now fortified with impotent fury!risperdal

Almost no snark to be had, if you’ve not in the mood for seriousness, don’t clicky

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Last Friday, Sean stunned us.

Earlier in the week, driving home from school, we were chatting. “Daddy work?” which is Sean’s way of asking if Dad is still at work, on his way home, or home already. “Daddy’s on his way home from work, that’s who I was talking to on the phone.” “Oh,” he replied. “Daddy doctor.”

This threw me for a loop. I mean, I don’t often refer to The Lad as ‘Dr.–’. “Well, kinda. Some people are doctors for people- like your doctor, Dr. B-. Daddy is a doctor of science, he works in a lab.” “Oh!” Sean replied. “Daddy play cars wit’ me?” And I thought that was the end of it. (Side note: there is a very well known Dr. of the same name as the Lad- who specializes in behavior modification. Bad news, he’s a local as well, so often in social situations where people just hear the Lad’s name, they momentarily think he’s that other Dr. No no, we’re the parental fuckups who let our child listen to the Ramones and play Guitar Hero)

So fast forward to another morning as I was explaining Daddy was mad at someone on the phone for doing something ‘hurtful’ and ‘not what a good friend does’ and ‘not good helping’ is when the li’l genius put it all together into:

“Mommy? Daddy mad?”
“Yes sweetie, but it’s okay.” I replied, entirely too busy IMing about project with boss.
“Daddy scientist!”
“Yes.”
“Daddy MAD SCIENTIST!”
“….”

Too hot to live out. Only one thing for it.

many thanks to u.e. for the gelatto and photography.

Boring title, I know. Oh and guess what, notify list signup is broken. Email me at chicagowench at blueletters dot net if you want on. Click below for details on the pr0n.

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Say in the alternaverse, one where I am not a shrieking introverted misanthrope and have a limited number of bedrooms and bathrooms.

Say I host a houseparty.

What food that I’ve talked about would you want me to make?
What food would you bring or prepare on site? Recipes, man.

Now, say I can warp time and space and haul any restaurant you’ve heard me blather about or you’ve dined at to within convenient staggering distance of the house.
Where would we go- what restaurant that I’ve told you about, what restaurant that you’ve been to, and why?

Trainspotting at New Year’s

Preparing an amphibious assault on the back yard

Matilda, Sean just rocked out big league to I Wanna Be Sedated, on Guitar Hero. You need not fear that emo has an intractable hold upon your impressionable nephew.

(Edited to add- if, say, your headbanging 3 year old should cause the cord to detach while you’re trying to get past I Wanna Be Sedated, the game halts with an error message telling you that whoa, you’re rockin out a little too hard there! Plug it back in! I am now getting all kinds of shit for ‘rocking too hard’)

This morning, Sean pitched a fit. None of the cd’s we were throwing on were appealing to him. He finally sobbed out that he wanted the CD from Mommy and Daddy’s room that he and I danced to, so I went and grabbed it and threw it on the stereo downstairs. No, no! he wailed. Want in room! want play cars in room an’ music! (we were gobsmacked at the length of the sentence.) I sat there in frank incomprehension, despite the clarity. “No hon, you’re not playing in mommy and daddy’s room,” I tried to tell him.

The Lad correctly parsed what little man wanted. “Sean, do you want to listen to the CD in your room? Where you can play with your toys?” YEEEEEEEES! wailed Sean, as if this was the most patently obvious thing in the world. Want music in room!

Yes, our 3 year old just, in essence, demanded a cd player for his boudoir.

The kicker?

The CD he demanded to listen to- and which he then listened to for the next hour and a half? Snow Patrol, Final Straw

My little hipster.

Last weekend was a horror show, bad behavior from Sean on a scale hitherto undreamt of, which threw everyone off and made for a very bad Saturday and a recovery Sunday. Knock wood, this weekend has started out 180 from that.

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