'I don't like my job & I don't think I'm gonna go anymore'
Remember that time when I was all, "Oh, oldest child, I love you! I adore the ground you walk on! You make my time as your mother better than a thousand calorie-free ice cream sundaes with nuts!"
I raved about this kid of mine here, here, and here again.
Wait! Also, ha ha, this was a funny one. And oh yeah! Here's one where I went all soft and sweet on him.
(You should really check some of those out! I believe those are what is called "very special episodes" in the business. The business of being an awesome mom, that is!)
Anyway, those days are over! As of last night at approximately 8:15 p.m., I've officially tendered my resignation as a mother. This post serves as my letter announcing my intended departure. It does not, however, absolve the company of any or all future legal action I may take against them, of which I am presently weighing my options. Mommy wouldn't mind paying for some plastic surgery to erase evidence of the fact that I've given birth.
I realize this may seem hasty, that the logical step would have been for me to fire my kid. Trust me, with the number of write ups he has in his personnel file - which range from breath that smells like he ate a small animal to numerous recent infractions for insubordination - he should be the one being escorted out by security. However, numerous probationary measures have been issued and patently failed, so, after a closed-door strategy session with the company president (which is what I like to make Tool Man think he is, but we really know who's running this conglomeration. Oooohh yeah!), it was decided I'd resign and take a hefty, yet fair severance package (which may or may not include taking my youngest son with me because, let's be honest, he's still young, adorable, and, most importantly, pliably impressionable. If he goes now, there's a good chance I can deprogram him from the evils his older brother has worked to instill upon him, thus turning him into a potential asset - or fighting machine! - for me)(however, based on how things are going so far this morning, coupled with the way he growled at me when I informed him we were out of Rice Krispies, I'm leaning toward the 'maybe not' option).
Why the bail out, you might be asking? Because I'm tired, so very tired, of playing the lead role in Groundhog Day with this kid every day (the 'every day' thing being the perfect means by which to reference Groundhog Day, which, if I'm playing the lead, I guess that makes me some kind of Bill Murray, which now just leaves me confused and yet relieved that I've chosen not to be Andi MacDowell. Anyway...). Every day, no matter the hour, life with my oldest son is like caring for a newborn lamb. One I must nudge with my furry Mama Lamb nose to get up and walk, eat some grass (wait, I'm from the suburbs, people...do lambs eat grass?), dress himself (a task that begs the reminder to yes, change his underwear), and brush his little lamb teeth (what's left of them, anyway). This is every! damn! day! people!
Then there's the time he's in school. Every day since he started middle school nearly a month ago, Tool Man and I have beseeched him to come home with all the materials necessary for studying. Binders, bags, glasses, homework, anything. Every day he comes home with one thing, but not the other. The next he'll have the other, but not the one thing. We are now nearly four weeks into this first big year, and he insists he never has any homework. I know! I find it odd, too. So I keep tabs on him, via the mysteries of the Internet, as well as my old school option, the telephone. Here's an example of a conversation that took place in our house last night:
Me: "So, do you have any homework. How about a test to study for. You should be having tests by now, shouldn't you?"
Little Lamb: "I don't have any homework. Tests? Wha? Huh? I don't know what that word means. What's a test?"
Me: (silence...simmering silence)
Little Lamb: (blank look of someone so simple and without care or clue)
Me: "Oh, the telephone! Saved by the bell! Ha ha! STAY RIGHT THERE!"
Little Lamb: (watching dust particles float through the air like fairies)
Me: "Hello? Oh, hello, Mrs. Little Lamb's social studies and science teacher! How are you tonight? Great. What? You want to talk to me about Little Lamb's TEST? The TEST he took in social studies. The TEST in social studies that HE TOOK TODAY?"
Little Lamb: (sigh)
Me: (simmering glare)
Replace 'social studies test' with 'science quiz,' 'reading assignment,' and/or 'writing notebook,' and you pretty much have a front row seat to what we do every day (have I driven that point home enough yet?) in my house (although my hair doesn't always look as great as you might imagine it does). Last night, in a fit of despair compounded by the fact that the new season of House was set to start soon and I was going to miss it, I informed my insubordinate child that, if things didn't change around here soon, I'd be taking off work next week (oh, friendly bookstore, will you miss me for those 12 hours?!), and I will follow his little lamb butt to all his classes, and I will put my hair up in a mass of eight or 10 ponytails and perhaps scratch at my boobs and raise my hand and ask pertinent questions, just to embarrass him.
My other option is to follow his every move while outside the school building, then, when he's settled in his various classes, I will tap on the windows, point at him, and make the universal sign for throat slashing with my index finger, then point at him again. I assume that 'index finger across throat' is the universal sign for throat slashing and/or threatening to throat slash, but Steve only taught me how to say "more" and "I love you" on those wonderful episodes of Blue's Clues, so I need to check with Backpacking Dad to be sure. Actually, if you could tell me how to sign "There's more throat slashing /(actual slash!) alluded to throat slashing where that came from. I love you!", that would be totally awesome. (P.S. Did you miss that I didn't insert you into my last post? I figured it would have made you uncomfortable, what with the MILF talk and all. But in my mind? Totally there!)
It's my belief that you can only do something over and over again before you lose the will to live or to put in a good, honest day's work at it, whichever comes first (however, this theory doesn't pertain to my interest in linking BP Dad all the time, just so he knows). As much as this kid is driving me crazy, I would like to live long enough to one day see grandchildren (see them drive my son insane with the blank stares and smirky behavior of those who are testing their boundaries and finding them dangerously lined with grenades and buried mortar shells much like the way this boy of mine and I are at present), so that is why I feel my best option now is to step down from the job as his mother and see what new and exciting options await me out there in these shaky economic times.
I am willing to now entertain any and all job and/or lifestyle options anyone has for me. Feel free to leave your proposals in the comments, but know that any of them that involve having either you or any people standing 4' 9" or under calling me Mom will be dismissed (but thoroughly enjoyed).