I've Been Robbed...

It's true. I've been robbed of my children's childhood. I thought that I had many years of torment left, but alas, at the tender ages of 3, 6, and 7 they are already as street savvy as their Mother.

I was a gullible youngster, and believed anything my Dad or brother, Jordan would tell me. It wasn't until I was 15, and nearly pulled the emergency break through the roof, while driving, that I realized my Father had possibly been lying, when he told me it was the special handle to make the car fly. Well, joke was on him, since it was his car.

I have also suffered many a 'What the hell are you talking about?' type looks from Dave, as I explain the intricacies of life, to the Hoodlums; such as, a hummingbirds instant death, should their wings stop beating. Then the awkward clearing of the throat, and the head nod towards the feeder, where three hummingbirds are sitting, wings motionless, and shaking their little heads, incredulous at my ignorance. (Thanks, Jord.)

Ever since my little guys were enwombed, I have felt a deep pathological need to mess with them. I love practical jokes, and I love to tease them, and more often then not, it is the Boyz, that are hiding under my bed, ready to grab my ankles, or toss a snake out, or in Dyl's case, maybe slice my Achilles tendon with a machete. ( We are still working with him, on what will, and what won't, land him in the Clink.)

Tonight, the Boyz were upstairs playing video games with their friends, while I was chopping some veggies for dinner. Dave came home from work, and sat at the bar to relax and critique my dangerous dicing. I started chopping more quickly, and with less eye contact on the carrots, in an effort to irritate him. Eventually, I made him uncomfortable enough, and he retreated to the bathroom.

That's when I got bored and decided to cut my fingers right off. At least, that's what I wanted Dave to think. ( He faints whenever he sees blood.) I rummaged through the drawer and found a pristine white dish towel. I know that I would never have a white dish towel, so whomever it belongs too, sorry. I wrapped my two left fingers tightly in the towel and dispensed some viscous red food coloring gel in various places, then watered it down to perfection. I've seen many a severed finger wrapped in a dish towel, and with just enough water and red gel, I was able to perfect, The Bloody Finger Accident.

I disposed of the evidence, cleansed my non-wounded fingers, smeared some "blood" around the carrots and on the knife, and worked up some tears and hysterics, which was probably my first mistake, since I only cry when they raise the flag at the Demolition Derby, or I see running horses. I slapped my cheeks for some flush and rushed into the bathroom where Dave was showering. I threw open the door and thrust my injury in his face, and cried that he needed to take me to the hospital, because of my missing fingers. He just leaned his head back into the water to rinse his shampoo, and said, "No you didn't."

I argued way past my dignity, and then, when he still didn't bite, I slammed the door, and practiced my four letter words. As I looked at my creation, I was mad that it was going to waste, and felt a tad impulsive, looking at a someone else's now white-ish dish towel, when I thought of the Boyz. I hustled up the stairs, re-slapped, re-moistened, and re-panicked myself right into the toy room. No one even looked away from the t.v. I ran to the side of the couch, and said, "Daws, you will have to be in charge for awhile. Dad is taking me to the hospital, because I cut off my fingers. "

He never even looked away from the game, and said, "No you didn't." Dyl looked over and gave me a little condescending wink, like, nice try mom, then went back to the game. Dawson's poor friend, looked over, saw my concoction, nudged Dawson, and said, "She really did, look."
Dawson never missed a beat, and said, "Nope. She really didn't."

It's not fair. I should have so much more time. I should have so many more opportunities. I have so many more traumatizing ideas.

At 31, I have stopped smelling everything that is presented to me, but I still freaking "examine the mole" or "look at a weird hair" in the crook of my Dad's arm, right before he snaps it shut, and smacks me in the head. I guess this younger generation learns faster, and although they didn't fall for my prank, the Boyz will most certainly feel the need for retaliation, and count on their gullible Mother for success.