“Moooooommmmmmmmm, myyyy eeeeyyyyyeeessssss huuuuurrrrrt.”
The complaint is after I ask him to do something that quite frankly I have no business asking a seven year old to do. It’s off the wall, inappropriate, and border line cruel. In fact, I’m a little nervous to even put it in print lest you think lower of me as a person. Not even the fact that my husband has died offers enough emotional protection. I fear you will be disgusted.
The complaint comes after I say…”Please put the forks on the table.”
Oh the frickin’ horrors. He’s luck I’m not making him work for his supper, which occasional crosses my mind, like every night. The response to this outrageous request?
“Buuuttttt, yyyyyyy eeeeeyyyyyyeessssss are buurrrniiiing. Tuuuurrrrrnnnn oofff the liiiightttt. Oooooow. Owwwww.” Face all crumpled up with the agony of the pain.
And it’s the damndest thing, those burning eyes whose flames yet to notice, only seem to hurt when I ask him to do something. Playing outside IN THE SUN must somehow emit healing rays that allow his eyes to function, to blink, to produce enough moisture. Is it the sun or is it the special ointment emitted by the bamboo bush he is climbing out from. He can see! My child can see. Oh thank the good Lord. He can see well enough to the ball that was just whipped at his head. The window is still waiting for that miracle.
Later, I make another outrageous request. Sure to bring the department of child services to my door.
“Ezra, time to take a shower.”
But moooooommmmmmmm, myyyyyyy eeeeeyeeeesss are buuuuurrrrnrrnnning. Owwww, oowww. Tuuurrrrnnnn ooooffffff the liiiiiiighttssssss. Theeeeeyyyyy huuuuurrrrrt. They are huurrrrrtttting.
Oh wait, do I see tears? Oh I did not jsut see those! No he didn't!
And I think mother tigers have the right idea. They pick up the whining cub by the scruff of his neck and carry him protest and to where little boy tiger needs to be.
I ponder. Is his neck scruff enough?
Are my teeth strong enough to pick him up without actually doing damage?
Do I care?
I decide that it would be embarrassing to admit to an ER doctor that no, his sister didn’t bite him, nor was it his older brother. It was me, the cute well dressed mother standing in front of you. I imagine three reactions.
He (he must be a he) backs out of the room, daring not to leave his neck exposed and calls child protection services.
He is amused with a glint in his eye that says “Lady, is that all ya got? Please this is LA. This is barely worth a mention to my co-workers.
Or he smiles, hands me his card with his person cell phone number on the back, slapping my back side as Ezra and I leave.
Because I cannot predict what the reaction will be and because honestly, it would be a full six hours out of my day, a co-payment AND endless whining about how I bit him, I decide to go with plan be, although the idea of actually giving him something to whine about pleases me.
Plan B? Whine back
“Buuuuttttttt Ezzzzzzrrraaaaaa (excellent name for this, who new!) IIIIII….I
“Mom. Stop it.”
“No, you started it. I’m finishing it.”
“Mom, you’re supposed be the adult.”
“Well, this adult doesn’t feel like it. I want to whine.”
“You are so annoying.”
And I’ve won, cause he knows I mean it. I can whine better than him. His sister and brother
said so. Suddenly his eyes don’t hurt, there is no more whining AND as a bonus, I didn’t have to use my teeth.