OKay, honestly? I have nothing to talk about on the above mentioned topic, but I sat down to type and that's what they were saying on Spongebob--it MUST be appropo of something.
Chicken had a wonderful birthday (as she told me) and enjoyed her dark and twisted graphic novel as well as her special copy of Nightmare Before Christmas. This morning, she came out to me in a new pair of jeans (purchased this weekend) and said, "These are a little baggy, but I'll grow into them."
I said, "I hope not--I don't think you're getting any taller."
She said, "Shit." And walked back into her room. Go 14!!!
Big T was complaining about his little brother--Cave Troll needed discipline, dammit, and T wouldn't stand for his antics any longer! Now, I don't usually pull out the Big T chestnuts--T's little kid years were made difficult by his communication handicap, and you just don't do that to a kid who has spent so much serious effort making himself a fine young man.
But I couldn't let him badmouth his little brother, either.
By the time I was done telling T about some of the shit he'd done to me as a 2-6 year old, I think he was ready to get a vasectomy at 15. Go me!
Would you like to hear? There are some good ones!!!
* When he was five years old (and about 85 lbs), his pre-school IEP (Individualized instruction plan--I forget what the E stands for) read "Student will limit the number of tantrums involving throwing himself on the floor and screaming to two a day." Of course, by the time he was six, he'd completely extincted the behavior (thank Goddess!!!) but still, when his teeny-tiny 5'2", 110 lb. 1st grade teacher read his IEP and then actually SAW him in person, she told me she about plotzed her pants.
* When he was four years old, his Auntie Wendy took him and his little sister to a MacDonald's play structure. When it was time to leave, she said, "Don't you want to go home to see mom and dad?" T, seizing on the last thing she said as a way to communicate started screaming "NO DADDY NO DADDY NO DADDY NO DADDY" so vociferously that one of the women at the MacD's wasn't going to let Wendy take Big T home. She seemed to think his father beat him.
* He was completely potty trained at six, but wiping was still a little beyond him. He'd go into the potty, take a dump, and then scream "MOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM!!!! COME WIPE ME!!!!!!!!!!!" Across the house. I'd get to the bathroom, and he would have assumed the position--hands on the bathtub, ass pointed my way. As I told him, these little moments frequently reminded me of my place in the universe.
* When he was five, he had an emotional plutonium meltdown in the middle of Safeway's produce aisle. It had been one shit-kicker of a day, mom was just EXHAUSTED, and there he was, screeching like a siren next to the fucking cantaloupes. I couldn't help it. I burst into tears. All of the women there--and it was around five o'clock, there were a lot of them--gathered around me and hugged me, saying things like "It's okay, dear, we've all been there." Big T, realizing that MOM was getting all the lovin', and he was getting JACK sniffled his little ego together and sat in the cart to pout. It was, as far as I recall, his last nuclear fusion moment in the grocery store EVER.
* When he was out six years old and his sister was napping, mom had the bad judgement to fall asleep as she sat on the couch, crocheting (I knew how to knit at the time, but I was firmly entrenched in the other camp.) When I woke up there were two strange kids in our house. Big T apparently ran outside and flagged down a couple of ten-year-olds from crap-all knows where, and then dragged them inside for snacks. It took us years to explain why this was bad.
So now he knows (and you know) why, no matter what the Cave Troll comes up with, Big T doesn't get to say jack-diddly-shit about it. As far as mom's concerned, it's karma.