimes my kids hate me.
At least that’s what they say.
But, they never seem to be doing it for any legitimate reason; at least none of the reasons I think they are justified in hating me (I have a list if you’d like some examples).
They usually hate me for some silly, self absorbed, childish reason (like that I don’t let them eat two candies, a cookie, and a popsicle for dinner), so it doesn’t bother me.
Don’t get me wrong. Hearing your baby yell, “YOU DA MEANEST MOMMY EVER. EEEEVEEEER. AN I DON’T WAN CHU HERE ANY MORE EVER!” does sting a little.
At least the first couple of times.
But then it doesn’t anymore and instead of caring, you start to do what you do with everything else that sucks in your life that you can’t change: think of a creative way to deal with it that will make you laugh even if it makes someone else cry.
You don’t do that?
Well whatever, I do.
So when my kids start telling me that they hate me because I’m mean and old and mean and, um, mean (they are really smart, they just aren’t that creative in the vocabulary department when they are busy hating me) and they just want to run away ‘cause I’m so mean, know what I do?
I drag them to the abandoned railroad near our house and kick them right out of my car.
Then, I jump in the bushes and pretend that I’m gone for good and watch and laugh as they run around in a panic looking for me and screaming for me not to leave them (‘cause they know I’m borderline crazy like that).
I would never do that.
I don’t get in bushes, there are SPIDERS in bushes.
I just think about doing stuff like this, but I don’t because
I’d be even more pissed when they didn’t even bother to notice I was gone I don’t want to scare them.
Funny thing is, they actually make being a runaway look pretty cute…
And kinda awesome…
Dang criminal-mastermind-evil-genius-smarty-pants kids.
They probably would be happier if I let them run away.
They wouldn’t have to deal with my gut wrenching tuna casseroles (I know, gag. I couldn’t even eat it myself. I’m convinced that the person who invented that crap was an evil, ugly human) or being embarrassed by my hideous singing voice (although, in my defense, I didn’t know they had their judgmental little friends in the yard or that they were all standing outside of my kitchen window. I was into the stupid song, okay? Lady Gaga is the shiz.).
If I let them runaway they could just enjoy the great outdoors, and the freedom, and the biting insects, and the police encounters, and the hunger pains, and the various antibiotic resistant diseases they are certain to contract without my constant intervention.
Best to stay here with me, even if I am a dumb ole meanie.