Posts Tagged ‘revenge’

I’ve decided to even out the playing field. L is right: things around here aren’t fair, and I’m going to do something about it. That’s right, I’m seeking revenge.

    1. Next year when I get my flu shot, I’m going to wake L up every 30 minutes all night to let him know that my arm still hurts.
    2. Next time I have a cold, I am going to use S’s shirt as my snot rag.
    3. Before serving S with her next dessert, I will drool into it.
    4. I am growing my nails long and plan to inadvertently scratch and pinch both kids, leaving marks.
    5. You don’t want to go to bed? OK, I will.
    6. All my future kisses for S will involve my mouth wide open on her face. Bonus points if my nose is running.
    7. I’m going to hide noisy alarms in the kids’ bedrooms, and set them to go off every 47 minutes all night.
    8. From now on, only NPR in the car.
    9. You don’t want to let me cut your toenails? Fine. Let’s just see how that works out for you.
    10. Actually, it’s MY turn.

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When I was a kid my parents embarrassed me. Constantly and on purpose. I grew up believing that it was a parent’s right, nay job, to embarrass their offspring. So, now that I’m a parent, it’s my job too, right? Well, it turns out I’m still learning that life isn’t fair. Because I’m still the one being embarrassed. This time by my offspring. My evil genius, L.

He’s embarrassed me in so many ways. Opening bathroom doors when I’m, well, not ready. Talking about indelicate topics in front of other people (“My nipples are small, and so are daddy’s, but mommy’s are big!”) Or, my favorite, throwing a complete tantrum because I would not buy him a training bra. That’s right. A training bra.

Here’s the scene: Target, tween girl section. A huge display of training bras in a myriad of attractive pastels. Think a wall of Easter eggs. But soft and silky, lightly padded (wtf?) and smooth. L heaven. He wanted one. Bad. He walked up to the display wall as if in a trance. Arms outstretched. He touched every bra he could reach. “They’re so soft and pretty. Can I have one, Mommy? Pleeeeaaaaaase??” I hear some snickering from somewhere behind me. “No, L, I’m sorry, you can’t have one of those. Those are training bras and they’re for big girls, not 3-year-old boys.”

Fast forward about 8 seconds. L is now on the floor screaming. He is kicking everything in sight. Between the shrieks and sobs he is saying the following things: “I want a training bra!” “I am a big girl!” “I don’t like you, Mommy!” “Training bra!” “Training braaaaaaaaa!”

I now have the attention of all Target shoppers. Most think it’s pretty hilarious, and really, I do too and would certainly have enjoyed myself if this were someone else’s kid. But it was mine.

It’s OK though. I have a plan. I will win this one in the end. With just a little patience, I will have the last laugh. See, I’m storing this memory for future use. It’s a weapon. My embarrassment at the time will be nothing compared to his when I feel the time is right to retell this story. To a group of his friends? To his girlfriend? His future in-laws? All the guests at his wedding? Time will tell when it will come back out. It all depends on how well L treats me from here on out.

At last! I will have the last laugh! Revenge will be mine! (Rubbing hands together, maniacally laughing.)

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