Tuesday, September 15, 2015

The OTHER Response

Sometimes, when the kids talk to me, I have an entirely different conversation with them in my head than what I actually say.




Charles: Mom, what’s that?


Me (what I wanted to say): That’s a type of French cheese called brie, and it is a great demonstration of the virtue of patience.  I bought this round of brie six weeks ago and I have resisted the urge to sample it until now because I knew it needed to ripen in the refrigerator.  See the orange-y tint under the rind?  See the gooey center?  Smell the subtle bouquet?  Taste the complex flavor?  None of that would have been possible if I had been impatient and consumed it a month ago or even ten days ago.  But now!  Oh, how glorious!

Me (what I actually said): That’s a type of French cheese called brie.


Jamie: I want to try it!


Me: Charles, do you want some, too?


Charles: No, it looks gross.


Jamie: I don’t like it.


Me: More for meeee!




Charles: But Mom!  It’s not fair!


Me (what I wanted to say): No, Charles, what’s not fair is the ENORMOUS amount of time I spend reminding you to complete normal daily operations, like getting dressed, brushing your teeth, and putting on shoes before school.  What’s not fair is that you complain about what I make for dinner every. single. night. without fail.  What’s not fair is that I still experience teenage-level acne as a 34-year-old adult.  What’s not fair is that chocolate and wine have calories.


Me (what I actually said): Charles, this is fair.  You made a poor choice, you deal with the consequences.




Charles:  Mom!  I’m bleeding!  There’s blood on my hand!


Me: Where?


Charles: Right here!


Me, barely noticing his tiny wound, a pinprick of blood on the palm of his hand: Oh, no!  Charles is bleeding!  SO MUCH BLOOD!  Call the newspaper!  Call the doctor!  Call the President!


Charles: Mo-om…


Me (what I wanted to say): Honey, I’m on the second day of my period, and it’s like Carrie at the fucking prom up in here.  You have no idea what bleeding is.

Me (what I actually said): Honey, you’re fine.  You don’t even need a bandaid.  Go play.

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