Forgive me for not blogging much over the last couple of weeks, but I've been playing with this new concept of - get this - writing for money. Did you know you can actually get paid to write blog posts and articles? I also learned you can put other people's numbers into a spreadsheet, and that action gets translated into currency in your pocket. Seriously. I'm not even making this stuff up. All it takes is working full-time as a mom while simultaneously working part-time as a writer, trying to write sensible sentences while being screamed at for more apple juice, and subsisting on lots of coffee and an average of five hours of sleep every night.
You, too, can have this dream life!
Making a living with my mad skillages is nice and all, but there's nothing like a good freebie of a blog post to really let loose. This is why I don't have advertisers, giveaways, or anything else on here. I get to be me, without interruption, and without being owned by The Man, whoever he is. This is freedom money can't buy, baby.
For example, advertisers may not want to show off their parenting wares on a site where the mom parents poorly half the time, and Spawn-isms are commonly displayed for all to gasp at and chuckle about.
You know what Spawn-isms are, right? All good Stay-at-Home-Maven readers know that Spawnling comes up with the most inappropriate hilarities. Offensive to some, knee-slappingly funny to others, this is a three-year-old I'm simultaneously proud and mortified to call my son.
Today was no exception. We went out for lunch with Jobthingy, who had a day off from that work stuff she usually neglects me for. (Why we're still friends after what she puts me through , I'm not quite sure. ) We ordered our food and sat a perfectly acceptable length of time waiting for it, while we drank our drinks and chitchatted and did our best to keep a three-year-old entertained. Meanwhile, Spawnling would let out a whiny "I'm hungryyyyyyyyy!" or an "I'm staaaaaaaarving!" or a "When is my food going to be heeeeeeeeere?" every so often.
Spawn's food arrived not 15 minutes after ordering. The waiter put the plate down and started to walk away. He wasn't halfway through the restaurant when my dear child let out a loud sigh and followed it up with an even louder "FINALLY." The waiter turned around, wide-eyed, looked at me turning beat red, and started to laugh.
He returned to the table a couple of minutes later to bring the grownup food and said "It's a good thing I brought his food out early, eh?"
Say it with me now: MOR-TI-FIED. That is my child, who came from my womb, who has this sense of entitlement built right into him. I don't know who, exactly, decided he was King of the Universe, but we'll be hard pressed to ever take that crown away now.
*~*~*~*
We get back home. Spawn is happily playing on my bed. I lie down beside him for a minute (see above mention of lack of sleep) and he comes in for a snuggle. I get sentimental for a moment - always a fatal mistake - and say to him "Please don't ever grow up, ok? I like three-year-old you."
"Even when I'm four, I'll still love you, Mommy" says he, and smiles.
If there was a sound for my heart melting, I would put it in here.
"When I'm four," continues Spawn, "Will I be bigger?"
"Yes, you will be," I answer.
"Will I have this?" he whacks my stomach and makes it jiggle.
"No, I don't think so."
"Will I have boobies?" he asks as he smacks my breast.
"Um, nope. That's a girl thing." I reply, warily. I can see where this is going.
He looks at me with that rotten little twinkle in his eye. "Will I have one of... Uh... what's that called again? That thing you got? Oh, yeah: a buhgina?" He giggles. "Will I have a BUH-GIIIIIIIINA?"
"No, honey. You'll still be a boy."
"So I'll have a PENIS! And you'll keep your BUUUUUHGINA! BUHGINA! BUHGINA! BUHGINA!"
"I'm going to go get you a snack now and sit you in front of a movie now, ok? Mommy needs to get work done."
"Okay, Mommy. Mommy's buhgina. Heehee!"
Welcome to my life.
