So apparently no good deed goes unpunished, because as you will shortly see, despite the best of intentions I (inadvertently) discovered my inner super-villain.
Cue the other night, at that magical time known as “impending bedtime for all cranky little geniuses”, whereupon I informed my dear child that it was time to get in the bath. However, at that particular moment, her father was still occupying the master bathroom, which is usually where the little genius takes her bath because the tub is larger and deeper than hers. At that point, frazzled after a long day of pretending to be a beaver mother/gaseous horse/lonely rooster/hungry penguin, I suggested she go ahead and use the smaller tub in the hopes that we could MOVE ALONG WITH BEDTIME ALREADY.
Fortunately, she was amenable and got settled in her bath, whereupon she rediscovered a long-neglected basket of bath toys, including a handful of soft plastic foam alphabet letters and numbers which stick to wet tub walls. Being an avid pre-reading little genius, she of course wanted to Build! Some! Words! I figured the appropriate parental response would be to nurture and encourage each baby step of her literary infancy, so I improvised a game around creating rhyming words by substituting consonants around a central vowel.
However, I quickly realized a flaw in my plan…namely: many of the alphabet letters had been lost over time and we were depressingly short on vowels. So I told her that I had a solution to the problem, and went out to retrieve my handy scissors. Upon returning, I tried to ham it up by telling her that I was Dr. Vowel, and that I had come to solve her vowel problems! She saw the scissors and began whimpering a little (that’s my nervous kid!) but I theatrically told her to relax! and trust Dr. Vowel! I then grabbed one of the extraneous foam numerals, #7 to be exact, and carefully converted it to an “i”. She looked up at me with her huge tremulous blue eyes, and then crumpled into a heap of wailing, heartbroken humanity.
“Mom! (sob) you RUINED my (sob) number 7! You shouldn’t have done (sob) that!” She was still sad, even after I demonstrated the “L”‘s amazing ability to go topsy-turvy and stand in for the dearly departed #7.
Talk about self-induced guilt.
And of course, she nailed the coffin shut when getting ready for bed and solemnly asked me “Mom, do you think maybe tomorrow we could go to the store and buy me a new number 7?”
Since relating this sad story to Uncle Bubba, he has taken to calling me Dr. Vowel with an evil lilt to it. Thanks bro.
…when you offer to cook dinner (yes, this only happens once or twice a year) and are so non-functional that you barely pull it off. Even something simple like chili and cornbread. Not even from-scratch cornbread, but gimpy corn muffin mix.
…you are pretty sure that you’ve instructed your child to GIVE THE CAT A BREAK ALREADY at least 9,230,201 times and yet there she is, again, picking the poor beast up and carrying it around. At least Cookie is incredibly tolerant of kids and does not get upset or scared, but still.
…you remember to give your kid a bath, and get jammies on them, but somehow forget to give them their bedtime milk and have them brush their teeth. (can anyone say “PARENTAL FAIL,” here please…) In my defense, she’s a lot younger than her old tired parents and should have reminded one of us.
…your child soaks one entire half of your body during said bath, while practicing invisible kickball in the tub full of water. Then, to add insult to injury, laughs at your dripping clothes.
…you consider doing homework, but just the very thought of it nauseates you.
…getting up early the next morning sounds so annoying that you seriously consider just staying up all night.
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