Word on the street is that I’m mean. Former employers, current clients, friends, and Spouse haven’t heard this rumor yet, but it’s burning like wildfire through the living room.
The constant accusations from my six-year-old are that I’m mean, not fair, and stupid.
The latte I won’t stand for. He hears, “We don’t say that word. It hurts. You may not call me names.”
The other two, though, get operatic replies.
“You’re being mean, Mom.”
Mom, you’re mean
Mom, you’re mean
Mom I can’t bear anymore of this scene.
Mom you’re a brute
Mom you’re so rude
Mom if I ask nicely will you get me some food!
But nay she won’t feed me
And nay she won’t need me
To clean up, for she gives me no toys!
My mom she deprives me
And yes, she derides me
Cuz my mom she is so mean.
The lyrics change each time, but the tune is always catchy with a bit of melancholy. In the song I note how I’m mean for giving him nothing, doing nothinbg, never listening, and making untenable rules.
It’s the rules, after all, that are rendering his life unlivable.
“Mommmmm. You’re not being fair.”
[singing softly] Mom is not fair
Mom doesn’t care
Mom drags me around
The house by my hair!
Mom is so cold
And yes, even bold
As to walk around making
The rules though she’s old!
Mom gives much more
To everyone at the store
Than even to her dear sweet son!
My mom is so bad
It makes me so sad
That I think I’ll get a new one.
The first-grader doesn’t like the fair songs either, though the two-year-old seems to.
I’m sick to death of the word mean. I’m tired of avoiding the “life’s not fair” lecture. I would much prefer a cogent list of grievances and demands so I can carefully consider them and reject them.
Because I’m mean. And not fair.