dinosaurs

Dear The Huffington Post

I recently perused your article Christmas Gifts for Mom: 15 Items that Won’t Break the Bank. It featured an adorable photo of a young child holding her forehead to her mother, along with not 15, but 116 inexpensive items that mom would enjoy! I would like to thank you for including #84 in your  list, along with the disclaimer to “open in private”. The PleasurePillar Wonderland would be welcome in any mom’s stocking this holiday season. I am glad to see you have a progressive and enlightened attitude toward women’s sexual health, but I agree it’s a bit delicate to open in front of family on Christmas morning. I also appreciate the economy and singular focus on finding something uniquely for mom in place of the typical vacuum cleaner or “fitness aids” I have been gifted over recent years. I am sure you’ll receive many thank you letters on Boxing Day from happy moms everywhere.

This is not one of those letters.

Perhaps, HuffPo (I hope I can call you that) I can provide a gentle critique and suggest that your list was egregiously mistitled and should not be listed as a gift for moms of any sort. You see, this led to an uncomfortable situation where I was perusing this list with my two four year olds and now they want to buy a PleasurePillar by Wonderland for Grandma. They have no clue as to it’s purpose, but they liked the bright colour and amusing shape, and despite my desperate attempt at clicking away from the image faster than the speed of light, they feel that it would be the thing that Grandma would enjoy most this holiday season. Even more than the dinosaur planter (#49) that I tried to direct them towards, or virtually any other fucking thing in the universe.

Not the PleasurePillar, but a future resident of my desk if everything goes my way at Christmas (thehappyplanter on Etsy)

I tried to rely on the Memento like memory of four year olds to erase the idea from their minds to no avail. This morning, my son asked what store we were going to go to in order to purchase “THE BLUE THING FOR GRANDMA.” I am not sure, HuffPo, if it is appropriate for my son to give an item that will not be legal for him to purchase for another 14 years. After all, you don’t see many delightful hand printed and glittered bottles of bourbon at Christmas, do you? Hopefully he’ll be progressed enough in his sexual education by then to be deeply uncomfortable about buying such a thing for Grandma. I hope he wants to poke out his own ear drums and bleach his eyeballs at the mere suggestion. If he does, I know I will have done my job at instilling appropriate boundaries. I think boundaries are important, don’t you, HuffPo?

With warmest regards for a pleasure filled holiday season,

Hopeful Receiver of a Dinosaur Planter and in Desperate Need of a Lobotomy

Fictional Dinosaurs: A Case Study of Parenting Mistakes

My boys are night owls. We’d put them to bed and they would party like rock stars on meth. A lot of duct tape was required (to repair the damage, obviously. Not to duct tape them to their bed), and we had to keep one parent on suicide watch until they finally passed out.

We were not having a good time.

Finally done for the night, maybe. Or 2 am, whichever comes first.

So I told them that triceratopses lived under their bed and would bite their feet if they didn’t stay in. And it worked! They ran to their respective beds and started pretend sleeping until it turned into actual sleeping and I had mommy’s magic wine hour again.

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Fear the ceratops

Somewhere in the back of my brain I was pretty sure that this was a shitty move on my part, but I was emboldened by my success. The whole house was infested with triceratopses. If I needed them to wear runners instead of boots, it was because their boots had a nasty case of triceratopses. They had to stop opening every drawer in the house every 5 minutes because there were triceratops eggs in there and they could hatch at any moment. If we had to leave the house it’s because triceratopses were coming over to raid our pantry for lunch and we’d better not be here when they arrived. There were ceratopses everywhere, and we were just living in their world. They were enthralled at the prospect of ceratopses everywhere, and partly terrified… at least it was a ratio that was working to keep them compliant.

So when my kids yelled at me to “TURN THE GOLOLATOR (translation: garbage disposal) OFF” during Toopy and Binoo (eff you, Toopy. Put some damn pants on. Also, I am pretty sure that Binoo is just imaginary), I had the answer. Hey kids! Check it out; ceratopses live in our garbage disposal. I have to feed them a few times a day or they’ll climb out and bite us. And they stopped. Months of yelling every time I did the dishes stopped like magic as they zombie hovered around me asking to see the ceratopses at work. So turned it on and held them over the sink to see, and fed them carrots.

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This is what I was envisioning

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This is probably what they’re envisioning. But with more blood. And, you know, a triceratops and not whatever the fuck this is.

They called my bluff. One brave boy got out of bed quietly in the night and destroyed seven books without a single ceratops sighting and realized that I was full of shit. And if I was full of shit about that, I might be full of shit about a lot of things, so he started questioning everything I asked of him. These are dark days, gentle readers. Nothing is getting accomplished.

But the garburator myth remains. They are too small to climb into the sink and confirm that I am not a mad scientist who has genetically resurrected and modified long dead ginormous beasts into tiny, hungry little ceratopses for the purpose of putting them in my Flintstones style garbage disposal. At least, I hope that between the two of them they don’t mastermind how to confirm this. Oh Christ, now I have to uninstall the garbage disposal just to stay ahead of them. Shit. This was a terrible idea.

Anyway, I realized that I may have gone too far when the kids started clearing their plates into the sink to “feed the ceratops.” Don’t like dinner? Go feed the ceratops. Want to get up from the table so you can run around naked and water the plants (with your weenus)? Make an excuse that the ceratops is hungry and escape. Just want to fuck with mommy? Go give the ceratops a bath.

I realized this all may have gone too far when my son told me today, tearily, “Mommy, we need to go home and feed the ceratops” to get out of going grocery shopping. Cue meltdown. Either they think the ceratopses are totally real and starving to death in their absence or they totally know that I am willing to play along just so I can do the dishes in peace. I am pretty sure it’s the latter because we have an actual dog whose name is Maeby, and as far as they’re concerned Maeby eats nothing but toast crusts and when rice krispies rain down from the heavens. And they love Maeby. I can’t imagine that they have some concern for a possibly fictional creature and zero concern for a live creature who they hug and kiss to a point just short of abuse.

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Maeby is Very Concerned about the proximity of a tiny human

Either way, I am the asshole here. The stupid asshole who should have just toughed out the all night parties rather than try and keep up a house of cards. Have you ever seen what 3 year olds can do to a house of cards?

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They’re superheroes! Justice will prevail. What was I thinking?