oh, and one more thing. (okay… two more things.)

Kip sent Connor this really awesome George & Martha compilation book a couple of years ago. We usually pick a random story from it when we read it to Connor, because in the normal scheme of things the book is still a little beyond him. He loves it with an unholy love, though (I think because I used to set it in the crib to amuse him when he was tiny), so tonight I picked it up and started flipping through for a story we hadn’t yet read.

“No, Mommy!* Go the right way,” Connor insisted. Whatever, I thought, and turned back to the beginning of the book. We got through two very silly stories about friendship and truth and hippos before encountering “Story Three: The Tub.” I had already made it kind of bad by pronouncing the title in a spooky, doom-filled Vincent Price manner, so imagine my surprise when the first two pages were a bit… alarming.

“George loved to peek in windows.” Well, that is a very unusual hobby for a morbidly obese sub-Saharan semi-aquatic animal to have! The accompanying picture was of the interior of an ambiguous room, tastefully decorated in searing yellow, and George’s head poking through the window. Huh.

“One day, George peeked in at Martha.” The accompanying picture was of Martha (another morbidly obese hippo), naked in the tub, stretched out in a sex-kitten pose and scrubbing herself languidly with a body brush. I couldn’t help myself; I blurted out, “WELL, THINGS HAVE CERTAINLY TAKEN AN UNSAVORY TURN!”

Without missing a beat, Connor piped up with, “Mommy, he is just a PEEPER. He is not a SAVIOR.”

Well, that certainly clears things right up! Thanks, kid.

—-

Connor: Coats are like flying kites!
Me: Sure, in an alternate universe where you are actually sane!

*Yes, I am Mommy again. For now.

also: a bonus tirade for you.

I cannot stop my annoying habit of making five separate posts for five separate thoughts instead of writing one post with transitions, so! Let’s talk about Why I Hate Your* Stupid Racist Remarks!

If you know me in real life, it is incredibly, incredibly stupid to make jokes about tossing Mexicans overboard (“… because they can SWIM! HA HA!”) to me. If you know my last name, it is flat-out ridiculous for you to email me about how we need to “just kill all the Spic(k?)s already” or “make those wetback assholes come clean [your] house so they don’t have time to bitch.”

UM HELLO. MY HUSBAND IS MEXICAN. MY CHILD IS PART MEXICAN. MY LAST NAME IS “PINO.” Why do you think that I would want to hear this crap? “But your husband is a legal citizen!” No fucking joke. A lot of Mexicans are legal citizens! A lot of people of Mexican descent are, in fact, born in America! Every day, this happens! “But Michael isn’t a wetback — I mean, he speaks good English and everything.” Yes! Yes, he does! I am curious, now, as to your definition of “wetback” — do you mean it literally? Were you referring to people with damp scapulas? Because otherwise, I am not seeing the funny. “I’m just mad because all of these wetbacks/Spic(k?)s/gravelbellies/beaners are taking jobs away from me!” Really? Your lifelong dream is to be forced into incredibly harsh physical labor for a demeaning amount of cash under the table? You feel that Mexicans will do your job better than you, and are therefore going to put you out of the running for good jobs? (Wait, that’s not an insult at all.) And still, why do you think that makes it appropriate to insult the heritage and ethnicity of my husband and my son IN FRONT OF ME?

“God, it was just a joke.” Oh. Well, in that case, I have to point that issues of offense aside, it wasn’t funny.

*I do not actually mean you guys specifically, LJ. I promise. (Unless you do stuff like this, in which case I DO mean you. Yes. You.)

chill, kiddo.

One of the things I am learning this week is just how hard it is to get things of a work nature done while also caring for a toddler. Amalah has written about this several times, and a couple of other motherly-type writers I follow have done so too, but I always sort of brushed it aside. My kid is independent! My kid loves to play in his room by himself for extended periods of time! My kid takes a two-hour nap every day and never rolls out of bed before 8:30 AM! My kid… requires a constant stream of conversation, praise, jokes, explanations, and nebulous responses!Awesome. Except, not. I seem to have overestimated the amount of free time I have in a day, probably because I’ve never had the stereotypical mommy problem of never being able to do anything that isn't baby-related. I’ve always had plenty of time for cleaning or showering or lounging around reading the tabloids, so why wouldn’t I have time to work?

Well. Well, well, well. It turns out that half-assedly thumbing through People and putting a medical journal’s article on retroillumination of the liver through an editorial wringer do not require the same level of concentration! It turns out, too, that searching pretty intensively for decent jobs and wiping down the counters are not the same in terms of distractibility and focus! And it turns out that I am, in fact, one of those easily stressed mommies who say things like, “Connor Ashley, Mommy is trying REALLY HARD to finish updating her resumé and if you cannot GO PLAY for THIRTY FREAKING MINUTES then perhaps you should consider A NAP, like, NOW.”

And then Connor, of course, says, “Okay, I will go play,” and then he wanders into his room and starts shouting out his usual running commentary. “I am playing now! I found my guys! The purple guy is HAWKEYE! They have to find a car and get it out of the mud! Mater will help! I can’t find my tow cable! Mommy, let’s look for it!” And then I slam my face into the keyboard, because I am a neglectful mother who is stunting her son’s verbal development and self-esteem with all of the muttered sarcasm. (“That’s just great, but I don’t actually need to know that right now, JESUS.”)

So now I am wasting even more time by whining about it on the Internet. I don’t know what we’re going to do once I have real work to do, as opposed to the random hour’s worth of editing and resumé-mailing. It feels silly (and very, very expensive) to put Connor in daycare when hello! Your perfectly good mother is home all day! On the other hand, there is this entire day, which I would like to avoid reenacting on other days. Blah. Blah, I say.

(I SAID BLAH, SIR!)