9 years old:
Sissy et. al: Mom, I want an iPhone.
Her et. al: No. You’re too young.
9 1/4 years old:
Sissy et. al: Mom, I need an iPhone.
Her et. al: No. You’re still too young.
9 1/2 years old:
Sissy et. al: Mom. iPhone!
Her et. al: What aren’t you getting here, kid? Still too young.
9 3/4 years old:
Sissy et. al: *sigh* Sure wish I had an iPhone to call you if I was ever in danger.
Her et. al: Easy solution; never leave my side! Plus it saves me a bill. Win, win!
10 year old:
Sissy et. al: Mom, I want a hoverboard!
Her et. al: iPhone it is!
Since moving in with my inlaws, I’ve lost 10 lbs. Hubby et. al has gained 15. 😳
Yesterday’s post began like this:
“I take every opportunity possible to embarrass Sissy et. al. She’s nine and I’ve earned this with each eye I’ve tolerated.”
Today at the grocery store while passing the homliest male human carved by the hands of God, Baby et. al calls out at the top of her 3 year old lungs to this man while he is a mere 9 millimeters from us, “are you my daddy?”
Has she said this before? Yes. I have no idea why, but occasionally she asks me if random men are her dad. Backstory: I’m married to her dad. We conceived her within the marriage. It’s all the legit with this one.
He was alarmingly tickled to have been asked this question so we got nada from the chip isle (BOO!)
Karma’s a bitch. So I didn’t embarrassed Sissey et. al again, right? It strengthens her character, right?
Yep. I doubled downed. Had to pick something up in the office when picking up Sissey et. al from school and on the way out (with the entire rest of the school) she asks, “what’s for dinner tonight?”
And I replied the same way every other mom in American is going to respond tonight when they pick up with kids tonight.
“Don’t talk to me. I’m famous.” And Her et. al kept on walking.
I take every opportunity possible to embarrass Sissy et. al. She’s nine and I’ve earned this with each eye I’ve tolerated.
She’s in dance and she’s one of “those” girls. Like those girls who goes four days a week ten+ hours, who knows, I don’t care. I wasn’t born with the dance mom gene, I’ve had to try and develop it. Which is tough with the zero fucks I give.
Where am I going with this?
Ah yes. So this years she’s stopped competing and I thought, “Hells yes!” What am I going to do with all this extra money and time? Time to take up heroine or something else fancy like that! I kid.
But Nooooooooo. There’s this new thing called “performance company”. And it’s worse than compeition. Like waaaaaay worse. Like the first day the director schedules head shots.
She’s 9! I wanted to be a mermaid when I was 9!
Ok so when she’s in these rehearsals she’s with high schoolers and girls she has looked up to for years (because shits getting real people) and she warns me….”don’t embarrass me mom!”
Embarrass you?! The girl who just told me that ALL of the food I cook in the crockpot taste like LITERAL dirty socks? Why on earth would I do that?
*5 minutes into class in my best sing songy voice*
“OH SISSY ET. AL! YOU FORGOT YOUR SNOWMAN BLOOD IN THE CAR!!”
…..at hide and seek. As evidenced by baby et al.
Should I say something? Or just let her think she’s found a killer spot!
9 year old-“Mom, I caught a Pikachu!” *holds up iPhone 6, neon pink, blinged out Hello Kitty case.*
3 year old-“Mom, I caught a Wookie!” *holds up the reciever of a 1980’s Garfield the cat landline phone complete with permanently tangled cord.*
*Her et al. ever so slyly places one slice of a cooked carrot on baby et al.’s plate*
“Get out of my castle!”
Baby et al., 2016