Want to find me.. I will be at the bar with a glass in my hand, but not eating the nuts... bar nuts are sort of scary.

Monday, March 8, 2010

Suffocating in Suburbia – Day 1, Therapy

When I am feeling a little ‘ornery, one of my favourite pastimes is to torture small children. I tell, they ask for it!

Play Dates (what a stupid name, who came up with that!) are big with the 8-year-old set. They fly thick and fast throughout the school week, and considering that twice a week the kids are out of school at 11:30am…that makes for plenty of time to make me nuts when I can no longer avoid my obligation to reciprocate.

But revenge is sweet and best served up by a strange mother speaking a foreign language.

One child in particular likes to show me she thinks she is the boss. We have had a couple of Wild West Style, Mexican stand-offs that would make a lesser mortals toenails fall out. An example? Sure, how about the time I baked delicious Oatmeal Cookies and sent them along to a group meeting. When I arrived at the end to collect the my midget, Little Miss Bossy looked me right in the eye, bit into the cookie and then proceeded to act as if I had given her rat-bait-laced-arsenic. In front of ALL the other mothers she spat out the offending cookie and proclaimed it ‘the worst thing she had ever tasted!’ Game On Biiiaaatch!

Today she sat at my kitchen table, having come home with Miss Eight. After lunch they were to do their homework before they could cut loose and play pagan blood sacrifice barbie/nintendo– and Little Miss Bossy was having a hell of a time with her Math. “Can’t you help me?” she begged. “Can’t you do it for me?” Miss Eight rolled her eyes and stifled a laugh – she knew full well what the answer was going to be.


“Well what would be the good in that? I have already passed the 3rd grade – you haven’t” she knew we were having a power struggle...and she was sizing up the competition. “Its up to you honey… if you don’t want to do, then don’t do it. What would your mother say?” And here is the corker – her mother makes me look like Carol Brady (I would have said June Cleaver, but she didn’t have a maid). Miss Bossy’s mother scares the pants off everyone, and I have noticed her child keeps a healthy respect (and distance) should there be any ‘smart-mouthing’ goin’ down.

“Oh my mother wouldn’t care, she would just tell me I could do it later…” with all the nonchalance of a professional card shark, down to his underwear in Vegas.

A-haaaa…yeah, right.

“Um by the way, what is your home phone number again?” I have wandered over with the phone in my hand. “Why? Why do you want to know?” Her face is suddenly flushed and there is fear in her eyes. I have you now, my pretty.

“Because I am worried you are going to squeal!” Her exact words – I kid you not. (of course she said it in German)

Oh little one, when will you learn you can’t compete with the master. That time you played with Miss Eight and decided to see what would happen if you tried out all my lipsticks – then didn’t roll them down before putting the cap on… did I squeal? Noooooooo, where I live, we save up juicy facts like that for a rainy day. I will just add it to your tab.

You may call me Mrs Fields… next time, eat the damn cookie!

Ps: Photo is from Coraline – if you haven’t seen it, go watch. The 5 girls I took to the movies thought it was the scariest movie EVER (including my own), but I personally think it should be required viewing for all Eight Year olds ;)


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