Snickerfodder

Posts Tagged ‘cute kid stories

 

 

 

I think

I’m the oldest

1st-Grade Mommy

at the M & Ms’ school.

 

 

While my closet contains ‘fashions’ from the likes of  trendsetters Briggs, Sag Harbor, Alfred Dunner and Lee (the ONLY brand that successfully and moderately-comfortably accommodates my fat ass and cooling-tower thighs), the hot mamas’ closets hold skimpy little items from Forever21 and Hot Topic.   

 

 

 

MILF material, I am not! 

 

 

 

Boniva poster-bovine

 is more like it.

 

 

 

Though I have never had an ensemble that could be considered ‘in style’ at the moment (or in that DECADE), I do have a sense of my own style — we’ll call it ‘eclectic‘ as there is no fitting English term.   At my age and body-fat ratio, I lean toward my my ‘fat jeans’ (straight-leg with adjustable waistband,  thank you), and a big, hidey-all, knee-length sweater (all from the thrift store — $4.00 TOTAL).  I’d rather have the ankle-length knit frock, but my chunky boots’d get all tangled up in it as I was kickin’ my own arse for lettin’ it grow the size o’ the tri-state area.

 

 

However, I must admit that

even if I were a ‘younger mommy’,

STILL,

The Viv would have no fashion sense,

 whatsoever. 

 

 

 

 

Basically,

 my fashion sense

boils down to the fact that

 

 

 I just don’t give a shit.

(a BENEFIT of old age)

 

 

 

I’m not afraid to grow old —

or to LOOK old.

 

 

 

 

Hell, I’m 40! 

SHOULD look like I’m 40!

 

 

 

WRINKLES and GROWING OLD

 worry me NOT.  

 

 

 

 

In fact, I like to call my  ‘frown lines‘ the 

 

 

 BITCH BADGE.

 

 

  

I earned it.

 

 

 

 

  

I’m considering

having my stylist

 

ADD

 GRAY 

 

just to be done with it.

 

 

 

 

I’m seriously looking forward

to a salt’n’pepa do.

 

 

 

I may lament the fact that the  ‘younger mommies’ shop the cool stores, but truth to tell, even if I WERE young, I still wouldn’t nance around in low-rise flares, baring my midriff, showin’ off my taut skin and perky ta-tas.  It’s pretty damn cute on OTHER young gals, but for The Viv,  even had she dressed that way at 21, she would’a looked like nuttin’ but mutton dressed as lamb.

 

 

 

I DO feel sorry for the M & Ms, though.  The ‘younger mommies’ have so much energy.  SassyMama just doesn’t have the git-up-‘n-go that she had back when she was ‘supposed‘ to have popped out the pups.

 

 

 

VIM    +     VIGOR            VIV

 

 

 

  

My poor kids.  SassyMama simply cannot sit for hours in the bleachers without having crushed-up and snorted some DOANS; she cannot proffer more than 3 entries in round after eye-crossin’ round o’ the ‘Hey, Mommy, Guess What Word I’m Thinking About’ game without entertaining sado-masochistic fantasies;  she needs to wear her $1 magnifiers ON TOP OF her regular glasses in order to to untie the knots in shoelaces, and she’s too CHICKENSHIT to do a spin while ice skating for fear of breakin’ a hip.

 

 

The ‘younger mommies‘ can pretty much do everything they want to with their kids — and not need to sleep with the heating pad for the next week. 

 

 

 

 

The M & Ms

may have been

cheated

a bit,  

but age really

doesn’t bother 

The Viv. 

 

 

 

 

On a recent Uni-Mart piss-quest, upon closing the door to the vile lavatory, the store’s manager looked at my M & Ms and me, clearly sizing us up.  The Dingus had just bought a bottled water, so I felt we had adequately ‘paid’ to purge.  I was about to explain this to the middle-aged, middle-eastern man when he motioned for me to move in the direction of the front register.  He strode up one aisle while the M & Ms and SassyMama took the one beside him.  At a break in the food-barriers, somewhere near the chips  — on my side — (probably those little tree air fresheners and girls-with-big-tiddies lighters on his), he looks over at me, nods at the M & Ms —  and says,

 

 

 

 

Dese your

 

GRAN-CHIL-REN?”

 

 

 

 

Then, he held out a basket of individually-wrapped hardtack candies to my GRAND children and me (you know the ones:  root beer barrels, butterscotches, Werther’s Originals, etc.,  — EVERY one of the ilk MY grandmother always carried in her pocketbook) and gestured for us to take one.

 

 

The Viv passed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I come from a line of women who ‘save’ things. 

 

 

 

 

 

God forbid an empty milk carton get thrown in the trash! 

 

 

 

 

SACRILEGE

 

 

 

 

 

It must be WASHED OUT, not just rinsed, and all four pinched corners must be opened up to make the carton’s ‘mouth’ large enough to accomodate any manner of vegetable waste: apple, potato and cucumber peelings, especially.

For a reason I can no longer recall, my mother would save and wash these plastic bottles that held Daily’s OJ.  I think she saved them for my grandma who would then fill them with iced tea. 

 

 

 

 

I remember thinking those bottles were pretty cool because the 1/2 gallon jug curved into two finger ‘rings’ on either side of the neck, making carrying a breeze.

 

 

 

 

Unfortunately for me,

 those convenient little rings

 made for an excellent grip

 on the world’s most bizarre

 weapon in the history of child abuse!

 

 

 

 

We were going to my grandmother’s house one weekend, so we loaded up the family truckster, a VW Rabbit (70’s gas crunch), with all the crap my mother ‘saved’ for her mother.   Now, that Rabbit was small, so with my folks, my brother and me, there was very little room for much else.  Somewhow, my mother managed to stuff in along with us three trash bags of various empty cartons and Daily’s bottles.  Thank God Grandma lived just across town!

We needed to stop and get milk and bread and ‘good creamery butter’ for Grandma.  Dad, as he was the only one not buried beneath mounds of cardboard and plastic, was the one who went inside the supermarket.  Mom, my brother and I sat in the parking lot, holding our worthless loot.

Don’t recall what set me off, but I started gettin’ lippy with my mother (another trait of our lineage).   I may have been only 10 or 11, but I could sling the sass with the best o’ them!

Because my mom was in the passenger seat directly in front of me, because she was a ‘lefty’ and because we were swimming in refuse, my mom could not comfortably and easily wind up for a good sock to my mouth.  She only could make a pathetic, little 1/4 turn in her seat to shoot me her

 ‘DEATH GLARE’

 

 

A glutton for punishment, the knowledge that she was pretty much immobilized fed the fire that flew from my tongue. 

When my mother’s face got so red I thought I’d actually set her afire, she frantically FELT about her (never breaking the DEATH GLARE) for something with which to beat my sassy ass.

 

 

 

Finally, her fingers found paydirt;

 

 her eyes widened in enlightenment.

 

 

 

Still twisted in that cock-eyed 1/4 turn, my mother hoisted her right arm.  Wielding that empty Daily’s jug held fast in her clenched fist (Damn!  Those little rings are handy!), with every sinew and tendon visible in her forearm, my mother morphed into some warped version of Lady Liberty.

 

 

 

The stream of smartass cracks spewing

 

from my mouth suddenly ceased.

 

 

 

 

I could only stare at those goddam

 

convenient finger rings.

 

 

 

 

Was THIS how I was to meet my end? 

 

 

 

 

 

Bludgeoned by a fuckin’

 

EMPTY

 

Daily’s Orange Juice jug?!

 

 

 

 

 

 

I SWEAR TO GOD I HEARD

 

 THE PSYCHO-SHOWER-SCENE MUSIC.

 

 

 

 

A sickly squeak from high in my throat escaped; my mother’s CUE to commence the pummeling.

I ducked and buried my face in the plastic bag o’ jugs as my mother landed blow after blow on the back of my noggin.  She was actually GRUNTING.

She landed about six blows when I realized, ‘this noggin-knockin’s not hurtin’ — AT ALL!’  

 

 

 

 

The HILARITY,

the utter ABSURDITY,

of it all hit me harder

than my jug-packin’-mama,

and I burst out laughing.

 

 

 

 

 

Naturally, my guffaws made

 my mother bring down some more HEAT.

 

 

 

 

 

I couldn’t help it;

 the whole scene was GONZO

 

 

 

 

I sat up, tears streaming down my face, laughing so I could hardly breathe.  My mom managed a couple more half-hearted hits, and then, she too burst out laughing!

For the record, my brother (three years my junior), may have been a blind, deaf mute; he just sat there with saucer-eyes (probably takin’ notes, the little fucker).

Mom and I were still laughing and crying when my dad got back in the tin-can car.   He had to get back out to pick up some of the Daily’s jugs that had spilled out. 

 

 

 

 

“What the HELL happened in HERE?”  he asked.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mom and I burst out laughin’ again.

 

 

 

 

 

To this day, I duck when I see jugs of OJ.

 

 

 

 

 

Ya gotta LOVE elementary spelling lists.

  

 

 

 

Last week’s words win the prize.

 

  

  

 

My 3rd grader, M1,

came home with

STUPID

on her list.

  

  

  

 

Now, is that REALLY a word EVERY 3rd grader MUST KNOW how to spell in order to be considered ‘well-educated’ or at the very least, ‘competent’?

 

  

  

  

Will

STUPID

 be on the big state

Standards of Learning’ test?

 

  

  

  

What is the EDUCATIONAL VALUE, the LEARNING OBJECTIVE,

in a 3rd grader’s knowing how to spell this particular word? 

  

  

  

 

Will my kid be READING

  

Of Mice and Men,

Flowers for Algernon

or Hey, Dummy

  

IN 3RD GRADE

  

wherein she will

 ENCOUNTER

STUPID

and its synonyms

in PRINT???!!!

 

  

  

  

If my kid misspellsSTUPID’ on her test,

does this mean she will be

 ‘LEFT BEHIND’?

 

 

  

 

What if the STUPID kids misspell ‘STUPID’? 

 

 

 

 

STUPID’ on ANY school-sanctioned spelling list is STUPID.

 

 

 

 

No, I take that back.

 

 

 

 

Let’s go ahead and teach’em

 

 ‘FUCK

 

and each of its conjugations.

 

 

 

 

Then my 9-year-old

will be able to say that

STUPID

on ANY school-sanctioned spelling list is

 

 

 

 

FUCKING STUPID.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My little first grader fared no better last week.

 

 

 

She came home with ‘WORD FAMILIES’.

 

 

You know: 

 

 

AT’   family:  bat, cat, fat, hat, mat, pat, rat, sat, vat, flat, slat, splat…

UG’  family:  bug, dug, hug, jug, mug, rug, plug, slug…

UT’  family:   but, cut, hut, nut, put, rut…

 

 

 

 

One night her homework was to choose

four spelling words from the list,

and then to compose sentences

using each of those chosen words.

 

 

 

 

At the beginning of the school year, it was SHEER TORTURE for my M2 to come up with those measly FOUR easy sentences.

 

 

 

 

Now, midway into the year, she’s a pro.

 

 

 

 

No longer must SassyMama sit beside her and agonize for eternity over the construction of her sentences.

 

 

 

 

At this point, M2 does this assignment on her own, and when finished, she brings her work for me to check.

 

 

 

 

This week, she was particularly quick with her sentences. 

 

 

 

 

In no time at all, she presented her sentences for my approval.

(quite proudly, I must add) 

 

 

 

 

I walk my dog.”

He sat in the chare.”

The sqwerl ate a nut.”

 

 

 

 

My sister is not a slut.”

 

 

 

 

 

I’m pretty sure

 our school district

 would not only

 

 APPROVE;

 

I think they’ll bump’er

 

 straight to the senior class.

 

 

 

 

 

P.S.  She MEANT to write ‘SLUG’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

  

  

The M & Ms were ‘helping’ SassyMama clean up the kitchen the other night.

(the kind of ‘help’ that pushes mama one step closer to the nearest meth lab)

 

 

  

  

 

BLARING from my very favorite appliance in the world, my under-cabinet TV/CD/DVD player, 

 

came a COMMERCIAL

 

 

 

 

 

 

The ubiquitous and obnoxious SNUGGY plug? 

 

 

  

 

 

Naw; couldn’t be so lucky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It just so happened to be one of those erectile dysfunction ads. 

 

 

 

 

 

GREAT.

 

  

  

 

 

M2, her nose buried in her 3rd  (yes, 3rd ) Nintendo DS game system, was intent on her Mario Bros. game — or so I thought.

 

 

 

 

The ad spokesman cautioned the millions of  men within the viewing (and listening) audience who have the occasional and unfortunate flaccid penis to:

 

 

  

 

 “Ask your doctor if you are healthy enough for sex….” 

 

 

 

 

 

M2, my hyper-tasking-Ritalin-poster-child,  immediately perked up.

 

 

 

 

 

“Mama,  why did that man say, ‘sex‘?”

 

 

 

 

 

“Um…oh, boy…ummm….nnuummm….”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

M1, who just turned a worldly nine years old, replied,

 

 

 

“Sex is whether you are a boy or a girl, stupid dummy-head.”

 

 

 

  

  

 

 

 

 

M2, who is six-going-on-26, said,

 

 

 

“Nuh-uh! 

 

Sex is when you get NAKED!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Oh, God and Baby Jesus, help me)

 

 

 

   

  

  

Just then, The Dingus walked in to the kitchen. 

 

 

 

 

 I was able to face neither him nor my precocious children; I remained with my back to the whole flippin’ lot of them, frantically trying to recall where the hell I’d stashed my ‘Let’s Talk About Sex’ script

 

 

 

***NOTE to SassyMama-Self:  Find that dagum script  — STAT!    An all-nighter-cram-and-jam session may be needed so that I wouldn’t get caught tomorrow, bright ‘n’ early, with more prickly questions.   

 

***Erstwhile, keep workin’ the ‘Mama’s-just-been-frontal-lobotomized-con’.   Drool for added authenticity:

  

 

 

 

 

“Ummm…nnnuumm…aaahhh…uuummm….”

 

 

 

 

 

Seeing that —  for once —  SassyMama had no sass up her ass, M2 whipped around to confront her father.   

 

 

 

 

 

“Daddy, did you and Mommy SEX in high school?

 

 

 

 

  

  

 

 

HOLY SHIT!  WHERE’D THAT COME FROM? 

 

That one’s NOT in the flippin’ script!

 

  

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Oh, God and infant baby Jesus lying in the manger)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I threw The Dingus right under the bus.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I let that question (and my hubby)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HANG

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

I was able to muster only a few more weak monosyllabic utterances while pounding a cabinet with my open palm

(that one was genuine; no acting on the pounding).

 

 

 

 

The Dingus wheedled out of the question by saying something akin to:

 

 

 

“That’s something only those who are 10 and older are allowed to talk about.  

 

Until then, it’s not appropriate for little girls to discuss such things. 

 

 

 

When you’re 10, MOMMY will tell you all about sex.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Touché, mon ami, touché. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is the first week of school that M2 has been ‘on green’ ALL WEEK.

 

  

Well, technically, she was ‘on green’ on Monday. 

 

She spent the rest of the week at home trying to squelch her swine flu squeals. 

 

 But hey, the word ‘yellow’ didn’t appear once on her daily behavior report – that counts for somethin’, doesn’t it?

 

I gotta tell ya, this color system that schools use today to chart a student’s behavior is a great thing.  

 

 

In M2’s class:

 

 

 green is good

 

yellow is ‘a warning’

 

orange means ‘ya better back off, kid’

 

red says ‘Final Warning:  one more time, and you’re gonna get it but good’

 

 

 

 

and BLACK bellows:

 

 

THAT’S IT, YOU LITTLE FUCKER!

YOU’RE TOAST!

 

 

 

 

Thank God this system wasn’t in place when I was in school. 

 

 I never shut the hell up. 

 

I was always getting my chair or my desk moved either as far away from the others or front ‘n center beside the teacher’s desk.

 

I can’t help it; I’m a talker. 

 

But in my defense, I must say, that when I would get in trouble, I’d really only talked or giggled ONCE

 

After that, it only LOOKED as if I kept chattin’ up my buds.

 

In reality, I was just lookin’ around at everybody else — trying to figure out what the hell I was supposed to have been doin’

(‘cause I was too damn dumb to do two things at once and keep up with the rest of the class).

 

 Hell, I never heard another kid’s oral report once I hit the 9th grade.

 

 ‘Presentation Day’ would come, and I’d automatically assume my position outside the closed classroom door.

 

I’d never have survived this color system; for The Viv – they’d have needed a color darker than black.

 

 

 

My M2 didn’t stand a chance.  

 

 

 

Along with the chromosome for sass, I passed along the chat gene. 

 

Her kindergarten teacher once told me that she really didn’t know what M2 looked like – cause she’d only ever seen the back of her head.

 

 

The difference between M2 and me:  SHE can hypertask.

 

 

That kid can appear to be totally off-task, doing something like, oh, I dunno, stuffing her mouth with sopping paper towels or carving ‘I love you’ into the dining room table with an unfolded paper clip (how do you beat her for THAT?!), keep track of how many times her sister has shot her ‘stink eye’ and then cough up an answer like

 

 

Ta duo da?

 

 

when translating ‘how old is she?’ in Chinese.

 

 

I feel sorry for her 1st grade teacher;

 

 

 our Chinese tutor is dizzy after only an hour.

 

 

 

Damn!  My girl is good!

 

 

 

If only I could hypertask AND keep my wits about me; my goddam lungs wouldn’t be charred. 

 

 

 

I have a really hard time punishing a ‘talent’ I envy.

 

 

 

Bless her heart, M2 is having a really hard time with this color system. 

 

 

In the world outside of school, ‘green’ means ‘go’ (or, ‘go ahead and talk’); ‘yellow’ is Daddy’s favorite color and the color of the brick road that skippin’ Dorothy follows home (hence, a ‘GOOD’ color to M2).

 

 

 

I would totally fuck her up if I reminded her…

 

 

the Wicked Witch is GREEN.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I asked a little neighbor girl what she plans ‘to be’  for Halloween.

  

She wants to be ‘The Grim Creaker’.

  

It reminded me of another wee one who once wished to be DEATH.

 

Long ago, when I taught preschool in Hawaii, I had so many adorable wee ones.

My favorite was a squirrely little guy named Vinny.   

He was a sour, pickled little fella; an old soul trapped in a tiny three-year-old body. 

No matter what the task or the treat, Vinny would wrinkle up his little face in utter anguish and growl-whine,

  

“OOWWWNNNNLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!” 

 

(as if we dipped him in boiling water on a regular basis)   

 

He had to be prodded and cajoled and finally forced into participating in every exercise — even lunch.

  

 

Vinny hated everything.

 

  

I    ADORED    HIM.

  

 

One October morning I had ‘lanai’ duty (porch watch). 

Coming up the ramp to school  was a walking hooded sweatshirt. 

(It could only be my buddy Vinny.)

 No part of his body could be seen under his teenaged brother’s chocolate brown hoodie. 

Ever Vinny, his hooded head was hanging to his chest as he moped along the walkway, dragging several inches of sleeve along the cement.

No clue how he was able to navigate; somehow he ended up in front of me, still hood-down, just waiting for me to engage him.

 

“Good morning, Vincent,”  said I.

No movement.

“Hel-lo, Vinny…”

Nothing.

“Vi-nnnn-yyyy…” 

Still nothing.

(At this point, I realized that today Vinny was refusing to be himself — which is common in preschool.)

 

Finally, he tilted back his head, and I could see part of his scrunched-up face under the hood.

  

I waited for it….

 

“OOWWWNNNNLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!”   

 

 

 I’m The Grim Creeep-er!

 

 

“It’s ‘Reaper’, Vinny.  The Grim Reaper. 

You’re the Grim RRREEEAAAPPP-ER.”

  

Wait…for…it…

 

“OOWWWNNNNLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!”

 

Then he dropped his hood to his chest and lope-dragged his wicked little butt into the classroom and promptly prostrated himself in the middle of the circle-time rug, a mangled ‘kiddie-version’ of The Vitruvian Man.

 

DEATH  came to life only when I offered to let him make a bumfodder-roll-and-tinfoil scythe.

 

Why not? 

 

After all, it was a Catholic Montessori  Preschool; I was simply allowing The Grim Creeep-er to investigate, to create and to explore his chosen path for the day.  

 

(hhmmm….let me think:  medieval weaponry…or lacing Dressie Bessie’s shoes?…hhhmmmm….)

 

Vinny spent the rest of the day scaring the shit out of the other wee folk. 

 

 

I think The Grim Creeep-er actually smiled that day.

 

 

God, how I loved that child….

 

 

Last year, a friend told me that once, when her wee one was in time out, the little girl wrote her mother a note:

I hat you !

When mom found the note, she yelled to her hubby,

   “Oh, great, honey:  (Suzy) hats me!”

When I heard that, I laughed so hard I cried!  Now, being the wicked SassyMama I am, I secretly wished that one of my M & Ms would pull a stunt like that so that I could relish the twisted, perverse pleasure of sarcastically retorting to my spellingly-challenged child.  I conjured up a few tasty little remarks and filed them for safekeeping in my Verbal Warfare Arsenal (VWA).  I would be ready.  Now, I knew that because M1 is such a sharp, quick little shit, that I’d not be seeing a note like that from her.  But M2, now she’s another story…(aka Big Source of Fodder for the Snicker).   

I must have put it out to the universe; several months ago, I was cleaning M2’s bedroom (aka Pandora’s Box – you just never know what may come out of there!) when I found a yellow jumbo sticky-note under her bed.

   Yep, you guessed it; my kid hats me, too! 

Woo-Hoo!  Oh, how proud I was that she had passed a major developmental  milestone!  (plus, I couldn’t wait to tell my pal that I, too, was an official member of the Hat Club!)

I rushed from the bedroom.  In my haste, I stepped on an open, months-old tube of Go-Gurt, squirting a congealing blue-green blob all over the dresser.  I’d have stopped to clean it up, but I figured either the dog or the ants would take care of it.  I was too happy to care!  My baby hats Mama!  It’s just too, too cute!

When I finally found my sweet M2, she was locked in the dog’s crate – with the dog – trying to make him drink water from my basting syringe. 

I unlocked her and hugged and kissed her:  My baby!

“Look what Mommy found under the bed, muffin!”

She looked from the note to my eyes with an impish grin on her cherubic little face.

“I’m sorry, Mama.”  (only, as both M & M’s have no control over their                 r-controlled vowels, it came out : saw-wee).

Gone in an instant were the sharp comebacks that were so neatly filed away; gone was my desire to make fun of my own child’s lack of verbal acuity.  Poof!

I was overwhelmed by a warm mamalove, making me treasure the moment, the cute antics of a precious child learning to navigate her emotions.  The master teacher in me kicked in, and I saw this as a perfect “teachable moment”.

“What does this note say, M2?”

“I hate Mama.”

“No, baby, this says, ‘I HAT Mama’.  What do you need to add to ‘hat’ to make it ‘hate’?  I’ll give you a hint:  it’s magic…

“Oh!  An ‘e’!  I need a Magic E!”

“That’s right, babygirl; you see, with the way this note is written, you only hat Mama.  But if you add the Magic E, you can hate Mama, okay?  Understand?”

She nodded, again, a bit sheepishly, most-likely waiting for me to rip off my head and let out the alien who will be furious with her for writing the note in the first place. 

“Now, let’s go REVISE this to make it say that you hate Mama.”  (Hey, I’m an English teacher; SCREW teaching her why we should NEVER hate anything.  If she doesn’t learn to spell and write correctly, she’s gonna hate working at McDonalds).

With a red marker, she added the Magic E (including the proper proofreading caret, go, SassyMama!).

“See, baby?  Now, you hate Mama.”

She looked up at me with great pools in her eyes, slightly shaking her head, but not enough to cause those beautiful crystal tears to overflow.  She leaned  in to bury her face in my waist.

“No, I don’t hate you, Mama.  I LOVE you!   Mommy, I LOVE you!  I LOVE YOU, MOMMY!  I LOVE YOU MOMMY!  I LOVE YOU, MOMMY!  I LOVE YOU, MOMMY!  I LOVE YOU, MOMMY!”

I smothered my baby in mamalove and thanked God for letting me into

The Hat Club.