Saturday, October 24, 2009


TO: Monkey Man

FROM: Your Mother

DATE: October 23, 2009

RE: Your Sleeping Habits

As per this past week’s wake-up schedule, I am ordering you to sleep later. We’ve had several discussions about your readiness to take on the day at 5:30, and after ignoring my 5 requests, I’m making demands. You are not a 4 week-old with a tiny belly unable to hold more than 3 hours worth of food. You are 4.7 years-old and completely capable of waiting until the sun rises to start screaming at me that, “I want waffles. No, I want oatmeal. No, no, waffles. I want to play the Wii. I want to put on my Luke Skywalker costume.”

You wonder why your mother is a cranky bitch in the morning? It’s because mornings and I already don’t get along very nicely, and then we add in your very cute, but constant chatter. I don’t enjoy the simple sound of your father’s breathing in the morning, let alone questions like, “Do you think a tiger or a shark would hurt worser? Who’s older, you or daddy? Is a spaceship faster than a car? Do I have swimming class the day after tomorrow or the day after the day after tomorrow?” It’s just exhausting.

You will be 13 in just 8 ½ years. I am fully expecting on the day you enter your tumultuous teen years, you will sleep until noon. I dream about that day, the day when I, too, can actually enjoy a Saturday morning in bed. Without some Disney or PBS show on in an attempt to keep you quiet. I will not be that mom who yells at you to rise and shine and start your day. Nope, no worries there, Monkey Man. I will be in the next room in sweet, Saturday morning slumber, enjoying every minute getting back the sleep you’ve stolen from me since that precious day you were born.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

They're Not Called Bunny's Best Friend for a Reason

A few weeks ago, hubby almost mowed over three baby bunnies that were in a nest burrowed into our backyard. He came into the house telling me about his find and that he’d almost taken their lives on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Upon hearing the lawnmower, one of the bunnies jumped out of the hole and made itself known. “Yo, buddy! What the frig? We’re like 5 days old. Cut the freakin’ mower already,” the bunny seemed to say. This bunny was clearly born in NJ.

Hubby reassured me that the bunnies were all fine and we took Monkey Man out into the yard for a real-life lesson in bunnies living in our backyard. Whatever that means. How the hell do you take care of wild bunnies?

We stayed out in the backyard for a while with the bunnies, as the three siblings curled into one another. Even though we had no clue what to do for them, we enjoyed sharing the time with Monkey Man and letting him experience a little piece of nature in sub-plot suburbia. Each time we visited over the next 2 days, we never let our dog, Walt, out with us so that we did not draw his attention to their nest.

On Monday, I arrived home from work to a frantic Monkey Man yelling to me from the backyard. He was in the yard with hubby’s parents and Walt. Hubby’s parents and Walt, all huddled near the nest.

“MOMMMMMMYYYY! Walt’s eating the bunny! He’s got one in his mouth!”

I started screaming at Walt to drop the bunny. No yelling in the world would make Walt drop that poor, sweet rabbit. That bunny was to Walt what the chocolate variety is to me on Easter morning. Ain’t no letting go of the bunny. He practically swallowed him whole. As I stood far away gagging and convulsing (I can’t even see road kill on the street, I begin to shake and I even close my eyes while driving the car) my father-in-law proceeded to tell me in front of Monkey Man that Walt ate all of the bunnies.

Now, Monkey Man was only clued in to the assault and murder of one bunny. I “shushed” my FIL so as to protect Monkey Man from the evil, heinous crimes of his dog. Wasn’t it enough that he already knew that Walt chewed the life out of one? Did he really have to know that the dog was a serial killer and his M.O. was clearly cute, infantile rabbits with velveteen fur?

“Mommy, there are no more bunnies in the nest,” Monkey Man stated matter-of-fact, blue eyes wide waiting for me to give him an explanation.

I delivered. My brilliant reply, so as to protect my child from the harsh realities of life and the cruelty of his wild dog that sleeps in our house, was “The other two hopped away. They got scared and got the hell out of Dodge before Cujo here could enjoy them for dessert.”

Really, Walt. Enough with the life lessons.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Heaven Forbid!

Monkey Man: "Why can't we get a cat?"
Me: "Because I'm very allergic to them. We will never have a cat in this house."
Monkey Man: "Can I get a cat when you go to Heaven and I'm with daddy?"

Okay, let me stop here. Before you think there is something wrong and I'm sick, I am not. If I didn't have 9 bajillion conversations with Monkey Man already about Heaven, this statement might have caused me panic. Like, seriously kid, do you know something I don't? Do you have some creepy, clairvoyant bizarre kid in a horror movie thing going on? Because I totally love that in a horror movie, but not sitting next to me on my couch. Monkey Man has asked us a lot about Heaven since his great grandma passed away last November, so I knew where this was coming from. So my simple answer was:

"Yes, you can get one when you're with daddy." It'll be one less thing I'll have to deal with.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Mother Nature is a Bully

Something is going on outside which makes me want to meet up with Mother Nature at 3 p.m. on the playground tomorrow and give her a little piece of my mind - It is snowing. On October 15. And I don’t live in Wisconsin, North Dakota, or Antarctica. I live in Northern New Jersey, and although it may not be the balmiest of places in October, it does not snow. I repeat. It DOES NOT SNOW. I do not enjoy cold weather during the real winter. It's not so much the snow that bothers me, but the cold weather that makes it scientifically possible for it to snow.

Because of this cruel joke that the bitch is playing, Monkey Man is insisting that Christmas is just ‘round the corner. He is sitting on the couch looking out the window as I type asking me to go outside and have a snowball fight. A snowball fight with all ¼ of an inch that is on the ground.

Monkey Man: “Mommy, is Santa coming? I want Santa to come!”
Mommy: “No, it’s not Christmastime yet.”
Monkey Man: “But it’s snowing! Santa comes when it’s snowing.”

He does not understand yet that we just “celebrated” (i.e. enjoyed a nice day off from work) the fact that Columbus supposedly discovered this country. For God’s sake, the freakin’ Great Pumpkin hasn’t even showed up yet.

Mother Nature, you ripped this summer from our hands and gave us 50 degrees in June and 60 degrees in July. I have one simple request, Mother Nature. Cut the crap.