Friday, October 20

Things have been somewhat quiet around the house since the Monster Toddler from Planet Hell left Friday night. He ate my youngest boy’s new Nerf basketball, spitting huge pieces around the living room, started breaking his new set of fat crayons (but I caught him before he got beyond the first one.), broke my glider chair, dumped a glass of water on my side of the mattress, dug out three nice die-cast cars stored under my bed and broke one (the nice, big cars), screamed every time he didn’t get his way, told me to f*** off, constantly yelled “bullshit!” at the top of his lungs... My toddler cried and hid from this kid (he’s only 4 months older than my baby boy.) in my bedroom, where I have a TV set, so he watched cartoons the last day the Monster was here.

There was not enough Valium in the world to help me those three days. And the chickens were so terrified they left the coop and the barnyard, tucking their nests and eggs in little hidden trunk compartments under their feathers. They waddled out to the woods and camped there on the second night. Minutes before they left, I heard the head rooster whispering to his prize hen, “I’ll never think Zinnia’s deranged again. Next time that little diaper shitter comes outside, we’ll make a run for it! He’s insane! I actually feel sorry for Z!”

“I know,” the prized hen whispered back, “just look at this!” She unfolded her wings and revealed her chest. It had been plucked free of feathers with a pair of women’s boobs drawn in their place. “Do you know how long it’ll take me to grow feathers back over this baby graffiti?”

Hell, I hate to admit it, but that had me laughing so hard that having the horrifying midget adult here was almost worth it...almost.

The night the Monster Toddler left, my older boys poked their heads in the back door and asked, “Mom? Is it gone?” Note they didn’t say he, they said it.

Those kinds of children are proof that a stronger form of birth control is needed.

Oh, and the chickens moved back into the coop the following morning. But I still can’t pry the cat off the ceiling fan. Damn pussy has a death grip on it and just keeps going round and round and...

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