The Most Dreaded Question

It's not "why?" or "where do babies come from?" or "can I make poop in the bathtub?"

Those are easily answered and remedied, taking, if you are efficient and tactful, a minute or so.  (Or if you are just good at leaving the approximate area of the question-asker--even less.)

It's not, "can I have a snack?" when I have nothing to offer or "who's that man in my room?" (wow.  I'm seriously demented).

Here's a clue:

Oh, that looks fun, right?  Trucks and trailers and imaginations running wild.  Some singing, lots of truck sounds. Quality time, awesome mom-points, learning-through-play. What a riot.  

Here's my most dreaded question:  "Mama, will you play with me?"

(Oh, Kelley.  Are you serious?  You are such a jerk.) 

Let me be clear.  I like playing under the following circumstances:

1.  I can lay down and move my hands around and make a few sounds and it's enough to meet the requirements.

2.  We play with animals or dinosaurs.

3.  I am able to chase, tickle, wrestle, or otherwise squeeze Brixton. 

4.  I don't have to follow directions, especially those of a very orderly and commanding (almost) 3 year old.

5.  I will play doctor all day long, as long as I am the patient and I am sadly in a deep coma.

My nemesis is exactly what  you see in the photo.  Trucks.  Semi-trucks.  Tractors.  Flat-bed trucks.  Bulldozers.   Not only am I bored out of my mind by this type of play, I try to avoid it at all costs.  I would rather clean toilets and cat throw-up then sit and play trucks.  In part because it involves:

1.  The assigned truck.  I am not allowed to pick out my own toy.  Usually I am handed
 a standard flat-bed truck with no bells and whistles and told to perform.  Any attempt of mine to change my fate results in yelling, tears, anger, and very clear threats to my safety.


2.  Always touching my assigned truck and making it move.  If my hand happens to reach up and scratch my nose or lose contact with my truck in any way, I am immediately reprimanded. 

3.  Whilst playing with my bottom-of-the-barrel truck, I must always use my "truck-voice" as a representation of the personality of the truck.  Except my truck isn't allowed to have the deep, gravely, tough voice you might associate with a heavy duty road warrior.  No, my truck is commanded to have what Brixton calls, "The Tiny Voice."  Like a mouse.  No exceptions. 

4.  The trucks will be playing in a very specific scenario that is not only completely uncommunicated to me, but also can change within a millisecond.  For example, if the trucks are working together loading hay, and then my hand turns into a helpful crane or other implement, loud protesting will occur.  I will then be informed we are actually not loading hay, but coal.  And I'm not allowed to load any, I am only allowed to gather trash that may never be dumped out.  Ever.

5.  The minimum time commitment that fulfills Brixton's play needs seems to be about 17 hours and 43 minutes.  Ain't nobody got time fo' dat.

When he's 5 or 6, I'll just send him outside with a timer watch like my parents did for me.  "Be home 5 minutes from the beep!" They said, sending me out into a forest filled with miners, mountain lions, rattlesnakes, and poisonous berries.  "We have two more," they'd say to each other, just in case.

Okay, back to the cat puke.

Teacher Bonnie

It happened on a day when everything else just seems to be flowing along fine.

"Mama, do I go to school today?"

"No, baby.  No school today." 

"Will I see teacher Bonnie?"

Teacher Bonnie is Brixton's favorite preschool teacher.  She has a big smile, robust and cuddly breasts, and just that natural way with small children that makes you wonder what you're doing wrong.  We see teacher Bonnie twice a week at preschool, but in a twist of fate, teacher Bonnie also attends our church.  This means we often see her 3 times a week and each time she flashes that happy-to-see-you smile and gets down on "their level" and all of that psycho-babble jazz and gives Brixton hugs and attention. 

He loves her. 

Teacher Bonnie is a discussion fixture in our home.  What's teacher Bonnie doing right now?  Is teacher Bonnie sleeping?  Where is teacher Bonnie?

But on this day, Brixton just went too far.

Upon learning that he wouldn't be seeing his beloved Bonnie that day, he used the toddler trifecta of guilt, manipulation, and mama-bear jealously against me. 

"Mama, will you play with me?" (Shudder.  A whole other post about that tricky little question.)

"Okay, baby."

"Will you be teacher Bonnie?"

Oh, that's cute, I thought, my heart bursting with pride at my son's obvious cleverness and tender heart.

I said a few things here and there in my best teacher Bonnie voice, thinking how flattered she'd feel, knowing how she was loved.

The game continued for a bit, until I started slipping out of character and using my regular mom voice.  Frankly, I didn't have the energy to be teacher Bonnie, all happy-happy voice, and wide smiles, and energy to sing a cute song and talk all friendly.  Nope.  I wanted to go back to mediocre, I-have-no-idea-what's-for-dinner, did-I-brush-your-teeth-this-week?, I'll-play-if-it-involves-me-laying-on-my-side-like-a-beached-whale, mom. 

"No, mama, you have to be teacher Bonnie."

UGH.  What Pandora's box did we open here?

"But I just want to be mama."

"No, I want teacher Bonnie."

Wait a minute.  Wait a freakin' minute here.

I felt the first gentle prickles of jealously coming up.  "Let's not overreact.  He's just using his imagination."  Self talk always helps.  Especially when you talk out loud so other people can hear you. 

I tried redirecting, introducing a new game/toy, dancing an Irish jig.  All as myself, naturally.  (Anyway, with the size of her ample breasts, I challenge her to an Irish jig-off.  Pretty sure I would win that crown.  You may get my son, but you will never out-jig me, lady.)

Brixton side-stepped all of my attempts, crushing them with one simple phrase, "Mama,  you have to be teacher Bonnie." 

So I did what any self-respecting mother would do.  I stood up with great dignity, tied my robe around me (let's ignore the fact it was 2pm. Inconsequential.) and walked gracefully to the kitchen.  There I opened the freezer and took out my hidden pint of ice-cream.  With my pride still intact and a spoon in hand, I stood at the counter and ate my feelings.

Brixton continued playing in the other room, content now to play with an imaginary version of t.B, (I can't even write her name out at this point.) while his real mother got her fix hidden in a corner of the kitchen from her two dealers, Ben & Jerry. 

No wonder life with t.B. just seems so glamorous.