I'm doing something very annoying. (Just ONE thing? Noooo, not possible. Not me!)
When Miss Boo, the three year old, doesn't understand what I'm telling her, I raise my voice. As if she was completely deaf and not just three and living in her own dreamy Mulan-y existence.
Last night during dinner, I did it again. Here's how the conversation went:
Me: Boo, eat your dinner.
Boo: I don't know what this is!
Me: It's pizza. Boo, you saw me make it. It's pizza!
Boo: I don't know what it is!
Me: IT'S PIZZA BOO. LOOK IT'S PIZZA! (turning to Matt.) Why do I shout as if she can't hear me? She's not 80. She can hear me perfectly well.
Matt: (In an old man's voice) Speak up, I can't hear you!
Me: (In a voice that sounds like my friend's Jewish Grandmother) Nahnia, honey. Can you hear me? Turn up your hearing aid. I'm talking to you, sweetie.
Boo: What are you doing?
Matt: Huh? What? Speak up, I can't hear you!
Boo: Why are you two talking like that?
Me: Booooo, dahling. Put your teeth back in. I can't understand you.
Matt: (Draws in his lips over his teeth) My teeth? Where's my teeth? I can't find my teeth!!
While this is going on, Junie Bug is pointing at her tray and yelling, "Ahh done! Ahhhhh DONE!" Raising her arms above her head and repeating, "Ahhhh done! Ahhhhhhhhh!" ANd Avie is just staring at us with huge confused eyes. Which made me bust out laughing, which made her jump, which made me laugh even harder. Which made Matt laugh, which made Juna screw up her face and go, "Eeeeeeeeeeeh!" Which again, made me laugh some more, which lead to a huge hacking coughing fit because I've been sick. I don't know how you smokers do it. I cannot laugh right now without spending 10 minutes coughing up a lung.
Me: Nahnia, eat honey. You're not getting any younger.
Matt: Prunes! Prunes! I need prunes!
And with that, Boo's little face crumpled and she began sobbing. Which made Av sob. Which made Junie sob.
Ahh yes, we're so proud of our parenting skills.
Later that night, everyone in the house was sleeping. I heard Boo mumbling from her bed. I walked in to find her sitting up, grasping a plastic spatula to her chest, and talking in her sleep. She was slurring, "I love my spatula. This is my spatula. I love it." I gently lowered her back to her pillow. She curled up, hugging her spatula. "I really really really love you, Mommy. And I love my spatula." I brushed her hair back from her face and asked, "Boo, are you ok?" She replied, "Yeah. I just love you and my spatula." Then she started snoring and was completely out cold.
Sometimes motherhood is a trip down the rabbit hole to Wonderland. And sometimes you're the one who digs the hole and pushes everyone down there with you.