Do you know what I’ve discovered? The commercials about Vegas are a lie: What happens in Vegas DOES NOT STAY in Vegas! Did you hear about Prince Harry getting caught with his twig and berries flapping in the breeze in Vegas and, consequently, pictures of his cute little vanilla behind, while playing strip poker, were seen around the world via the Internet? (Did I hear one of you say, “Where the fuck was Buckingham Palace security”?)
Do you know what else I’ve discovered? Hell hath no fury like a Queen’s rebuke of her grandson’s foolish and dangerous behavior. Guess who is being shipped off to Afghanistan for four months to fly Black Hawk helicopters in combat where no “Hos” (whores to the uninitiated) and paparazzi can follow him? Oh yeah, Queen Elizabeth, you rock, Sister-Queen!
Cartoon by Andy Davey from The Sun||image posted on theenglishblog.com
My children are older than Prince Harry now and at the ages when I’m beginning to look like a miniature little chubby saint to them as they look back at all they put me through. I survived them—but barely. The child that turned me gray overnight from all her “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas crazies” is now a very strict, church-going, uber-Christian, WWJD bracelet-dispensing mama who has summarily announced that she is going to rear my grandson in such a way that he will skip right over the rebellion phase of his life and march straight into sainthood. To which her father and I always respond with gales of thigh-slapping FOTF laughter and commentary: “Let us know how that works out for you, Babe.” To illustrate the case in point, the other day this particular daughter called in total frustration over a stalemate that she and my grandson had gotten into.
“Mom, you’ve got to help me,” my daughter said. “Your grandson is driving me crazy. He knows his birthday is just around the corner and he is refusing to turn four years old! What child refuses to go from age three to four? I couldn’t wait to grow up. I’ve planned a huge birthday party in the park for him tomorrow, and that little booger announced that, not only didn’t he plan to attend, but he didn’t plan on ever leaving three years old, and there was nothing I could do about it.”
“Well now there must be a reason,” I said. “Did my angel say why he didn’t want to turn four years old?”
“Yeah—he says he wants to stay a baby, and if he goes into four-year-old land, he’ll no longer be a baby. Right now, he’s sitting in a corner on the floor with his arms crossed, pouting and whimpering, and giving me classic baby evil-eye, death-ray stares—as if I were the dreaded peas and carrots that he hates so much.”
Example of “baby evil-eye” |Google Image/evilstaring.com
Later that afternoon, my conversation with my older daughter swirled in my head as I settled down for a much-needed nap. As I thought about my kid’s complaint against her kid, a delicious sense of irony and revenge began to swell in my heart as I gave a shout-out to God: “Thank you Jesus for giving my child a child whose temperament is just like hers. Please, please, please, God, if you have any love for me, please give my daughter a generous taste of the crap she put me through!” And then I dozed off fantasizing about a three-year-old terrorist sent into the field as an agent to wreak “payback” for his beloved MeMa as the words of Hamlet danced in my head: “To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub.”
Actual picture of Agent Boo-Boo at Command Central||E Tomczyk © 2012
A picture comes into focus on a computer and shows the darling face of a bi-racial three-year-old boy drinking juice from a Sippy-cup with two pairs of “big-boy underwear” on his head which is part of his signature field outfit. In my dream the little boy in the picture speaks like an adult and his name is “Agent Boo-Boo.”
AGENT BOO-BOO: Hey MeMa—reporting in for our Skype update. How yu doin’?
THE GRANDMOTHER: Hey Baby—I’m doin’ just fine now that you’re on the line. I notice that you’re still wearing your underwear as a double-layered helmet in protest of not wanting to be potty trained. I thought you had acquiesced to stop wearing diapers in exchange for the roller blade bribe by your mother.
AGENT BOO-BOO: I did. I’m rockin’ this potty training stuff now. I just like to mess with Mommy’s mind every once and awhile and make her think I may revert back to the big-boy panty protest days of yesteryear. Those were good times! Just for grins and giggles the other day, I peed and pooped all over myself, just to see what would happen—I had poop in my hair, poop on my shoes, poop on my fingers, poop down my legs—I had poop everywhere! Mommy went INSANE! And just as other people were coming into earshot, I really almost made her lose her shit when I screamed really loudly: “ARE YOU GOING TO BEAT ME—NO, NO, DON’T BEAT ME!” You should have been there, MeMa—it was sweet!
THE GRANDMOTHER: (laughing hysterically) Oh, no you de-ent, Boo-Boo? Child, you are too much! You know your Mama doesn’t beat you. But that sure was a good payback on MeMa’s behalf, Baby; because it reminds me of the time your Mama fell out in a full-blown tantrum in a restaurant when she was three. As I removed her from the table so that she wouldn’t disturb the other diners (thinking we’d go outside and I’d have a stern talk with her), she screamed at the top of her lungs while being carried like a sack of potatoes as she made her bones turn to wet noodles and tried to slither to the floor: “DON’T SPANK ME, DON’T SPANK ME, PLEASE, I’LL BE GOOD. . .SOMEONE HELP THE CHILD—SHE’S GOING TO KILL ME!” When your Mama settled down and we returned to our table, all the diners waved and blew kisses to your mother as if she had escaped the guillotine while giving me the ol’ evil eye. Well, I want you to know, your MeMa doesn’t put up with any shit. I gave the other diners the evil-eye right back and summarily announced to the entire room: “I did not spank this child, but if one of you says one thing to me, I swear to God, I’ll wipe the floor with you, because your judgmental asses have no idea what this pint-sized terrorist puts me through on any given day!”
AGENT BOO-BOO: I’ve got one better for you. If you liked the poop story, you’ll love what I did in FAO Schwartz the other day. You know that giant toy elephant by the escalator? I suctioned-cupped myself to one of his legs and demanded Mommy buy it for me. I refused to leave the store without him. Two security guys had to untangle my fingers from the elephant and Mommy had to carry me kicking and screaming out of the store. Everybody in the place was in a state of shock except for the other babies who started crying and screaming in solidarity because Mommy refused to give in to my demands.
FAO Schwarz|image from gonyc.about.com
THE GRANDMOTHER: Oh Lord, have mercy, baby boy. I shouldn’t be laughing at this story. And I’m glad she didn’t buy you the elephant for a whole host of reasons. Your poor mother . . . but wait a minute; I refuse to feel sorry for her. For every FAO Schwarz story you have, I can tell you at least five more that your mother did to me from here to the Middle East and back, and what she didn’t do, her sister (your Aunt) did. My worst times with your Aunt was over her picky eating habits as a toddler. Which reminds me, are you still on strike against vegetables, ’cause I know you inherited that from your Aunt?
AGENT BOO-BOO: You know it, MeMa. No vegetable of any color will ever cross these lips—as God is my witness. Mommy and I had a four-hour showdown the other night over peas and carrots. Finally, she was so exasperated with me that she laid down an ultimatum: “If you eat your vegetables, Boo-Boo, you can watch your favorite movie tonight, but if you don’t eat your vegetables, you’re going to bed immediately.”
THE GRANDMOTHER: Yikes! What did you do?
AGENT BOO-BOO: While Mommy was washing dishes, I slipped away from the dinner table ever so stealthily when she wasn’t looking; put on my Madagascar PJ’s, and put myself to bed. It was my way of saying, “IN YOUR FACE, WOMAN—DEATH TO PEAS AND CARROTS!” By the time Mommy came looking for me, I was asleep and not one pea or carrot entered my tummy. My enemy was defeated—yet again.
THE GRANDMOTHER: But Honey, you missed your favorite movie. Would it have killed you to eat a couple of peas and carrots?
AGENT BOO-BOO: Never, I tell you—never! When one is dealing in warfare, one has to use desperate means, even if it requires great sacrifice.
THE GRANDMOTHER: Yep, you are your mother’s child, all right. Anyway, your mother called and asked me to coerce you into turning four years old. Your Mommy is trying really, really hard to be a good mother. So why don’t you cut her a little slack on this issue, march bravely into year four, and when you come down on the train at Christmas time, Grandpa will take you to see the Shrek Ice Show. We hear you’re really into Shrek these days, and three year olds can’t go down the Shrek ice slide—only four year olds can.
AGENT BOO-BOO: Really? Hum . . . Okay, MeMa. It’s a deal. But there may be a slight problem coming to visit you by train this time. The last time we were on the Acela, while Mommy was using the potty, I found a funny looking red button next to the toilet and I pulled it. Just like magic, a bunch of men in uniforms came and banged on the bathroom door asking Mommy if she was okay. Mommy was really embarrassed and yelled through the door that she had a “rambunctious toddler who had gotten a little out of hand.”
THE GRANDMOTHER: Oh Darling, you weren’t supposed to pull that button. It is an emergency button to summon the conductors if you’re in trouble. Don’t touch that again, Sweetie.
AGENT BOO-BOO: Too late, MeMa. Apparently, there are two red buttons in the Acela bathrooms, and on the way back from visiting you and Grandpa, I found the other red button before Mommy saw it. This time lots and lots of men in uniform came to watch me poop and they gave Mommy the evil eye and shook their fingers at her.
THE GRANDMOTHER: Oh, Lord Jesus! Well, we’ll blame it on your allergy medicine and book you under an assumed name for your Christmas travel when you come to see Grandpa and me. Amtrak only checks the IDs of adults—not the toddlers. Although, I’m beginning to think that trains and planes should require baby picture IDs, because with what you’ve just told me and remembering your mother’s antics when we traveled with her, an evil genius with a couple thousand toddlers could probably take over the world.
Announcement of forthcoming toddler travel tantrum|image from hahasforhoohas.com
AGENT BOO-BOO: Okay MeMa. Chat with you later. MUAH!
THE GRANDMOTHER: Love you too, my sweet boy! Oh, and don’t tell your mother I used swear words while talking to you—she’ll read me the riot act!
These Boo-Boo stories are all true but are a compilation of my grandson’s antics and a couple stories borrowed from my younger daughter’s (Baby-girl) experience as a nanny. Today’s toddlers rule the day and are wreaking revenge for their grandmothers throughout the Earth. Every Baby-boomer mother went through the same terror with their toddler mothers and fathers and prayed that one day—someday—we would live to see our children tormented by the same toddler terrorist plots they put us through. Viva la toddlerhood!
Happy 4th Birthday “Agent Boo-Boo”—our darling boy who, in real life, is an angel! ||Photo by J Tomczyk ©2012
“I love it when mothers get so mad they can’t remember your name. ‘Come here, Roy, er, Rupert, er, Rutabaga… what is your name, boy? And don’t lie to me, because you live here, and I’ll find out who you are.’”― Bill Cosby, Fatherhood
“In spite of the six thousand manuals on child raising in the bookstores, child raising is still a dark continent and no one really knows anything. You just need a lot of love and luck – and, of course, courage.”― Bill Cosby, Fatherhood
Agent Boo-Boo in B-day party hat|K Tomczyk photo © 2012
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