This Sunday, after attending Ben’s annual Open House at his Crunchy School, I
demanded sweetly requested that The Daver take us out to one of my favorite haunts for a lunch/dinner (linner?). After much protesting, he agreed, and off we went.
Afterwards, in my quest to win the title of Most Annoying Wife ever, by rudely taking away valuable video game time, I insisted that we pop over to Target to grab some baby yogurt for the week.
As we walked in, Ben grabbed his kid’s cup and declared that he was going to throw it away inside, which was fine by me. Less crap in the car for me to throw out = happy Aunt Becky.
When we finally located a garbage can, Ben pulled the sticky straw from the cup and declared that he wanted to take it home to reuse it. Now, over the past couple of years, we at Casa de la Sausage have made quite the effort to become more Green, and I am all for any small thing we can do to accomplish that goal.
But I draw the line at bringing home straws, not because I don’t see the good in reusing them, but because a) we don’t use those straws at home, so he’s not saving anything by doing so and b) the last time he did that, the straw was left sitting on the kitchen floor for me to throw away.
(truth be told, he wanted the straw so that he could PLAY with it, which wouldn’t have bugged me in the slightest if he didn’t want to save every sticky gross thing he comes across.)
So when I rudely insisted that he toss the straw away with the rest of his sugar-drenched cup, he balked at it. I argued and he finally relented and angrily threw the straw into the garbage. It was then when he uttered the words that afforded him the Longest and Most Drawn Out Lecture From The Daver:
“FINE, Mom, if you want to KILL the EARTH!”
The words were dripping with such snot and disdain that a teenager may have been able to do it no better.
Ben: 1, Parents: 0.
Although most of my house is fairly well baby-proofed, occasionally, we will construct a makeshift gate at the edge of the couch to keep the Beast That Is Alex out of his favorite places, namely the dog dish, the cat door and his personal favorite, the toilet.
The area that he is sometimes contained in doesn’t allow us to put up a usable gate, so we usually just shove two laundry baskets in the space and call it a day. Often he will howl at this injustice, but usually he is pretty content to play in this room.
Yesterday, because I have a bladder approximately the size and shape of a Froot Loop, I ran to the bathroom for the 47th time that hour and left him in his toy filled prison, but peed with the door open so that I could listen and make sure he wasn’t trying to dismember one of the cats.
As soon as I let that flow go, I heard a strange noise: it was the noise that a sliding plastic laundry basket makes on a wooden floor. After I did my business (that’s the dumbest phrase, isn’t it?), I came back out to see the most satisfied baby on the planet.
He had hoisted his considerable weight onto the basket and pushed it out of the way, and now he sat on the kitchen floor looking like I’d just handed him a wet nurse AND a new Corvette.
Alex: 1, Parents: 0
If you want me, I’ll be in my walk-in closet popping Valium for the next 18 or so years.