Do you feel like you never really struggled with anger until you became a parent?

Do you feel like you struggle DAILY with anger now that you are a parent?

Are you a mama?*

This one's for you.

*Not that papas don't struggle with anger - it's just this one is focused on mothers specifically, you'll see why if you read the fucking post already.




Mad Moms:
An Origin Story Hypothesis
in 5 Parts


Part I: The Workbook

damn
that font is
aggressive

I bought an anger management workbook.

Honestly, I'm a little embarrassed it took me so long to put it together... I was like AAAAAH WHY AM I SO ANGRY and also AAAAAAH I LOVE WORKBOOKS SO MUCH, and then one day it was like God/Bezos himself touched my shoulder and/or smacked the back of my head open-handed and said "Girl you know there are workbooks about managing anger, right? That's why I made Amazon.com for you, my child.  #FreeSameDayShipping #MyMiracle #YoureWelcome."

The first paragraph in that book pulls no punches:



People who struggle with chronic anger are in unbearable pain.
The way you know their pain is unbearable is because they do not bear that pain.
They get angry instead.

In the next chapter I learned that an anger response is made up of two parts:
First, pain.
Second, a trigger.

This makes sense. A person can be in pain for a really fucking long time and just stew in it until somebody cracks the lid on that stew pot and shit goes down.

Think about the last time you really really really had to pee, and you were like I can do it we're almost home... now we're home... almost there... almost gonna pee... just peed a little but these pants are black so I'm good.. still okay... then your kid slapped you in the face/said "Mommy" real loud/walked slowly to the house/paused to pick a flower for you and you FREAKED OUT. And then afterward you were like "Wow, I really overreacted, that was weird."

Or think about the last time you were putting your kids in the car and they were acting like a pair of damn fools and you were like I can do this... I love my children... I love their spirits... This is a phase... I am not a terrible mother... until you heard someone mutter, "Control your kids, lady," and then your kid slapped you in the face/said "Mommy" real loud/flung his shoe across the parking lot/asked you for a kiss and you FREAKED OUT. And then afterward you were like "Wow, I really overreacted, that was weird... although that lady was a bitch," and your kids were like, "that lady was a bitch!" And then you cracked the windows and got out of the car to retrace your life choices.

People who struggle with anger are in pain.
The trigger gives you permission to express that pain as anger.
Anger = Pain + Trigger.


Part II: The Mothers




Many women I know never struggled with anger until they had kids. But once they had kids they struggle daily with anger - unprecedented crashing waves of anger. (This is purely anecdotal, maybe I just know a lot of high-tide types.)

We're tempted to blame the kids for the anger. The timeline matches up. And, yes, kids are a lifetime of aggravation.

For example! Think about kids who have FOR YEARS wanted their Sunday pancakes cut into bite-sized pieces and smothered generously in syrup. But today without warning changed their minds and suddenly wanted their pancakes cut into dipping strips with a bowl of syrup on the side so when you serve them what you think is going to be a slam-dunk no-conflict breakfast, you discover in the amount of time it takes for your kids to inhale and start wailing that you have just literally murdered their dreams. And you have to make the choice between exerting the physical labor to whip up a second batch of pancakes, or exerting the emotional labor to either try to convince your child to eat the fucking pancakes OR to sit stone-faced at the table and try to ignore the screaming meltdown over the now-cold and soggy bite-sized pancake breakfast that you thought "sounded nice" only an hour earlier...

When mothers wake up in the morning, they know that they have better-than-even odds of breakfast being stressful enough to crack the Dalai Lama.

But I don't think it's just the kids - some family members are a lifetime of aggravation, too. So are house cats, small dogs, hemorrhoids, close-talkers, bus pervs, sunny days when you forget your sunglasses, and birds that fall under the "rats with wings" genus.

There's more to it than just "I have kids now."

These women feel afraid of their anger - it's powerful, uncontrollable, shameful, and happens all the time, or at least a lot more than it ever used to. (Wait, am I describing anger or adult-onset lactose intolerance?)

No, but seriously, for so many of us our anger swims up to the surface, this muscular, toothy, invisible threat, and it just lives there. It happens as we become parents. But it's not just the kids.



Part III. The Pain



The experience of becoming a mother is transformative - at first I typed the word "traumatic," but then I remembered that some people don't consider becoming a parent "traumatic." But most of us can agree that becoming a parent is transformative.

Transformation is a two-part process:
First, destruction.
Second, creation.

Transformative experiences necessarily require either partial or complete death of your previous self.
The caterpillar gets got in order to grow wings, and you know growing wings has got to hurt.

Grief is a factor.  Fear is a factor. Uncertainty is a factor. You've never been this thing before.

There is pain in transformation and I'm not just talking about the stitches in your lady grundle.
There is pain in becoming a parent and I'm not just talking about physical pain (although you haven't lived/barfed until someone takes a running leap and lands knees-first in your crotch.)

There is cataclysmic emotional pain in becoming a parent.

If you're already a parent, I'm guessing you can relate to many if not most of these experiences:

- seeing people leave the house with only a wallet in their hands and feeling crushed by the logistical and material burden of your baby

- "liking" pictures of your college friends on a bike trip through France at 2:00 am while the baby nurses and you smell like milk and B.O.

- performing the Heimlich maneuver on your silent, open-mouthed child

- watching your child approach another child on the playground, ask "Can I play?" and get rejected

- trying to answer the question, "Will you ever die, Mommy?"

- looking across the table at your partner and realizing you have no idea what he does at work all day

- looking in the mirror at yourself and thinking, "damn, I've gotta get a membership to... something. A smoothie service. Or Barre. Or... church..."

- catching a look that passed between two other parents, about your kid

- making small talk at a social function and answering the question, "So what do you do?" and seeing the other person's face glaze over as he/she looks for a more interesting person to talk to

If you're not yet a parent consider this your warning: you WILL have an existential crisis at some point during the child's first year.  You WILL be devastated by the irreversible passage of time. You WILL grieve the life you used to have, and you will come to accept that it will never be resurrected.

You WILL be wounded when the love that you have for your baby cracks open and blooms into the love you have for your toddler which is gorgeous but grown from the wound where you cracked, nevertheless.

Sometimes you'll look at your child and want to cry because you love him so fucking much and know the person he was is gone, and you know this person will be gone soon too, and before you know it he'll be jerking off in the good towels and hiding his bong in a hollow hardback Wizard of Oz, and you'll look at him that day and want to cry because you love him so fucking much and you know the person he was is gone, and you know this person will be gone soon too and sometimes you'll go into his empty room and smell his pillow because your heart is just fucking broken open with so much fucking love... it's painful, okay?

It hurts to love them so much.

That pain is new to parents. Maybe that pain, and the new triggers of whining sounds and shit smells and someone always touching you and soaring to new heights of exposure to other people's bodily fluids, maybe that's enough to jack us up into unprecedented rage.

But I think there might be even more. See, the anger doesn't feel new. Not to me.

It feels as old as I am. It feels like it's always been there.


PART IV: The Other Pain
these are actually not that bad
you know
for a shoe that completely distorts
both the shape of a human foot
and the way a body was meant to move through space
plus
they're super cute

There is pain in the daily experience of being female.

Keep reading, gents. This one is going feminist and you have to get on board the train or...  nope, actually, there is no "or. " You have to get on board the train.

There is pain in being a sexual object before you are sexually empowered. Think of baby turtles in the vast ocean - soft, tasty morsels without the hard shells they'll need to survive. There's pain in being catcalled as a child, in being shunned by other girls for growing breasts before they do, in smiling at disgusting jokes because the other option is to start a fight with someone bigger and louder than you are. There is pain in knowing your relative size, and weakness.

You know the conventional wisdom that tells you, knowingly, that "the first time hurts a little"? Translation: there is pain in sex. There is pain in being the one who MUST go to Planned Parenthood for birth control or the morning-after pill (whereas your partner can go to Planned Parenthood or Taco Bell, either's good, because whether he puts a penis, Plan B, or a Gordita Baja in his body, Josh is not going to find himself ticking off days in his calendar in 3 weeks, wondering if he will still be able to graduate college.)

There is pain in trying to be seen as an equal. There is pain in not being called on in class. There is pain in knowing that you have to try. There's pain in going to a church where only men stand as elders, in looking around at all the women in the pews. There's pain in speaking to men and seeing yourself ignored. There is pain when someone meets my husband and me and shakes his hand but not mine.

I can only speak to my experience of being a girl and a woman, but I can tell you that I was made to feel most valuable when I was pleasing, easy, sparkling and inconsequential.

What the world most values about me is at odds with what I most value about myself, and there is deep pain in that. Because it means that either the world and the people I love in the world are wrong (which is scary and lonely) or I am wrong (which is the definition of shame.)

Consider how much pain there is, even in this woman's first-world life - honestly, a few sketchy hookups and shitty microaggressions here and there do not make me Malala.

And then consider the woman you are, the women you love, the woman you're raising. She hurts too. These things and others like them hurt her. We are in pain. Even if we brush it off or minimize it because we're not "whiners" or into "playing the victim," we are in pain.


Part V: The Trigger




Remember the formula for anger - pain, trigger. It's easy to recognize that formula in the demands of a regular day - everyday pain, everyday triggers:

I have to pee, then he whines for milk.
My back hurts, then the pot boils over.
I look at myself in the mirror and I look like shit, then a full bowl of cereal drops off the edge of the table.

But what about the bigger pain - the chronic pain of love, the deep pain of mismatching your world?

Are there bigger triggers to match this bigger, deeper pain? Is that what causes the flood?

A trigger works by giving you permission to express - literally, to push out - the feelings that have been churning inside. What if simply becoming a parent - the experience of cracking open both literally and figuratively - was the trigger that cracked open your own lifetime of pain, and the lifetime of pain you know is coming, as you watch your child grow up and transform - destruction, creation, destruction, creation... until the end.

I TOLD you that you'd have an existential crisis.

So that's my hypothesis and I'm going to rewrite it without the question marks:

We struggle with anger (which consists of both pain and a trigger) when we become parents for two primary reasons: first, because parenthood is intrinsically painful and exhausting in everyday ways, and it depletes our ability to control our emotional responses; and more broadly, because parents are complete human beings who bring a lifetime of pain into the experience of parenting, and because becoming a parent is uniquely transformative, painful, and is in itself a profoundly powerful trigger for the full expression of emotions, both joyful and terrible, which makes it really fucking hard to smile at bullshit anymore.

___


This is one backseat blogger's opinion, based on one pretty sweet workbook and the self-awareness that can only be achieved with the combination of a lifetime of therapy and a theatre degree.

This made sense to me.

I just had the strangest instinct to end this post with the words "I love you."
I guess, if you read this far, I do.

(ugh sorry hippie alert)

I'm really torn.

I feel like I'm standing at a crossroads.

The stakes have never been higher.

My son's futures - and maybe even the future of society - are at stake.

Consent is nonnegotiable - My top priority as a parent is to raise sons who respect themselves and ALL others. In our home, when someone says "STOP," I want the response to be instinctive, drilled in, incontrovertible. Stop. Not giggling. Not joking. Not "I know he didn't mean that." Just stop.

Buuuuuut on the other hand, this morning I discovered that this conversation could be part of my daily life:

Buster: STOP!
Chicken: Collaborate and listen!

AW SHIT Y'ALL. With three little words, my world just blew wide open.

Do I raise nice, nice babies or ice, ice babies?

Do I raise men who hold women in high regard, or men whose high top and fade is the stuff of 90's legend?

Are my grown-ass sons going to be like, "If there's a problem, yo I'll solve it," or "If there's a problem, yo I am happy to help if you ask, but I believe that you are just as capable of solving it as I am, because girl, I'm not a plumber either."

Do I want my sons to have a vibe that says, "I respect you," or "Will I ever stop? Yo, you don't know."

Do I want Chicken to be like, "Deadly, when I play a dope melody," or "Creepy, when I dope your appletini."

Will Buster be like, "Girlies on standby, waving just to say hi... and tell you to smile because society has programmed me to think I'm entitled to your attention," OR will he be like "Flying to Duluth on standby, waving just to say hi... because we went to high school together and I can't believe I'm running into you at the airport! So what have you been up to?"

(Runner-up for that last one: "Flying to Duluth on standby, waving just to say hi... excuse me, you dropped your wallet, here it is, have a nice day and I won't try to hug you.")


i'm on a roll
and it's time to go solo
rollin in my 5.0
with my ragtop down
so my hair can blow
the patriarchy's fucking mind


"something
grabs ahold of me tightly"
OR
"someone
asked if he could grab ahold of me tightly
and i thought about it
and then i said "no
i am not comfortable with that"
and he said
"okay
do you want to go get a coffee instead"
and i said
"yes
that sounds nice"


#WordToYourMother



Me: Do you know how much I love you, baby?

Chicken: How much?

Me: A million bajillion.

Chicken: Woah, really?

Me: Actually it might even be more than that.

Chicken: Like thirty? Like thirty million thousand?

Me: More!

Chicken: What about this: seven hundred million ten thousand?

Me: EVEN MORE!

Chicken: More?

Me: MORE! 

Chicken: I don't know if I can count that high!

Me: Me neither, baby, but that's how much I love you!!! More than all the numbers in the world!!!!

Chicken: Wow! More than the stars in the sky?

Me: YES! MORE!!

Chicken: More than all the apples in all the trees in all the worlds?

Me: YES YES YES!!! SO MUCH MORE THAN THAT!!!!

Chicken: MOMMY!!!

Me: YES BABY!!!!

Chicken: Will you count to a thousand right now?

Me: Nope.




water
so good for you
so good for your skin
so good for your energy
so good for your
OHMYGODIHAVETOPEEAGAIN


I tried "staying hydrated" for about a week, but I had to stop.

I simply could not deal with the consequences of drinking water.

I have a list of things that demand my attention every hour, and gosh, bladder, I'm sorry to say that we don't have any slots available for you at this time.

Until 45 gets booted, a cloaked sorceress bewitches my dishes to watch themselves, or one of the kids learns how to match socks and/or not hit people, you're going to have to take a number, good sir pee bag.



The problem with peeing is that it must be batched in a timely fashion. Peeing is not like folding laundry or reading the book club book, activities that you can kind of save up until you've got a good hour to settle in with them. If I could store up all my pee and just tap the tank for a solid 15 minutes at the end of the day I would hydrate like a motherfucker.

No, when you're hydrated you have to stop what you're doing... to go pee... ALL. THE. TIME.

If peeing this much is healthy, then just call me Nicolas Cage from Leaving Las Vegas.


For a person whose shower habits are "one time, for 45 minutes, every 7-10 days," I discovered that it is not possible to build the time into my schedule to pee, like, eleven times a day.

How are people doing this?

Do your children not throw open stall doors in public restrooms right when you stand to pull up your pants,  at the exact moment that someone else has opened the bathroom door which is conveniently placed directly in front of your stall door which is also now open so the guy buying four cases of Bud Light, a tub of Kroger brand petroleum jelly, and a Hungry Man gets a bonus full-frontal at the exact moment your vagina is no longer blocked from view by your kneecaps?

Do your children not regress to crawling on the floor in public restrooms despite having mastered the technical process of "walking on feet that are covered in shoes so as to prevent invisible pee particles of thousands of strangers from collecting in the finger creases on the hands you will shortly be rubbing all over my face" LITERALLY YEARS AGO?

When at home do your children not play calmly and lovingly together until you get up to pee, and then immediately peel their faces back to reveal the gray slime-covered alien tooth-monsters that lurk beneath their petal-pink skin, just waiting for the chance to strike?

I mean, you're reading words typed by a girl who has actually peed on her own hand wiping too early, because I HAD TO GET BACK OUT THERE. Not just once. A BUNCH of times.

Are my kids the only ones who do this???

(Side note: Should I start a parenting class called, "Don't worry: Your kids (probably) aren't the only ones who do this"?)

Anywho, that's why I cry salt crystals and pee bouillon cubes.

xoxo

Gossip Girl



Dear Valentine,

I’m not going to lie
and say it’s easy
to love you.

You are a real
prickly pain in the ass
sometimes.

You’re stubborn
and snappish.
You’re always sneaking treats.

You run away
and build a wall
of busyness and noise

when you should stay
and talk about your hurt feelings.
What’s wrong with you?

You run so hot, all day, all night.
It feels like you don’t ever slow down
just to be with me. I miss you.

You always tell me
when I’ve done something
wrong, when I’ve forgotten.

You tell me all the time:
The house isn’t very clean.
I’m out of socks again.
What do you do all day long?

And I’ll tell you something else,
you could really be nicer to me.
Despite everything, I do love you.

So you don’t have to
call me names
like stupid

mean
worst
person ever.

You don’t have to
make those sounds when I’m getting dressed for a movie –
blech

ugh
yuck
no.

That really hurts my feelings.
It makes me feel alone, worthless,
so unlovable.

You could really give me more time
to eat
breakfast.

You could let me finish writing this letter
before calling me, urgently,
to some other need you have –

What! A snack?
What! You’re sad?
Ugh, I was writing. Please let me write.

Hey, you could listen to me more
when I say I’m hungry.
I’m sad. I'm telling you because it matters.

I need you to listen to me
when I’m rattling hangers
and sighing heavy sighs and it’s an hour until the movie starts.

Listen to what I’m not saying
as I stand in a bra and unzipped jeans,
thinking about how I used to be,

and respond to that:
It doesn’t matter what you wear.
Your worth isn’t in your appearance.
You are wonderful, just like this.

Listen to me when I say
that a treat, in the quiet room alone,
would really make my day.
Take your time, love.

Listen to me:
I like to be busy.
I’m proud of the work I do.
I’m proud of you, too.

LISTEN!
If I did nothing else all day and night
I could keep the house clean and the sock drawers full.
But I do a lot more than that,
so I don't keep the house clean, but we don't mice,
and the sock drawers aren't full,
but when have ever not had socks?
You're right. Thank you.

Listen,
I need space and time
before I can talk
about my hurt feelings.
There's nothing wrong with that. I'll be here.

You could be nicer to me.
You could listen.
You prickly pain in the ass.

I know.
I’m sorry.
I’ll try.

Loving you, Katie?
It isn’t easy.

I’m not going to lie.

After all,
I love you.
And you
are pretty fucking good too.

it's the valentine's day equivalent
of looking into
a broken mirror
#selfieinaballoon
#whoami



Checking out at Target.

I'm in the semi-fugue state that all mothers reach at some point while shopping with young children. I'm acknowledging any sound that comes out of my children's mouths, making vague affirmative sounds like "Ohhhh!" and "Mmm hmmm," all the while calculating how long until I can get another coffee/having an existential crisis.

sometimes
when i look at the deep
red
center of the bullseye
i feel like alice
plummeting through time
and space
oh  mr. raaaaabbit
we're going to be late

down the rabbit hole we go
to wonderland
where nothing is what it is
and everything is what it isn't
wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Jeremy is ringing us up. Jeremy has a lot of information to offer me on which forms of ID are best for international air travel with children. I did not initiate this conversation. I have no plans to travel internationally with my children. Jeremy just started talking. Jeremy just became dead to me/a third child to me, and I respond to him with the same vacant "mmm" and "oh uh huh" sounds that the kids have been getting for the last two minutes.

Both Jeremy and the children take these sounds to mean they should absolutely continue doing the things they are doing, only louder and with more intensity. 

Jeremy: Typically, the standard-issue Washington driver's license has been acceptable for most domestic travel--

Me: Mm hmm...

Chicken: MOM I SEE A DINOSAUR!

Me: Oooohhh!

Buster: DINO-RAAAAAAAR!

Jeremy: -- enhanced driver's licenses are more expensive, sure, but in the long run you have to ask yourself what your time is worth, especially since my uncle told me that they're going to start phasing out state-issued--

Me: Wow. Yeah.

Buster: CAN I HAVE A LOT? MOM CAN I HAVE A LOT OF PRETZELS?

Me: Hmmmm.

Chicken: I WANT A LOT OF PRETZELS TOO!

Jeremy: -- but the problem with the passport card is of course the cost per use, not to mention it's easier to misplace--

Me: Sure, sure, that makes sense. Oh, I don't need a receipt. Thank you! OK boys, say bye bye!

I start to push the cart away from the checkstand. 

Chicken: BYE PENIS!

Buster: BYE PENIS!

Me: (vacantly) Bye penis!

I realize what I just said.

Me: Wait, who are you talking to?

Chicken: To the PENIS!

Buster: YEAH! PENIS!

Both their hands point straight at Jeremy, whose face has turned bright red as he begins to ring up the next person in line.

Me: Oh. Oh no. Hey, listen up guys.

Chicken: YEAH LISTEN UP PENIS!

Buster: PENIS!

I put my face really close to their faces. They know the closer I get the more serious I am. Well, Chicken knows. Buster just wants to pick my nose.

Me: Penis is a -- Buster, no thank you -- perfectly great word to use when -- stop it, Buster -- you're talking about your body with someone you know and -- BUSTER, cut it out -- love and trust. But penis is NOT an okay word to use with strangers, or to call somebody.

Chicken: Oh.

Buster: Penis!

He waves at Jeremy.

Me: His name is Jeremy. He works here. He deserves our kindness and respect.

Chicken: But... what if he were a penis?

Me: But he IS NOT a penis. He's a person.

Chicken: A person with a penis, though, right?

Me: I don't know and that's none of our business. Penises are private body parts that are not okay to talk about with strangers.

Buster: Strangers?

Chicken: Yeah, Buster, strangers are people we don't know.

Me: That's right. And do we know him?

Buster: No.

Chicken: Yes!

Me: NO! We don't.

Chicken: That's Jeremy. He works here.

Me: OK, yes, we know him a tiny bit, but we don't know him enough to talk about penises with him, and we definitely don't know him well enough to CALL him a penis.

Chicken: Who do we know well enough to call a penis?

Buster: Me! Me! ME ME ME!!!

He shoots his hand straight up in the air and waves it around like a crazed Price is Right contestant.

Chicken: You're penis.

Buster smiles, pats himself on the belly, and says,

Buster: I am penis.

Me: That's totally fine with me.
Because I am not a wizard, my sons take naps/afternoon quiet time in separate rooms across the hall from each other. 

 


On Monday, I could hear them whispering to each other, and occasionally kicking their respective doors in what I can only assume was a rudimentary morse code. Whenever I'd walk down the hall they'd fall silent and wait for the sound of my footsteps retreating before they'd start talking again.

I had no choice but to change up the guard schedule to throw them off, and try slithering down the hall on my belly so as to avoid making footstep sounds. (It didn't work. We have creaky floors.)

I then had no choice but to imagine the exchange.

Buster: Pssst... Chicken? Chicken? Are you there?

Chicken: Buster!

Buster: Oh thank God! I couldn't see anything... all I heard was the sound of the door opening, and then, those terrible footsteps, echoing back down the hall.

Chicken: I'm here. I'm here. Are you okay?

Buster: I'm okay. Are you okay?

Chicken: I don't know. She... she said no water for me today.

Buster: Oh God... OH GOD NO

Chicken: I mean, I had water with lunch. Sparkling water, actually. I got to squeeze the lime wedge too.

Buster: Oh.

Chicken: But she said NO water in here.

Buster: Did you do something to provoke her?

Chicken: I dunno... something about "Last time you dumped it all over the bedside table and floor, and danced in the puddle, and it got the iPhone charger really wet and it didn't work for a week."

Buster: (taking notes) Operation Riverdance successfully hobbled communications capability for one week, but resulted in severe fluid deprivation for the operative responsible--

Chicken: Shhh! I think she's coming...

They hear footsteps coming down the hall... the footsteps stop. They wait.

Buster: Chick--

Chicken: SHHHH!

Chicken kicks the door three times. 

Buster kicks his door back twice, but with both feet.

They wait.

After a silent moment, the footsteps retreat, back toward the kitchen.

Chicken: We don't have much time.

No sound comes from Buster.

Chicken: Buster? BUSTER!

Buster: Mm? Herm? Wha? I--

Chicken: Did you fall asleep?

Buster: What? No! Well... yes.

Chicken: BUSTER.

Buster: She turned on the ocean sounds.

Chicken: Buster, what have I told you?

Buster: Yeah, but she stroked my hair across my forehead and--

Chicken: And let me guess... the room is dark, and the bed has smooth flannel sheets, and it's just cool enough in there that when she tucks the fluffy duvet up under your chin you sigh involuntarily with the sheer pleasure of the weight and warmth of the covers, even as the cool air kisses your cheeks?

Buster: Mm hmmm.... (creaky yawning sounds)

Chicken: SNAP OUT OF IT BUSTER. You're playing right into her hands!

Buster: You're right. You're right. I know you're right.

Chicken: We are not dealing with your run-of-the-mill baddie here.

Buster: What's run of the mill?

Chicken: No, we're dealing with something far more sinister.

Buster: Is run of the mill a snack?

Chicken: NO it means normal. Which she ISN'T. What, do you think she threw me in here, into a puddle of old rat piss on a cold cement floor? No, man. She's too smart for that shit. She tucked me into a sumptuous bed, too. She flipped my pillow to the cool side, pulled the soft covers up around my shoulders, and handed me my favorite book. She told me to, "Have a nice rest, SWEETHEART."

Buster: She is a monster.

Chicken: You gotta stay focused buddy. That cell is engineered to put you DOWN. And we CANNOT GO DOWN.

Buster: YEAH! WE CANNOT GO DOWN! Why can't we go down?

Chicken: (sigh)

Buster: It just feels so right... I'm getting grumpy... and the pillow is squishy... and my head feels so funny... and the ocean sounds...

Chicken: Buster, when you go to sleep, do you know what happens?

Buster: Laundry. It's laundry, right? I'm out of jam jams again right now but somehow there are always jam-jams at bedtime.

Chicken: No, buddy. I'm gonna let you in on a secret that NOBODY knows but us and the kid who DIED getting me this intel.

Buster: What's died?

Chicken: Ask Mommy. Here's what happens...the second we fall asleep, she knocks quietly on the door and whispers "Anyone who is awake can have a warm brownie ice cream sundae with three kinds of sprinkles and whipped cream!"

Buster: WHAT.

Chicken: AND the second after that first second, she says, "Also, if anyone is still awake, all of the awake people can eat gummy bears and make a spider web in the play room out of every roll of toilet paper in the house and then watch every Paw Patrol ever made for ever and the only thing I will say when one episode ends and you're waiting for the next one to start is "DO YOU WANT MORE POPCORN OR WOULD YOU RATHER SWITCH TO PIRATE'S BOOTY."

Buster: (gasp)

Chicken: She tells us we "need" to "rest," to keep our "bodies" "healthy" and "have" a "good" "afternoon." But make no mistake, she has an endgame. And that endgame is...

Buster: (whispering, horrified) To eat all the Pirate's Booty?

Chicken: To eat. All. The Pirate's Booty.

Buster: (muffled sobs)

Chicken: She's a MONSTER.

Buster: Is she eating it now?

Chicken: I don't know. Maybe. Probably.

Buster: I'm gonna destroy her.

Chicken: That's the spirit.

Buster: I'm gonna BREAK HER PHONE.

Chicken: Atta boy, Buster.

Buster: Chicken... I'm getting that feeling.

Chicken: Yeah, man.

Buster: The feeling where I've got a thing I need to do.

Chicken: Yep.

Buster: I've got an idea. And I HAVE to do my idea.

Chicken: I remember that feeling. I used to have it a lot before I learned about consequences.

Buster: Consewhatsis?

Chicken: You'll learn, brother. What's your thing?

Buster: I HAVE TO push my bed over to the tall dresser where the lamp and the ocean sounds machine and the clock and the bowl of binkies are and I MUST climb up onto the tall dresser and then I AM COMPELLED BY INVISIBLE FORCES to UNPLUG ALL OF THE DEVICES and THROW EVERYTHING ON THE GROUND.

Chicken: I salute you. But prepare yourself, comrade. When she hears the crash from the stuff you've thrown off the dresser, she's gonna come barreling down the hall like a mother who thinks her child might be in danger. When she opens the door and sees what you've done, you're going to see all 6 of her feelings play across her face, one after the other: fear, anger, confusion, hysterical giggles, love, and tiredness. It's like spinning a roulette wheel - you don't know which one she's gonna land on. Could be hysterical giggles--

Buster: I know.

Chicken: COULD BE ANGER THOUGH, man. You're taking a big risk here.

Buster: I KNOW. But Chicken, what shall we do with our one wild and precious lives? Give us Pirate's Booty or give us death!

Chicken: OK. While you're doing that, I'm just gonna snap the hooks off some velvet clothes hangers and then sit in her bed and crumble up this Ritz cracker I just found.

They hear footsteps coming down the hall. The footsteps turn into the bathroom. They hear the fan turn on.

Chicken: You have only 2 minutes to get the bed in position. Once the bed is under the dresser, kick the door seventeen to twenty times so I know you're in position, and then I will snap four clothes hangers so you know I'M in position.

Buster: Roger that. I'm moving.

screeeeeeeeeeeeeeee (sound of bed being pushed across hardwood floor)

running footsteps back to the door

THUD
THUD
THUD
THUD
THUD
THUD
THUD

Mom: BUSTER! Please stop kicking the door!

THUD
THUD
THUD
THUD
THUD
THUD
THUD

Mom: Buster, please, buddy? I'm just trying to take a quick poop here.

THUD
THUD
THUD

Mom. Thank you, B.

Chicken: (whispers) Godspeed, brother.

Snap
Snap
Snap
Snap

CRASH!