Oh stop it, you know I don’t make them stick their heads in the oven to clean, or anything like that. Not after that first citation we got from the judge, I mean. No, we have a far better use for our children.
Once we learned that our offspring want to grow up to be a) a nail salon owner and b) a fashion designer for dog clothing, respectively, we realized that they were never going to support us. We’re going to be shoved in the crappiest nursing home they can find. So why not have a little fun along the way?
That’s how the kids became the very butt of every joke told in our household. And I don’t just mean the knock-knock kind, although those are really funny.
“One of our kids.”
“One of our kids, who?”
“Are you kidding me? Knocking on the door would take ambition and a little bit of training! Our kids can’t knock on the door!”
(voice from the other room): “Would you two please stop laughing at us?”
Mostly, whenever we laugh at our kids, they totally know we’re doing it out of love and not because we’re secretly afraid that they’re never going to leave home ever. Mostly.
But sometimes, the kids really, really deserve to be laughed at, and I really wish I didn’t mean the pointing-and-laughing-and-holding-your-crotch-so-you-don’t-pee kind of laughing. It’s usually when they walk in the room with something stuck in their hair because they were trying to reach something out from under their beds without actually getting off the bed.
UPDATE: the kids have learned about revenge and I found a plot notebook where my oldest has been plotting ways to either get even, or get money for the insults she’s endured. I’m going to have to be more stealth. Or hire a ninja for a babysitter.
3 thoughts on “My Children Are Here to Serve Me”
My son is 13, has long hair, friends that are dumb, sings ‘My Chemical Romance’ songs, talks bollocks and struggles to find his lunch in his own bag on a school day. (‘You didn’t put my lunch in my bag today.’ ‘Yes I did.’ ‘Where is it then?’ I reach into the bag and take it out. ‘Here’. I then grab his elbow and say ‘This is not your arse.’ ‘You’re not funny.’ ‘Then why is your mum laughing?’) Of course I laugh at the little guitar hero wannabe… I laugh with his 9 year old sister because she is genuinely witty and has perfect intonation and timing… (I have trained her well. God help any boy who crosses her when she gets older!).
Please tell me that fourteen is the magical year when they click and it all makes sense to them!
Here’s what I told my kids from birth – I am going to screw up. Don’t get even, get better. Whatever I do to you that you hate, don’t do to your kids. You’ll screw up plenty in your own way. Plus I’m a firm believer in brainwashing – as in standing next to the crib whispering… don’t use drugs…don’t use drugs…don’t use drugs… you will clear the table… you will clear the table…