“Butthole!” and other melodious expletives

I know you know.  My husband and I have been chosen for some kind of government experiment that measures tolerance under torture and no one has told us because you’re going to be paid handsomely to keep quiet.  Admit it!  How else can the firestorm that is our children be explained?

Luke is crying in the bathtub.  Again.  Michael is attempting to wash his hair without getting so much as a droplet of water on Luke’s forehead or ears or anywhere other than his hair.  If you’ve ever washed your own hair or the hair of someone else, you know that’s an unreasonable demand.

(I wonder if my husband knows that he could get me to do just about anything if he washed my hair.)

It’s utter chaos around here by 3:30 pm.  Oh, funny story…I pick up Luke around that time.  Hmmm….

Don’t be fooled if you see us at a birthday party or shopping at the mall.  If it appears that everyone is smiling and that all is calm, it’s a fluke; the one or two days out of the year when, for some unknown miracle, everyone is getting along without a conflict or whining or unnecessary crying.

I can hear him in the tub and I want to scream Shut that kid up, already!  But how could I, knowing well that he’s exhausted from his day that began at 6:30am.  He’s only 5, afterall.

Today, after I picked Luke up and unbuckled the kids from their seats, ushered them into the house and instructed them to remove their shoes and wash their hands, I surprised them with a special treat – chocolate dipped strawberries.  (Just following all of those directions warrants some kind of reward.)  I melted some Trader Joe’s hot fudge and put it on their Elmo plates along with the strawberries.  They were overjoyed.  If only the appreciation and serenity of those ten minutes could have lasted a while longer.

Next up was the constant barrage of the word “butthole”.  I’m not sure where Luke got that from, since I prefer the term “asshole”, but he uses it All.  The.  Time.  Now.  Mostly at his sister, but occasionally at his parents.  Madeleine must love the way it sounds because she follows along, “Butthole!  Butthole!  Lukie’s a butthole!”

Have you ever heard that word 87 times in a row?  The only thing I’d want to hear that many times is “Knock, knock…who’s there?…Your new housekeeper”.

At dinner, Luke stormed away from the table because he wanted more Thomas the Train macaroni and cheese before even putting one spear of broccoli to his lips.

“In this family we eat vegetables.  Have broccoli first,” I said.

He resisted and became belligerent.  We sent him to his room where he didn’t hide his frustration.   “Stupid idiot butthole!  Stupid head!”

Had both Michael and I not been hungry and mentally depleted, we would have gone in there to discipline him.  We kept eating.

Now, all the while that Luke has been in the tub, Madeleine has been trying to break into the bathroom and instigate the crap out of him.  She’s become much like a hyena, knowing instinctively when her brother is easiest to agitate.

“Can you get her!”  Michael calls from the bathroom, his hands (I assume) lathered in Luke’s hair.

“Come here, Mad.  I have something for you.”

I open the freezer.

Her eyes widen, “Ice cream.”   She whispers in awe like it’s a treasure chest full of precious gems.  (Or more likely, my collection of bracelets from Target and H&M.)

I did tell the kids that their dessert was the chocolate strawberries from earlier, but at this moment I just want there to be quiet.

She is so happy to be sitting on the kitchen floor, and I forget that the sink is overflowing (that’s not an exaggeration) with dishes I used to cook and serve vegetarian chili.  I ignore the piles of miniature toys that Madeleine sprinkled through the living room and into the kitchen so that we were stepping on them as we ate dinner.  So what if she was just licking the back door and now there’s slime on the glass?  Who cares if she already ripped off her diaper and will probably pee on the floor at any moment.  I can only hope it’s pee.

For now we have ice cream.  I unscrew the cap on the hot fudge once more.

Chocolate,” she whispers.   “I like chocolate.”

“Just us girls, Mad.  None of those stinky boys.” I say.

“More, Mommy, please.”

My kinda girl.

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This entry was published on September 25, 2012 at 3:52 am. It’s filed under Kids and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

One thought on ““Butthole!” and other melodious expletives

  1. I LOL when I read this. Boys, I tell ya. Wish I could say that it gets easier but my kids are quite a bit older than yours and they are still at it. Especially at the end of a long day of school. If I could have ever afforded to hire a nanny, it would have been for school pick up and that first hour home afterwards. Surviving it makes for great stories through. Thanks for sharing 🙂

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