I Thought I Was a Crappy Parent, Not Too Bad With Dogs, and Silently Seeking Catatonia

Go ahead, every lactating mother needs a good old case of the beer shits!

I can never claim to be any kind of a stellar parent. I’m not warm and fuzzy enough to be good at the Mommy thing.  I did monitor my illustrious offspring for signs of the Homicidal Triad.  He had one bad experience with fire (a Zippo does not double as a flashlight) but I never observed him engaging in any bedwetting or cruelty toward animals, so I think he’s safe there.   He has more than a passing interest in the opposite gender, but I disabled the pay-per-view after his first $300 pay-per-view porn fest, ensuring he would have to find his smut fix elsewhere.  Ironically enough, his best buddy worked the past few years at a porn store, so they both probably got to check out more XXX DVD’s than can be considered healthy.

I can say I never resorted to this little home remedy either:It’s amazing that any of our ancestors survived the Victorian era long enough to breed.

Even in light of my anemic parenting, the POMC has turned out remarkably normal.  The only glaring abnormality he had was that he was born with his tongue tied to the bottom of his mouth, which is a congenital defect.  The pediatrician and the ear nose and throat specialist both said poor Steve-o would not only need to have his tongue clipped, but that he would almost inevitably have speech deficits and would require years of speech therapy.   When he was six months I had his tongue clipped.  At eight months he started talking- clearly, loudly and constantly.  When he was a year old I took him to the speech pathologist to be evaluated as I had been directed to do.  After five minutes with Steve-o, the speech pathologist looked at me and said, “He’s way beyond most 12 month olds.  This child does not need speech therapy.”  As to his vocabulary, it is broad, though I would caution most of the time it is also rated “R.”

I’m curious to see how he’s going to react the first time his little girl drops the “F” bomb.  She will.  And we will all know exactly where she heard it first.

Daddy, did you have a nice effing day?

The only negative side of the tongue clipping is that freeing up Steve-o’s tongue endowed him with a really gross skill.  He is able to pick his nose with his tongue.  Couple this with the fact that he’s always been a veritable snot factory, and you get a visual that no one should ever be subjected to.  It’s gross to see a toddler with his tongue up one nostril.  It’s even more gross to see a teenage boy in the thrall of the Puberty Demon with his tongue stuck up one nostril.  It’s worse than the Flamin’ Hot Cheetos “science” experiment.

Yet, somehow, the ladies were still impressed.

The POMC even has a college degree now, YAY! – meaning he’s about 95% Independent of the Parental Units, at least for now.

I did try to be a somewhat adequate parental unit.  I was one of those expectant mothers who was paranoid enough to go over a year with no coffee, no alcohol, no over-the-counter remedies, and not so much as one diet soda.  I had visions of my child being born a one-eyed cyclops because I’d taken a Sudafed a week before I caught wind of the impending Blessed Event.  Even in the early 90’s, the common wisdom regarding things consumed was that even one Diet Dr. Pepper or one cup of coffee consumed during pregnancy or lactation could doom your child to a lifetime of slack-jawed idiocy.

Apparently the teratogenic effect of one Sudafed taken in Week 3 of pregnancy=tongue stuck to bottom of offspring’s mouth.  Then again, who knows?  Considering the genetic grab bag involved, Steve-o mostly got a pretty lucky grab. Except for the hair.  He has the world’s nastiest hair, just like the sperm donor.  It’s thick.  It’s greasy.  It’s mousy brown, and worst of all, kinky. Acck.   At least he’s a dude, so his hair can be buzzcut into relative inoffensiveness.  I would not wish that hair on a chick.  It’s too early to tell if my poor granddaughter is going to be cursed with that hair as hers really hasn’t grown in yet.  She’s not bald, but she doesn’t have a thick and flowing head of hair yet either.  Steve-o did when he was her age, so maybe she got lucky and will have normal hair, or at least more chick-appropriate hair.

At one point his hair was almost down to his butt.

I do better with maintaining dogs.  They smell better, cost less, and will never tell you to eff off.  I know had I told either of my parents to eff off – ever-  Dad would have beaten me to kingdom come (and I would have deserved it) and that’s only if Mom didn’t beat him to it.  However, times have changed, and with the prevailing politically correct “protect the offspring’s precious little self esteem at all costs” attitude in place, a kid can call his mother anything and everything but a fine upstanding white woman, and Mom’s the evil one if Mom does something about it.

Clara does not tell me to eff off.  Clara does not run up bills on pay-per-view.  Advantage: Clara!

Guess what? The world does not revolve around your happy little asses, kids.  The world would be a better place if there were more people in the world who would be willing to admit they suck, and it would also be a better place when people who know that someone or something sucks aren’t afraid to share that information.  I think a re-read of the Emperor’s New Clothes would be a good idea for everyone.  I’m tired of the idea that it’s somehow not OK to point out the obvious just because it may offend someone or reveal what everyone already knows even when it’s a glaring fact that person or situation sucks. (more on this topic later!!!)

I’ve actually managed to wheedle myself a couple of vacation days in which I seek to clear out my head and take a break.  It’s going to seem strange to take time off that isn’t directly related to illness, be it my own or a family member’s.  I don’t think I’ll know what to do with myself other than have a good time silently seeking catatonia.  If only those around me would let me…

Yeah, I think I need a break.

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