Ow! Not in the eye!

Sweetie? Pumpkin butter? Love? Mommy doesn’t want to talk about this right now.


Well, first of all, Mommy is driving. We are hurling at 70 miles an hour toward home after a long day of doing everything you want, and the only thing keeping us from smashing this steel cage into a cement barricade or another car full of humans is Mommy’s ability to keep her brain in control of her hands and feet. And honestly, the neurons are firing quite a bit slowly since you were born.

Mommy is trying to concentrate. Also confounding us just a bit, honey, just a tad in our quest to keep Mommy’s thoughts and actions on the same basic page, is the fact that, while rolling my eyes at your question, the same question you’ve been asking all day, and the same freaking question I’ve answered, I swear to Aphrodite, twelve times already, during that process I managed to lodge a contact lens somewhere deep in my barely functioning brain. Okay, honey? So not only am I operating a motor vehicle hurling down the highway, limbs dead with “when-do-I-get-ten-seconds-of-time-to-myself?” fatigue, and a brain hobbled by your awesome attempts to understand the world, I am also gouging my eye out trying to get to the lens, to relieve the pain and fix the fauceting from my eye and potentially restore the level of vision usually required for the tasks in which I am engaged.

So, sweetheart, it all comes down to this: there is a thin piece of precisely machined plastic wedged into the Why Is Harold with the Purple Crayon Happy When He Gets in the Boat part of my brain. It’s unfortunately inaccessible at present, lovekin. I also can’t freaking see anything, doodlebug. Mommy is blind, Mommy is tired, Mommy is flying home HOPING TO MAUD that Daddy is there so she can drop your adorable little body into his arms for the five minute break that is bathtime.

I know it’s been a long day, pumpkin, but that’s not my fault. Traffic is not my fault. The sun in your eyes is not my fault. My not being willing to answer the same emotive question thirteen times in one day is, I swear to all that is holy, not my fault. You see, I was only given enough patience to give twelve remarkably similar answers to the same question. Blame your grandparents. I can guarantee you they only answered eleven times, because they roll their eyes at your Mom now every time she answers you twelve times in a row.

So please. I’ll say this again, politely. Please put a sock in the exploring-the-emotions-of-cartoon-characters part of your darling, kissable little mouth while I try to get us home safely. There are, like, fourteen freeway interchanges between us and home, buddy, and I think we’re gonna wind up in the wrong county if I don’t pay attention right now.

Ah, dammit, now we’re on the bridge.

Did you just ask why is there water? Because we’re on a bridge.

Why is it a bridge? Because I made a mistake.

Why did I make a mistake? Honey, mistakes are…

Tell you what. You take your purple crayon and think fast and soon we can be climbing aboard a trim little boat, too, and you can tell me why that makes you happy.
Because I’m all out of answers today, bug. I really am.

14 thoughts on “Ow! Not in the eye!

  1. Damn that Harold and his excellent, unexplainable drawing skills for one his age.

    (Awesome post, BTW. Sorry it had to come at the expense of your sanity. The best ones seem to though, don’t they?)

  2. Nice! “…there is a thin piece of precisely machined plastic wedged into the Why Is Harold with the Purple Crayon Happy When He Gets in the Boat part of my brain,” is MY quote to the day!

    • Harold has always been my favorite. There are puns, there is a healthy sense of humor, and it’s awesomely respectful of the magic of creativity. But my kid can make anything benign into a freak-fest of questions I simply cannot answer. This morning we walked past a truck. “Mommy, why it that a dump truck not a garbage truck?” Um, because it is? What the f-ck kind of question is that?

  3. Naptime, you’ll never guess how many times I use the old standby “because God made it that way.” Why can’t sharks breathe water?-After a five minute lesson on gills. I completely understand your pain. I haven’t actually seen a Harold book since I worked in a school. Perhaps I should get them . . . and then send all questions your way ;-)

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  5. Heavens to Betsy, this was a great post to read! While I have not recently been in this particular situation, I have BEEN here if you get my drift. I really appreciate the creative swearing—a valuable skill for all mothers to have!! And then pulling it all back to that darn Harold. Could you ask your child to explain the fascination with The Boringstein Bears too? Thanks!

    • Thanks for stopping by. Glad you like the swearing, for I couldn’t function without it. I spare the children such language, but need the blog to absorb all my terrible venomous cursing.

      Oh, my, I’m not sure anyone can explain a fascination with the Moralistic and There Is Only One Way to See How Terrible Children Are Bears. They are Boringtastic.

  6. This is an awesome post!I have come across so many great writers since joining LALB. I really enjoyed your sense of humor, your phrasing etc.. I will definitely be following naptime writing – can’t wait until my little one naps so I can stalk more of your posts. What a fun read.

    • Thanks so much, Sheri. There are several greatest hits posts on the right sidebar. Peanut’s quite a character. Hope you enjoy reading more about him. And good luck with the naps. Ours aren’t regular or predictable, but when they come, Mama has a lot of writing to do. ;-)

  7. I tried not to laugh, because laughing seems cruel, but really, you told this with such sarcasm and snark, I couldn’t help but laugh. Great story-telling!

    Also, I have had my contact get lost somewhere behind my eyes before while driving. Scary thing!

    Thanks for sharing this with the Lightning and the Lightning Bug!

    • Thanks for visiting, Katie! Thanks, too, for the kind words. I can’t help but layer the sarcasm thickly onto everything I write…it’s what gets me through the day.

      The contact thing freaked me out until I realized, really, I can drive with one eye until we’re home. But not navigating interchanges and afternoon sun and the barrage of Why Why Whys that I usually love.

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