Taking another break from my family vacation stories but I will get back to them as they’re mostly written already anyway.
I often lament my woe that the Pirate is an “only child.” That’s not really a fair statement because she does have 2 half-brothers who are just very much older than she is. So the conversation comes up quite regularly, as in, every 14 minutes about “Should we have another baby?”
Well I don’t know if you all have noticed, or if you have you’re just being nice, but we’re old. I mean, let me put that another way. We are OLD. Yes. OLD.
But then I take the Pirate to her playgroup and see how much fun the interaction with other kids is for her, or she goes on a Pumpkin Patch playdate with my dear friend’s little one who is 10 weeks older than the Pirate and I just can’t contain myself from begging Cool Dad for another baby. Until that occasional reality check. Another of which happened to be Friday.
I went to the office and some nice vendor decided to leave us a box of cookies of which none of my fellow skinny bitches wanted any part. I gleefully volunteered to take those cookies home, knowing they would meet their demise with my teenage stepson. I was not wrong about this, in theory. When I got home I knocked on the wall of his video game cave (which used to be my bedroom) and he emerged to find a box of cookies with his name all over them. “OOH” he said as he dove in for the first disc of sugar and butter with sweet white icing.
One bite and that cookie crumbled. All over the floor.
“CRUMBS!” I yelled. Christ. I am becoming my mother.
He went to get a napkin and picked up maybe 2 of the 47 crumbs but I shook my head and decided to just vacuum later. Christ. I really am becoming my mother.
I walked down the hall to change into my sweats and could not have been gone more than 2 minutes. I came back and when I rounded the corner to the kitchen, my brain quickly registered the following:
Little Pirate standing in kitchen. Cool Dad standing in kitchen, eating cookie as fast as possible. Rest of cookies all over kitchen floor, now in several thousand pieces.
“What the hell just happened?”
“The Pirate grabbed the cookie box off the counter and they broke everywhere.”
“I see that.”
“These are really good!”
Cool Dad picked up the big pieces of cookie and put them back in the container. What happened next defies all logic.
I shit you not, my husband and my child left the room. They went to sit on the couch to watch some horrifically bad cartoon that should be taken off the air because it’s just so damn wholesome I want to stab myself in the eye. I sighed and got a bunch of paper towels to commence cleaning. I turned around and there’s my sweet little corgi-dog, the only team player in this whole calamity, licking up the crumbs. But, because he has the attention span of a dog because, well, he’s a dog, he left me. Alone. In the kitchen. With a dozen broken cookies, icing and crumbs everywhere, and a handful of paper towels. Which I then used to scrub the floor, while I complained. Don’t forget the complaining because I did that. Holy mother of Christ, I have become my mother.
Days like this? I can’t believe I want another kid.
