Skip to main content

A Happy Family

 
We bought the girls a Barney video -- mostly so we could hear them sing the I Love You song over and over. Hearing it makes us feel good.

“I love you, you love me. We’re a happy family...”

Magically, our doubts dissolve. Our eyes glaze over. We’re a happy family, right? Right?!

“With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you. Won’t you say you love me, too?”

Come on girls, say it. Tell me you love me!

Ah, yes. Gotta love the not-so-subtle manipulation to love one’s family without question. It’s very much in line with the current trend of positive thinking. If you think everything is fine, then it will be. Right?

Perhaps if we burn this positive family message into their subconscious, they’ll believe it -- even when they hate me someday for not letting them pierce their tongues, or drive motorcycles, or date white rappers.

Yes, just as Elizabeth is about to run away with Assmaster J. to be a roady with his band, Fuckasm, she opens the birthday card I gave her with a picture of Barney on it. She doesn’t understand at first. The card is something you give a toddler -- not a full-grown woman of 15. But soon she hears a little tune burble up from the back of her mind...

I love you, you love me...

“Wait a minute, Assmaster...” she says, stuffing her belongings between the crack pipes and bongs in his leather backpack.

We’re a happy family...

She glances back through the window at me. By this time, I have found religion out of sheer desperation. Rocking back and forth and holding a rosary, I pray to Buddha and chant something in Arabic that loosely translates into “keep my baby home, keep my baby home...”

With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you...

Happy, purple childhood memories flood to the surface. She sees us painting together, splashing each other in the ocean, baking muffins. “Maybe I should just stay home and go to college...” she wonders.

Won’t you say you love me, too?

Finally, she pushes Assmaster aside, bursts through the front door and runs to me saying, “I love you, Mom! We’re a happy family! Wanna make muffins?” We cry. We hug. All is well.

Assmaster spray-paints Butt-munching Assholes (the name of his latest album) on our garage door before leaving. But that’s OK. With our arms around each other, Lizzy and I wave goodbye to him from the doorway as he flips us off and speeds away.

“Boy, you really gave me a scare that time, Lizzy,” I say and tickle her. "Mom," she giggles. Later, as we bake muffins, I notice the Barney card on the counter. I give it a double-take because -- did I see what I think I saw? Barney winked at me.

I wink back and smile because I know it wasn't Buddha, or Allah, or God that brought my baby back.

Thanks, Barney.

We are, indeed, a happy family.



(I grabbed this photo from Masterpiece Pumpkins.)



Previous Comments

 
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Score One for the Bad Guys

Apparently, Lizzy and Samantha have a soft spot in their hearts for the bad guys. After all, in their world the bad guys always get shot, beaten, or killed by super heroes, they always land in jail, and they’re never attractive. So when I heard strange phrases in hushed tones coming from the toy room the other day, phrases like, take off his clothes ... and hand me that bug ... and, put that on his vagina , I had to ask: What is going on in there?! After some debate between the two of them (n o, don’t tell mommy ... it’s OK, just don’t tell daddy ... and so on) they finally fessed up that they were playing a game with Barbies and other creatures wherein the bad guys win. Here’s how it works: In this game, the bad guys torture the good guys by making them take off all their clothes and then placing mind-controlling bugs on their vaginas . The bugs contain a virus that infects their hosts, thus enabling the bad guys to control the actions and behaviors of the good guys. Ergo, the b
8 comments
Read more

About This Blog

Right off the top, it's a goofy name. I was looking for a new name for my blog, and then one morning I had the following exchange with my husband. We were taking our daughter to preschool and found ourselves following a well-dressed mom wearing a cute little skirt and high heels. I tilted my head to one side like a puppy noticing something strange for the first time. Michael also tilted his head, but was thinking of something else. "How come you don't wear skirts and high heels to work?" he asked. "She must be freezing. It doesn't seem practical." "She doesn't seem to mind." "I suppose not." Two heads tilt to the other side. "Oh well, I guess I'm more of a cords and fleece kind of girl." Two heads straighten. And there you have it -- a blog title based entirely on what I like to wear in the wintertime. Talk about impractical. The former title was Domestic Irritation. I liked that title a lot -- i
Post a Comment
Read more

Got No Class, Got No Clue

Soccer, kung fu, or gymnastics? Art, piano, or dance? Fencing? I want to enroll Elizabeth in some sort of class, but it's just not going well. I'm not sure if the problem is me... OK, it is me . Take ME out of the equation and the "problem" magically disappears. Lizzy is just not interested in joining a team or taking a class, and Michael isn't keen to sign her up (and thus spend money) for a class she won't enjoy or may not participate in fully. He has a point. We enrolled her in soccer last year, and while most kids ran up and down the field kicking their balls, Lizzy stopped to examine a flower. When the kids stood in "ready position" (standing in line with one foot atop their soccer balls), she sat on her ball at the end of the line. While other kids weaved their balls around little orange traffic cones, Lizzy picked up a cone, turned it upside, placed her soccer ball on top of it, and pretended to lick it like an ice cream cone. That is Lizzy i
7 comments
Read more