Contemplating my demise
I don't know about you, but I am not very functional before I have coffee. I often pour Jack's milk into his sippy, handing him the carton, and put the sippy in the fridge. I'm uncoordinated and confused for a good 30 minutes after I wake up. Nipper Knapp is out of bed and dressed before I can even open my eyes. He must be part ninja.
Once we got the whole diaper disaster handled, I made coffee, and started breakfast. Oatmeal! Yes, he says, I want oatmeal, or as he calls it opiemeal. I ask him if he wants to watch Super Why while I'm cooking it, and he says yes. He wants to watch the Beauty and the Beast episode. I no sooner get the oatmeal out of the cupboard and he is shouting in this very specific voice from hell "MOM! MOM! MOM! I want to watch the BIG GAAAAAAAME one!!!!" Over and over and over. I shout back from the kitchen, "No Jack, you can watch that episode while Mommy makes opiemeal, or go play, we're not switching back and forth". This falls on deaf ears, and he continues to shout "The Big GAAAAAAAAME" over, and over, until I go into the living room and (calmly) tell him that his options are, watch the Beauty and the Beast episode, or go play. Oh and please stop shouting. He says fine, and settles in on the couch to watch. I go back in the kitchen.
They say they come in peace, and in such cute convincing packages, but I know the truth.
90 seconds later, and I've got the oatmeal on the stove. I hear kitten sounds coming my way. "Mew, mew, mew". Jack is suddenly by my side on all fours head butting my leg. "mew, mew, mew, I'm giving you kitty hugs!" "Oh hi kitty!" I pick him up and let him "help" me make the oatmeal. We finish up, put it in a bowl, sit down to eat it. I get myself some yogurt and granola. "I WANT SOME YOGURT" he shouts. "ok, let's finish our oatmeal and see". He does. "I want BLUEBERRY YOGURT!" ok. I get the blueberry yogurt out. I stir it up and put it in front of him. I turn to get a napkin and the blueberry yogurt is in his lap. It's my fault, I should have put it in a bowl. Those stupid containers are too tippy tommy for a kid. My fault, my fault, my fault. As I'm cleaning it off his lap, he says "It's ok, it's ok". "That's right bug, it's ok, mommy should have put it in a bowl for you" Poor baby.
As I take the soppy mess of blueberry yogurt paper towels to the sink, he says "But MOM, I want APPLE YOGURT!!!". I say no, and place the blueberry yogurt that he asked for, not 3 minutes before, in front of him. As I'm walking away, he makes a little sound. It's very distinct and the hairs on my neck stand straight up. It's the sound of the alien from the movie Predetor. Kind of a clicky warble. OH MY GOD! It all makes sense. He's been sent here to kill me. Slowly. He's a baby predator. Look at that giant forehead! It's not going to be violent, no decapitations or mudbaths, but it's clear, little by little, he's going to kill me. He must a new higher form of predator that has learned to infiltrate and destroy. He's really really skilled. Good thing I'm biologically coded to love him beyond all sense of self preservation.
Here's an article from New York Magazine that Nipper Knapp sent to me this weekend. It's called Why Parents Hate Parenting, All Joy and No Fun. I can't say I enjoyed it. But I did relate. It says a lot about our generation having kids later in life, and how nobody's having any fun, but everyone is smitten. It's sort of depressing and validating at the same time.