As many of you know, I am an AMAZING mom. If you are unsure, just click in a few spots to revel in my splendiforous wonder here or even here.
But you also may remember that I don't have much of a filter. So, I got in trouble the other day at lunch. It seems as though my clever wordplay is not acceptable any longer. It's almost as if Sky King doesn't appreciate all the amazing funny words we can call our teenage son. And, he hates me and doesn't want me to be happy.
Case in point:
My son's nickname is Ash. We have some friends that have an 8 year old (the best friend of Princess) and that 8-year-old once remarked to her dad, "Ash can sometimes be an Ash-hole".
This started a whole new genre of names for Ash: Ash-hole, Jack-Ash, Dumb-Ash.
Now, all of a sudden, this isn't cute any more. Some shit about crushing his spirit, or hurting his ego, or damaging his self esteem. I can't recall.
See? Sky King is a major buzz kill.
Also, Princess recently flipped her uncle The Bird. She even did the sly "I'm just rubbing my middle finger up and down my face right near my eye because I have an itch" move. Uncle was not amused, and snitched right away. Princess got busted, and I got The Look-the one that says, "YOU are the reason I have to put up with this shit", from Sky King. Ugh.
Then just the other day? I think I may have said, "I can hit them, or I can swear and scream at them-pick one." Sky King may have given me that part-frown, part-pursed lips look, that said, "You must be PMSing, or I'd argue the point". Fuck him.
So now, my cute nicknames for my son? Inappropriate. Funny as shit, but no longer okay. And Princess? My doing. My influence. My problem. Double ugh.
I did, however, earn a little cred with the fam.
I will set the stage: We are camping, and Princess and her bestie have been off doing whatever it is they do, for about 2 hours. (let's now focus on the part where I don't know where my kid is, while camping in Bear country, umkay?) All of a sudden, I hear hollering. Loud, screaming, pain-filled crying. It's Princess-I know that cry.
I began to walk up the hill toward the sound, and I am sure I am going to need my handy-dandy over-the-top First Aid kit.
The crying gets louder; more insistent. I break into a sprint.
My friend is right behind me, sure I will need an assist.
I get to the top of the hill and head towards the sound-it's a little girl being tortured by her father, learning to ride a bike without training wheels. It's NOT Princess.
I turn to head back down to my perch by the campfire, huffing and puffing all the way back. And I hear this:
Friend: I didn't know you could run!
Me: Me neither.
Later, Princess overheard the story: "Mommy, you can RUN?!?!?!?"
She can be an Ash-hole, too.