bit of a morning

Last night Buster and Chicken invented a new game.

One of them stands in the doorway of their bedroom holding a 5-foot-long stuffed caterpillar.
The other one runs back and forth in front of the doorway.
The lurker swings the caterpillar at the runner.

I have not yet determined what constitutes a win in this game.
Is there a point system? “5 points if you get him in the gut; 10 if he goes down.”
Is it like a rodeo where you just have to stay alive for a predetermined period of time?

Unclear.

What is clear is that, first of all, the caterpillar game resulted in not one but two horse chestnuts on Chicken’s forehead last night when he not only went down, but went headfirst into a door frame. Twice.
This morning he looks like Bambi when his antlers started to come in.

(OH QUICK NOTE, I ALREADY WROTE EVERYTHING AFTER THE DEER IMAGE ONCE
AND ACCIDENTALLY DELETED IT FOREVER
SO HERE WE ARE AGAIN.)

This morning, Buster wanted to play the caterpillar game again
so he came in swingin while Chicken was eating breakfast
and the caterpillar knocked a glass of chocolate milk
basically into the atmosphere
so it rained chocolate milk in the kitchen.

And there was a chocolate milk flash flood
on Chicken’s Pokemon library book,
which he'd been reading for a week nonstop.
On Saturday afternoon I watched him turn the last page,
sigh,
and turn back to the beginning, again.

Congratulations, us. Because we now own this Pokemon book,
which, by the way, is not just a book about Pokemon so much as it is
a guide of tips and hacks for navigating a Pokemon video game
which we do not own.
We don’t even own a video game console.

But there is no way I can return this cruchy-ass,
rippled-up book looking like a Dead Sea Scroll.

It’s fine. Chicken will curl up with this book
and spend his free time learning how to win
at a game he’ll never get a chance to play.
Welcome to the world, kid.

After 20 minutes of cleanup
I was back where I started, pouring a bowl of cereal
and a cup of milk for Chicken.
The only difference was the pile of towels in the hallway.
It’s Groundhog Day, but with laundry.

After breakfast it was time for Chicken to finish his Super Kid poster
which he didn't want to do

"Just pick three things you wish for Chicken."
"I have no wishes, Mom."
"You told me last night that you wish you had a dragon for a pet."
"Ungh."
"Do you wish thaaaaaaaat broccoli tasted like lemon pie?"
"Stop it."
"Do you wish it was your birthday every day?"
"NO BECAUSE THEN IT WOULDN'T BE SPECIAL AND I’D BE THREE HUNDRED AFTER JUST ONE YEAR. YOU ARE FREAKING ME OUT MOM."

After twenty minutes of his writhing and whining
I turned on a kid’s meditation called Secret Treehouse
and went to my room to get dressed in stretchy pants
and reflect upon the amount of money that I’d demand to be paid
for doing this job for any other person on Earth.
A Googillion. A Googillion dollars.

When I came back into the kitchen looking like Michael Douglas in Wonder Boys
if Wonder Boys had been costumed by the Gap,

Chicken told me he was nervous about sharing his poster with the class.

Part of me already knew that this wasn’t just about a poster,
and I had the unique delight of momentarily drowning
in a cocktail of feelings on feelings:

empathy for my nervous child;
frustration that he has all the grit when it comes to problem-solving things like
locked medicine chests or sheds I’ve told him he may not enter,
and zero grit when it comes to writing letters on a poster;
anger at myself for showing more frustration than empathy;
fear that I’d fucked this up real bad and Chicken would be a mess for the rest of the day;
hunger;
sleepiness;
had to pee.

I wanted to say “Oh, baby, you don’t have to do the poster,”
and also, “Oh for fuck’s sake.”
I couldn’t say either of those things.

I read him his teacher’s email:
when she wrote me to let me know that he’d be Super Kid,
she also said she knew he was nervous
and would help him share his poster with the class.

Chicken demanded to see the email to make sure I wasn't making it up.
Which was a good call
because I'm not above making up an email from the teacher, honestly.
If there hadn’t been an email and I’d had the time,
I FOR SURE would have created a new email address
and sent myself an email
”from her.”
And if you think that sounds like an awful lot of effort to put into deceiving your child,
then you’re great
but not great for me.
and I don’t think you want to read any more of my blog.
Luckily I didn’t have to go to Plan B because Chicken’s teacher is a legend
and she was on it.

Just then Buster dashed into the kitchen, took off his pants, and bolted back out.
Just then Chicken finally made a wish: For his own iPad.
"GREAT, WRITE IT DOWN.
BUSTER? WHAT’S UP BUDDY.”

Buster walked back into the kitchen in full Batman suit, his hands in fists,
and growled, “I’m Batman. Leave me alone in the dark.”
That kid’s method, y’all.

Chicken sat on my lap and I rubbed his back
and murmured soothing comforts to him while he made two more wishes:
To live at the beach, and to "just be me."

I folded up the poster and Chicken put it in his backpack.

Ah, victory.
Weird,
it tastes like acid reflux today.

Buster screamed HIYAAAAA IN YOUR BUTT from the play room.

Chicken screamed like he’d just discovered that Santa was real by stumbling over his decapitated corpse.

LOLSOB.