Tag Archives: mom

Sh*t My Kid Says

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Some of the things that fly out of their mouths leave me speechless, other times they crack me up. My daughter has been the obvious protegé in the sarcasm department. She has always been funny in that unintentional way that most kids are funny but she has also had sarcasm nailed from a pretty early age. It makes me so proud. *sniffle*

My little smart ass has grown so much since this picture. She looks more like her father but takes after me in almost every other way.

When Number One was about 6 years old, we were driving home from a visit with my grandmother and it was raining so hard, there was barely any visibility. I, of course, was leaning forward with my face practically pressed into the windshield, trying to see past the hood of my car. My daughter, out of the blue, wanted to have a conversation.

Number One: At the beginning of ‘The Suite Life of Zach and Cody’, is that a real house or a fake house?

Me (dismissively): I’m watching the road. I don’t know.

Number One: Is it a real house or a fake house?

Me: I have no idea. I’ve never really watched it.

Number One (growing more and more annoyed): Mom! Just answer! Is it a real house or a fake  house?

Me: Honey! I am trying to concentrate on driving! I don’t know!

Number One: IS IT REAL OR FAKE?

Me: If you just want an answer, then I will guess real. I haven’t watched the show but I will just give you an answer. It’s real. Okay? Now, I need to concentrate.

This was followed by about 20 seconds of very obvious silence, in which I could just sense that my daughter was pissed.

Number One (with her eyes lowered and monotone voice): Do you know what I want to do right now?

Me: What is that?

Number One: I want to go home, dress up like you and punch myself in the face.

I nearly lost it. When the rain cleared a few minutes later, I called my friend, laughing so hard I was almost crying, and told her about the conversation. She laughed and said, “I’m sure she is in big trouble”. I told her that, aside from being hilarious, I was pretty sure that she had  me on a loophole, since she hadn’t actually threatened me. My daughter remained in her seat, glaring at me, increasingly annoyed by my amusement and my audacity to discuss it right in front of her.Another of her more memorable statements, albeit unintentionally hilarious,  was, while walking through the mall with my mother and sister, she asked, LOUDLY, “Why do men have nipples”, which almost sent me to my knees in laughter.

Yesterday, she tells me that one of her friends told her that the dictionary said that “the ‘B’ word” meant “a female dog” and she asked me if she was telling the truth. I told her that was correct. She looked at me, stunned and visibly excited, and asked why everyone says it is a bad word. I explained that it is the name of a female dog but it is also used as a curse word. She points to our dog, Zoey, and asks, “well, if I am talking about Zoey, I can use it”. Good try. That was a negative, though. Even if I had green lighted the appropriate usage, she would have stayed up at night thinking of different ways to work the word “bitch” into her daily vernacular. Sometimes she will say things that make  my jaw drop and set off alarm bells in my head. Until I begin an interrogation and it is suddenly put in context and all becomes right in the world. While driving around recently, she starts talking about her friends. Kim does this and Joey does that. Then she says, “And Sadie, my demon lover…”.

Me: Your what?

Her: Demon lover.

Me: What is a demon lover?

Her: She loves demons. I mean, she isn’t goth or anything but she likes monsters and demons.

Me: OOOOOOOOHHHH!

The kids may drive me nuts but they can be hilarious at times.  Also, the toilet humor starts young but boys just never seem to outgrow it, do they?

The Justhadababy Diet Isn’t Working!

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Number Four is six weeks old and I only weigh ten pounds less than I did the last hour of my pregnancy.  What the fuck?  Here is a picture of me naked:I have been so disciplined with my efforts to get back down to my fighting weight too!  I know all the dieting rules and tips.

  1. White food has no calories.  With that in mind, I have been eating a lot of bread and things like pasta with alfredo sauce, mozzarella and parmesan cheeses and things of the like.
  2. The calories in hot foods/liquids are burned up.  If I want a drink, I have stuck with hot chocolate and room temperature Dr. Pepper (it’s winter.  Our heat has been on inside the house.  It counts.) I like cheese but cold cheese would have too many calories so, instead, I have queso or grilled cheese.
  3. I like Oreos.  A lot.  But, I know better than just to cram the cookie in my mouth!  I break open the cookie and lick out the filling, which is white and, therefore, calorie free.  I throw away the cookie part or, if I want to eat it, I heat it up in the microwave.
  4. Wine burns calories.  Just opening a bottle burns 500 calories.  I drink wine several times a week.

Can someone please tell me, now, why the hell I am not already in my pre-pregnancy clothes?  Hell, I should be a fucking waif, given the level of discipline I have demonstrated!  What do I have to do?  Exercise?  That will be a cold day in hell.  Let me tell you something, if you see me running down the street, call the fucking police.  Rest assured, I didn’t take up a healthy hobby, I am in fear for my life.  Treadmills make no sense to me.  First of all, it requires you to run, which is bad enough, but to top it off, you don’t go anywhere.  The same goes for stationary bikes and stair climbers.  What kind of sick, twisted mind made fucking stairs that don’t get you anywhere?  But I digress.

I think I need to increase my wine intake.

Tell Me About the Babies, George

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Twelve days ago, Number Four arrived into the world.  He was four weeks early but no worse for the wear, at a whopping 6lbs 6oz and 19 inches.  My precious, screeching little larva and I spent four days, alone, safe in our hospital room.  Then the day came that I had to bring him home and introduce him to THE OTHERS.

This past week with him home has been a bit overwhelming, to say the least.  Number One finally resigned herself to the fact that she has another brother and her help is still the main reason I have managed to stay sane.  Number Two is completely enamored with his new baby brother.  He says “I hope our baby stays little forever” and he wants to hold him as much as possible.  He is both fascinated and puzzled by breastfeeding.  Although I breastfed his little brother for close to two years, I guess he was too young to fully comprehend what I was doing but I digress.  Several times a day, he asks or makes observations about breastfeeding.
“I don’t know how that milk gets in your boobs!”

“How did you make milk in your boobs?”

He always makes it a point to specify that the milk is in my “boobs”.  Whenever Number Four makes any hint of a whimper, he is the first to inform everyone in the room that the baby wants to drink my milk.

That brings us to Number Three.  I was actually worried about what kind of reception he would give the newest addition that would be replacing him as “the baby”.  Considering that he has practically been attached to my hip since he was born, I didn’t think he would be very accepting of this newcomer monopolizing my attention.  Much to my surprise, he is completely infatuated with his tiny sibling.  My concern has since changed to protecting Number Four from Number Three’s shows of affection.  He demands “gimme baby”, with hands outstretched.  The main problem with fulfilling this request is that his desire to hold the baby, coupled with his less than gentle handling techniques, can only be matched by Lenny’s affinity for the rabbits.  Number Three is, as well, confused by breastfeeding.  He thinks the baby is biting me.  He pats me and asks if I’m alright, then softly scolds his brother for biting and tries telling him, repeatedly, to stop.  He gives up after a few seconds and goes after whatever shiny thing has caught his eye elsewhere in the room.

So far, so good.  Four children has been an adjustment but it has definitely not been as scary as I had envisioned all these months.  I am not letting my guard down just yet, though.

Dear Mom: I Get it Now

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I remember, as a child, my mother saying things like, “Can’t I just eat my own food/drink my own drink”?  I remember her saying, “Can’t I just have one minute to myself”?  Growing up, I just thought my mom was being a selfish asshole. After all, I just wanted a drink or a bite!   Now that I am a mother, though, I understand.  Completely.

I am convinced that I could prepare a four course meal of my children’s favorite foods, like chicken nuggets, mashed potatoes, macaroni  and chocolate chip cookies with ice cream on top, then make myself a dog shit sandwich and they would turn their noses up at their plates and beg for a share of what was on mine.  I don’t remember what it is like to not have to share my food or drink.  If I try to refuse to share, you would think I had just told my children that I was going to Disneyworld without them.  The moment the food hits the plate, I hear, “I want a bite”.  The minute I stop filling my glass, I hear “I want a sip”.  For the love of vodka, I don’t want to share anymore!

I look back now and realize other things I took for granted before becoming a mother.  I never really appreciated things like going to the bathroom alone.  Now, every time I go to the bathroom, I have a captive audience.  It never fails that there is some urgent need the moment I need to pee.  Sometimes, it is just a bout of separation anxiety that compels my child to reunite with me seconds after I leave the room.  Maybe they are checking on me to make sure I am not slipping out the window.  Other times, they suddenly have one or one hundred questions and/or observations that simply cannot wait until I am finished relieving myself.

“Who is your favorite?”

“Do you like green or blue?”

“Where is your penis?”

“Your butt looks big.”

If you have a fragile self-esteem, I suggest you avoid parenthood.

Even when I am just sitting on the couch, watching television, I feel like a mother possum.  My boys, especially, are right on top of me.  Number three is on my lap, laid back against my huge pregnant belly, only putting more pressure on my teeny tiny bladder.  Number two is huddled up to me, his arms flung across me and holding on tight.  At this point in my pregnancy, I barely remember what feeling comfortable means.  Add a couple of layers of little people on top of the one kicking my ass from the inside and I am practically claustrophobic.  Killing a puppy in front of them would get me the same reaction I get when I kiss their heads and affectionately tell them, “I love you so much.  Now, get the hell off of me before I throw you off of me.”  I just don’t get it.

If they aren’t right on top of me, they are calling me from across the house.  “MOM”!  “MOM”! “MOM”!  Then, when I kindly reply, “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT”?  They seem indignant as they tell me, “nevermind”.  What the hell do they want from me?  I answered you, didn’t I?  Unless it is an emergency, do NOT yell across the house.

I’m sorry, Mom.  I get it now, though.  I get it.

The Joys of Motherhood

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Yesterday morning, I woke up to such a wonderful surprise: I was getting ready for the day when I heard a knock coming from one of the bedrooms.  I realized it was Number 3 and the sound of him knocking on his door meant he had learned how to climb out of his crib.  I thought that would the bad news for the morning but I opened his door and realized how wrong I was.  There he stood, smiling up at me, with those big, handsome eyes and then I  took inventory of the situation.  Not only had he climbed out of his crib but he had also removed his diaper and shit all over his bedroom floor.  Like most people, there is nothing I like doing more, right after getting out of the shower in the morning, than cleaning up fresh piles of shit from my carpet.

I know, I know, some of you read this and think, “DAMN!  How did she get to be so lucky?”.  Well, let me tell you my friends, I don’t like to brag but that is just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the spoils of motherhood.

  • This is not the first time he has managed to get his diaper off after filling it up.  On more than one occasion, he has finger painted me beautiful murals across his bedroom walls, made entirely of paint he made himself, in his pants.
  • Number One, Number Two and Number Three are complete and total fucking pigs.  When George Bush was looking for weapons of mass destruction, he didn’t have to go to the Middle East, he just had to come to my house.  Even on housekeeper day (my favorite day of any week), these WMDs can destroy this house in no time flat.  I don’t know how they do it, either!  I swear, it will look like they have been watching TV for an hour and then I look around and every room in my house is a shit hole.  I know that they only explanation is that they have magical, destructive wizard powers.
  • Everyone always says, “you have to watch what you say in front of children.”.  What the fuck do these people know?  Certainly nothing about children or, at least, not my children.  I can pretty much say whatever the fuck I want in front of my children because they don’t fucking listen to a damn thing I say.  It doesn’t matter if I say “stop pulling your sister’s hair!” or “Gah-dammit!  Stop fucking pulling your fucking sister’s fucking hair!”.  I might as well be reciting a fucking recipe for pea soup.  It is like talking to toast.
  • Did you know that “Go clean your room.” actually means “Go fuck off in your room or watch tv.  Whatever you want.”?  Neither did I!
  • If mothers wore uniforms, those with more than one child would be wearing a black and white striped shirt and a whistle because a large portion of the day is spent breaking up sibling brawls and refereeing decisions on everything from what will be on the tv to who gets the last cracker.
  • When you have your first child, and every subsequent child, for that matter, you cannot WAIT to hear them say “momma” for the first time.  Give it a couple of years.  The sweetest sound you have ever heard is soon to become nails on a fucking chalkboard.  That sweet cooing of your baby first saying “momma” that melted your heart, soon evolves into the word that will make you consider drowning yourself in the mop bucket.  “Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! MOOOOOOOM!!  MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!” will soon drive you to the brink of insanity.

  • Children, as it turns out, are equipped with some sort of sensor.  I haven’t determined where the sensor is located but it is there.  This sensor signals your child every. single. fucking. time. you are beginning to relax, when you are in the middle of an important conversation, when the automated system for the light/cable/water/internet/phone company is asking you to “please say what you are calling about so I can direct your call.”, etc.  They can be in the middle of anything and they will drop everything to run out and interrupt you, making sure that you re-tense, have to stop your conversation or have to repeat your issue to the computer twenty fucking times before it just hangs up on you.  I swear, the slightest sign of relaxation from a mother could wake a child from a fucking coma.

  • Do you have any idea how many times a day a kid shits?  Number three goes, at least, 341 times a day.  True story.  Also, for some reason, potty trained children cannot grasp the concept of flushing a fucking toilet.  It is like Christmas every day when I walk into the restroom and see the gifts my older kids left me in the toilet.

Don’t be jealous.

Dang, Anything Else?

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I’m hungry!  I’m not hungry!  I’m tired!  I’m not tired!  I’m hot!  I’m cold!  Pick me up!  Put me down!  Fix me some food!  I’m thirsty!  I want ketchup!  I didn’t like it because it had ketchup on it!  I need to potty!  I already pottied!  I peed in my pants!

BREATHE!  1…2…3…4…5…fuck this counting shit.  It only takes me 3.5 seconds to open a bottle of wine.

These three curtain climbers can be the source of my greatest joy and my greatest stress.   I know that there are those sanctimonious martyr mom bitches that say “Children are gifts from heaven.  I like to spend every waking second with my children and any mother that takes two seconds to herself is selfish and she should have thought about that before she had kids.”.  Well, to her, I say: fuck the fuck off.  I love my kids but I don’t have to like my kids 24/7.  Any parent that says they do is either A) Lying or B) Full of shit.  You see, I don’t think admitting that makes me a bad mother.  I would give my life for any of my children and there are days when I feel like my children are trying to kill me themselves, with a plan they have secretly concocted to make my fucking head explode.

My husband works out, pretty much everyday.  Whether he runs or goes to the gym, that is his daily time to blow off some steam.  For some reason, some group of uptight bitches got together and decided that squeezing a kid out of your vagina suddenly rendered women impervious to stress.  These are the same bitches that decided that admitting that being a mother was hard or a mother needing her own personal time out was a sign of failure.  They got the word out and it spread quickly.  Women are so fucking afraid to admit that they aren’t perfect mothers or that they don’t ever feel overwhelmed or that they want to be able to have a little time to themselves.  Well, guess what?  I’m not.  At times, my kids make me want to stand in the middle of the street and scream a steady stream of expletives.  I want to pull my damn hair out!  I think to myself, “I wonder why kennels for kids never caught on?”.  So, I make sure that I get my own “time outs”, at least once or twice a week.  If that means that one or a few of my friends gather on my patio or on one of their patios, as God as our witness, we are going to gather, dammit!  And, there will be wine!  Oh yes!  There will be wine.  It is our therapy.  We bitch and vent and then we end up laughing about all those things that we thought were going to push us over the edge a few hours earlier.  Thankfully, I have surrounded myself with a group of friends that are equally as honest about how imperfect they are as mothers.  There isn’t any judgment, just wine.  You have to have wine! 

I jokingly tell my husband that I am going to the gym when I have plans for a girls’ night in.  Becoming a mother doesn’t make your needs suddenly irrelevant.  It doesn’t mean that you are no longer entitled to or in need of some personal time.  If anything, it makes it even more necessary.  Adults need to interact with adults.  Adults need to have conversations  in which the words Caillou, Sprout, poopy diaper and Toy Story are not brought up.   Adults need to have times when they are not required to break up fights between preschoolers.  Adults need to have friends to drink wine and bitch with because drinking alone is frowned upon.

If you want to hole up in your home and immerse yourself only in your children and their interests and topics of conversation, be my guest.  My money is on your future admission into a mental hospital. Good luck with that.

I love my bitches.

Can’t Talk to a Psycho Like a Normal Human Being

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Have you recently found yourself saddled with a knocked up wife, girlfriend, sister or friend?  Men:  If you put the baby in there, you have  no one to blame but yourself.  You didn’t talk her into the abortion.  Suck it up, buttercup.  You pulled the trigger, you finish the race.   Here are some tips and warning signs to help you get through these nine months alive.

You may ask yourself, “what the fuck is her problem?”.  Let me tell you a few of her problems:

  • She has, most likely, been forced to disregard the slightest degree of germaphobia the moment her body decided to reject the Taco Supreme with extra sour cream it had been screaming for only moments earlier, forcing her to embrace and shove her head into a receptacle that has hosted almost as many asses in its career as Richard Simmons in his.
  • Do you enjoy being stabbed repeatedly in the pubic area?  If so, you would LOVE round ligament pain.
  • Not having a period is one of the touted benefits of pregnancy.  Don’t put those tampons in storage just yet, you can still find a use for them now that your nose is going to be the one with a period!  If you are like me, it will be almost daily!!
  • Weight gain!  Because nothing says “I’m bringing sexy back” like elastic waistbands.

If you are interacting with a pregnant woman, don’t ever assume you are safe.  Always consider her armed and dangerous.  Even if the only weapon in her arsenal are the countless hormones surging through her body, be afraid.  Be very afraid.  Signs you should abandon your mission and run:

  • Tears.  Even if it just looks like her eyes might be watering, take no chances.  Run.
  • She suddenly stops talking or responding to you and only stares, even if she is being directly addressed or questioned.
  • Her only response or contribution to the conversation is a flat “whatever.”.
  • Her stomach growls.

Dads:  Are you feeling neglected?  Left out?  Have you tried to give her the business only to find she has closed up the shop?  Maybe she wants the business but the realization that her vagina is soon going to transport a tiny, screaming human larvae into the world has rendered you impotent.  Either way, you can revive your sex life.

Are you being rejected?  You are going to have to play a little hardball but, remember, all is fair in love and war.  You have to make her want you to want her and that is going to mean you have to hit her in the ego.  It is kind of like high school:

  • Strategically but noticeably  place stretch mark cream amongst her beauty supplies.
  • When you both get in bed, pull out the latest issue of “Hotties with Vacant Uteri” and your favorite lotion and go to work.  If she interrupts, take your tools into another room and tell her that she is spoiling the moment.
  • Look at older photos and compliment her pre-pregnancy hips.

If the problem is that you can’t get the soldier to salute, there are a couple of solutions:

  • Admit that you are gay.  I mean, seriously.  Pregnant or not, most men won’t turn down an available vagina.  Not to mention, her boobs have, at least, doubled in size.  That is nature’s distraction.  If this is the case, get her to pull her hair up in a baseball cap and roll her over.
  • Medicine

You are welcome.  This could end up being another series.

How to be a good parent with good kids:

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  • Use your resources.  The TV, for instance, is better and cheaper than a nanny.  You turn it on, it keeps the kids quiet and occupied and, in most cases, it is even teaching them something.  Then, at the end of the day, you don’t have to hear the television tell you about where you are falling short as a parent. 
  • There is nothing wrong with a little healthy competition.  Make a ranking chart and put on the refrigerator.  You can call it the “Mommy’s Favorite Board” or something to that effect.  At the beginning of every day, gather the children around and rank them from top to bottom on the chart.  Explain that the top spot is mommy’s favorite and go on to explain why/how they made that position (they did this favor, they didn’t talk back, etc).  Let all the children know that this order can change at any moment, without notice.  Make sure to take any reason to go switch the order and appoint a new favorite.  This is even more effective if the favorite gets some sort of privilege.  It really gets the kids in line.  Sure, the experts will rag on and on about damaging their self esteem, long term damage and blah, blah, blah but fuck that noise.  If they maintain the “mommy’s favorite” position, their self esteem will be fine.  It is a long term goal to teach them to strive for along with the short term reward.
  • Drink.  If you haven’t already, after having children is a good time to take up drinking.  Don’t listen to these fuckwit sanctimommies that go on and on about it being irresponsible or that the minute your piss makes the line on the magic plastic stick, you are no longer allowed to be remotely selfish.  I like my “me time” and I like it a lot better when there is a bottle of wine to keep me company.  You thought alcohol was important the day after you turned 21?  It is a requirement of a good parent.  They should hand out bottles of wine and liquor to parents in the hospital. 
  • Force your children to subscribe to gender stereotypes from birth.  Do not let little boys like pink or even touch your purse or a doll, regardless of whether he is 6 months or 6 years old.  If he does any of the above, he will most likely grow up and want to fondle and marry other boys.  If he shows interest in a toy kitchen, for instance, slap his hand, tell him that cooking is woman’s work and make him look at a Playboy magazine, while holding a truck in one hand and a hunting rifle in the other.  If your daughter wants to play with her brother’s toy tool set and you let her, you might as well go buy her a wallet chain and a Melissa Etheridge album.
  • Do not talk to children about sex.  That is sick and inappropriate and it should never be discussed.  If your children express any curiosity or ask questions regarding sex, tell them that sex is bad and thinking about sex, talking about sex or having sex before marriage is a one way ticket to hell.  Discussion over.  
  • If your children yell at you or talk back or are disrespectful in general, buy them something and apologize for angering them. If you tell your child to clean his/her room and he/she screams back “NO!  Fuck you, mom!  You clean my fucking room!  I hate you!”.  Obviously, you have done something to upset or offend your precious angel and it must be resolved.  In order to make amends, you should clean his/her room and/or go buy a present for your disgruntled child/teen and beg for forgiveness.  This can also apply to incidents when teacher call to discuss your child’s behavior.  You know that bitch probably has a vendetta against your precious little baby and/or is jealous of you and is taking it out on him/her.  When she tells you that little Junior told her to shove her book up her ass, you make sure and ask her what she has against your child and what she did to provoke his/her response.

This is parenting, people, not rocket science.  Now, go have a drink.

How to recognize people with a death wish:

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  • You ring my doorbell-because only people who want to die a horrible, violent death ring the doorbell of a pregnant woman with a toddler.  You see, you doorbell ringing jackasses, sometimes babies SLEEP!  When you come and ring my muthafucking doorbell, not only does that “DING DONG” reverberate throughout my home but it also causes my fucking dogs to go batshit crazy and whether it was the “DING, DONG” or the yapping dogs that wake up my toddler, your decision to push that doorbell is the root cause of why the closest thing I get to quiet time has been interrupted and why I am staring down the barrel of a really pissy, cranky two-year old that I now have to deal with for HOURS, as he gets pissier and crankier until bed time.  Someone must pay.
  • You call me before 8AM and everyone is alive and well-because the only reason to EVER call me prior to 8AM is if someone is bleeding or dead.  Yes, most mornings I am up prior to 8AM but, on occasion, the baby sleeps past 8AM and I enjoy those days.  May God have mercy on your soul if you happen to call me on one of the days that my little, chubby alarm clock has decided to let me sleep late. 
  • You tell my kids you are going to do something and you don’t-because I realize flaking out on a little kid may not seem like a big deal to you but, for me, it is the seventh level of hell.  I am the one that has to listen to them obsess and prepare for the details of the plans you made with him/her/them.  I am the one that has to make up some bullshit excuse to cover your ass when they realize that you have sold out so that they don’t think you are a complete lying asshole, even though you are.  You will be punished.
  • You critique/correct my parenting -I really don’t give a fuck if you disapprove of me laughing so hard that tears are streaming down my face because I am telling my toddler to say “you fish” and he is complying.  You can kiss my ass.  Truth be told, I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks of my parenting and, frankly, if I want to instruct my kid to say “shut the fuck up, bitch.”, that is my prerogative.  As it stands, however, my youngest child’s speech development just makes some every day, normal words, like “fish” sound like he is saying “bitch” and that is just good, clean fun.  Get the stick out of your ass and wipe that face off your head before I do it for you.
  • You talk during a movie-Seriously.  Shut the fuck up.  I don’t care what your predictions are on any surprise twist, who the murderer is or who is going to die next.  If you shut your fucking mouth and let me watch the movie, I will bet you a hundred dollars we will find out.
  • You come to my door selling shit-If you rang my doorbell, you already have one foot in the grave.  If you are selling shit, you better have made a will before you darken my door step.  You are a perfect stranger.  I don’t want to talk about how you are selling magazines to be the first person in your family to go to college.  I don’t want you to demonstrate your vacuum cleaner.  It is none of your business whether or not I have accepted Jesus Christ as my lord and savior.  You see and hear these kids running around like wild animals, screaming and yelling?  They weren’t taking precedence over the phone call I am currently on or the status update I was in the middle of posting, why do you think I am going to hang up or close my laptop for you?  Keep on walking.

This will probably end up being another series, much like the grammar entries.  It will give you bitches something to look forward to in the future.

Time out or a wooden stake?

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He is so adorable and so chubby and sweet looking, I never saw this coming.  He runs over, staring at you with his big brown eyes, and at the last minute he opens his mouth and sinks in those teeth.  Yes.  It is true.  I can barely say it out loud but here goes:   My youngest child has OBVIOUSLY turned into a vampire.  At the slightest provocation, he is willing to sink his teeth into any exposed patch of flesh to satisfy his thirst for blood.

I have been doing some research, since coming to terms with my son’s transformation into one of hell’s minions but the information is conflicting.  One researcher says that vampires cannot go out in daylight or they will spontaneously combust or something similar, while another says that vampires can, in fact, go into the sunlight and their skin will sparkle as if they had their entire body vagazzled.  So, I am confused.  My son can go out into the sunlight without bursting into flames but he does not look like a fairy that was rolled around in a truckload of glitter, either.  Do you think he might have some form of vampire eczema that could explain this or do I accept the other research that says that the glitter skin is bullshit?

Most of the research tends to agree that vampires possess some degree of powers and some research indicates that they can hypnotize or “glamour” their victims.  He DOES possess this ability.  He can look at you and you will believe that he is going to approach you and hug you or kiss you and then, suddenly, he is going in for the kill!  I need to create some sort of warning system so that unsuspecting innocents can be made aware that he is a demon cleverly disguised as a little, chubby angel.  Don’t be fooled.
I have tried to time out and he continues to try to make meals of the family.  I am conducting further research on how to remedy or tame him.  I would prefer to consider staking as an absolute last resort.