This is the perfect storm. This is the tornado hitting the used syringe emporium and germ warfare laboratory. This is the bus igniting into flames and crashing into an outdoor amphitheater during a ceremony honoring today’s orphans, veterans, and clowns. This is the Gary Busey episode of Dance Moms.
Wonderful, absolutely wonderful that my night to host book club happens to be the day the air conditioner stops working and my son, Max, runs out of his medication.
No, of course I didn’t read the chapter for this week. I don’t use this club as an excuse to read—I use it as an excuse to drink. Not that it wouldn’t matter anyways, Dana, that smug bitch with the moon face and the horse teeth, would just restate any opinion I gave as her own. She just loves to get off on thinking that people perceive her as intelligent.
Since the ladies walked in the door Max has been bouncing off the walls. No one is fooled by my feigned surprise and all-too-ready quips of “Max is usually very well-behaved,” or the liberal justification of “He’s such a free spirit who has a little trouble expressing himself,” or the flat denial of “I don’t know where Max learned the term ‘butt breath,’” or the old favorite and blatant lie of “He’s actually a very good student.”
Max won’t settle down and people are getting uncomfortable in this sweaty house. No one has directly called me a bad parent yet, but it’s definitely in their collective conscious. The one silver lining is that Max’s has effectively distracted everyone from my lackluster, grossly-warm cheese plate, which features varieties of string, Kraft American, and Easy.
He knows he can get away with whatever he wants when company’s over. It’s horribly shortsighted, but that’s his game. I try to instill fear and uncertainty in him, but he keep acting like a little poop. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell him “You will be severely punished later” or “Enjoy it now—Mommy’s only going to get angrier and drink more wine tonight,” he doesn’t learn. I think I may need to traumatize him to drive this lesson in.
We can’t avoid him this evening. No matter what I say or how I direct him, Max will make it painfully obvious that I am not in control of him. I’ll send him to the TV room and two minutes later he’ll be back informing everyone that his dinner tasted like “crap-flavored doody” or he’ll be playing a solo round of Hide and Scream, a game he invented that’s played exactly how you’d think it would be.
I thought I could put him to bed and he’d stay there, but five minutes later he’s at the top of the stairs claiming he barfed the bed. I check, discover no throw up, and return to the group. Again, ten minutes later, he appears at the top of the stairs claiming the same predicament. Skeptical, but not wanting to seem like a bad parent, I retreat upstairs and find a distinct lack of sheet barf. When he attempts this the third time I am fucking done and I launch into a passionate retelling of “The Boy Who Cried ‘Puke.’” It’s a beautiful tale that ends with the little boy sleeping with a vomit-soaked pillow and getting an ear infection.
I’m seeing red at this point. Thoughts of spanking sessions until my hand is nothing but a bloody stump cross my mind as well as making him watch while I jam that filthy stuffed animal he loves so much down the garbage disposal and then lighting it all on fire.
So, please, ladies, stop pretending to be clamoring over that nasty plate of cheese—I know you’re all trying to avoid talking about this situation while you’re not behind my back. Please leave. I’d like to effectively punish my son without your judgment.