Conversations with Spawnling, May Edition


Forgive me for not blogging much over the last couple of weeks, but I've been playing with this new concept of - get this - writing for money. Did you know you can actually get paid to write blog posts and articles? I also learned you can put other people's numbers into a spreadsheet, and that action gets translated into currency in your pocket. Seriously. I'm not even making this stuff up. All it takes is working full-time as a mom while simultaneously working part-time as a writer, trying to write sensible sentences while being screamed at for more apple juice, and subsisting on lots of coffee and an average of five hours of sleep every night.

You, too, can have this dream life!

Making a living with my mad skillages is nice and all, but there's nothing like a good freebie of a blog post to really let loose. This is why I don't have advertisers, giveaways, or anything else on here. I get to be me, without interruption, and without being owned by The Man, whoever he is. This is freedom money can't buy, baby.

For example, advertisers may not want to show off their parenting wares on a site where the mom parents poorly half the time, and Spawn-isms are commonly displayed for all to gasp at and chuckle about.

You know what Spawn-isms are, right? All good Stay-at-Home-Maven readers know that Spawnling comes up with the most inappropriate hilarities. Offensive to some, knee-slappingly funny to others, this is a three-year-old I'm simultaneously proud and mortified to call my son.

Today was no exception. We went out for lunch with Jobthingy, who had a day off from that work stuff she usually neglects me for. (Why we're still friends after what she puts me through , I'm not quite sure. ) We ordered our food and sat a perfectly acceptable length of time waiting for it, while we drank our drinks and chitchatted and did our best to keep a three-year-old entertained. Meanwhile, Spawnling would let out a whiny "I'm hungryyyyyyyyy!" or an "I'm staaaaaaaarving!" or a "When is my food going to be heeeeeeeeere?" every so often.

Spawn's food arrived not 15 minutes after ordering. The waiter put the plate down and started to walk away. He wasn't halfway through the restaurant when my dear child let out a loud sigh and followed it up with an even louder "FINALLY." The waiter turned around, wide-eyed, looked at me turning beat red, and started to laugh.

He returned to the table a couple of minutes later to bring the grownup food and said "It's a good thing I brought his food out early, eh?"

Say it with me now: MOR-TI-FIED. That is my child, who came from my womb, who has this sense of entitlement built right into him. I don't know who, exactly, decided he was King of the Universe, but we'll be hard pressed to ever take that crown away now.

*~*~*~*

We get back home. Spawn is happily playing on my bed. I lie down beside him for a minute (see above mention of lack of sleep) and he comes in for a snuggle. I get sentimental for a moment - always a fatal mistake - and say to him "Please don't ever grow up, ok? I like three-year-old you."

"Even when I'm four, I'll still love you, Mommy" says he, and smiles.

If there was a sound for my heart melting, I would put it in here.

"When I'm four," continues Spawn, "Will I be bigger?"

"Yes, you will be," I answer.

"Will I have this?" he whacks my stomach and makes it jiggle.

"No, I don't think so."

"Will I have boobies?" he asks as he smacks my breast.

"Um, nope. That's a girl thing." I reply, warily. I can see where this is going.

He looks at me with that rotten little twinkle in his eye. "Will I have one of... Uh... what's that called again? That thing you got? Oh, yeah: a buhgina?" He giggles. "Will I have a BUH-GIIIIIIIINA?"

"No, honey. You'll still be a boy."

"So I'll have a PENIS! And you'll keep your BUUUUUHGINA! BUHGINA! BUHGINA! BUHGINA!"

"I'm going to go get you a snack now and sit you in front of a movie now, ok? Mommy needs to get work done."

"Okay, Mommy. Mommy's buhgina. Heehee!"

Welcome to my life.

A Maven Quicky: Conversations with Spawnling


We were supposed to go out with my friend Sheri (AKA The Dog Whisperess) for a coffee this morning. Spawnling liked the idea at first, until he decided the Wii would be more fun than going out in the cold.

I started getting dressed and gave him a ten minute warning, to which he replied with sighs and slight protests, all the while playing Super Smash Brothers (yes, I know it's a fighting game and he's only three, but his big brothers play it, and quite frankly, I need to pick my battles around here. I am so very outnumbered by the testosterone-driven kind of humans it's not even funny)

But then, Sheri called, and broke the news that she had just gotten sick and probably shouldn't go near us lest she spread the vomitous love. I appreciate considerate people.

The problem? Spawnling loves Sheri very much. When she comes over, he takes up a great deal of her time and even kicks me out of the playroom so they can be alone. I was worried he'd be very sad.

The conversation we just had, however, is leaving me doubting his commitment to her. I just sent Sheri the following email:

Me: Spawnling, Sheri can't come to Tim Hortons because she's sick.

Spawn, not taking his eyes off the screen: Great!

Me: Uh.... She's sick. She just threw up.

Spawn: I know. That's awesome.

Me: ... Why is that awesome?

Spawn: Because I like Sheri.

Me: But she just threw up!

Spawn: I know. I like throwing up, too. It's really fun ... Uh, can I play Super Smash Brothers now?

You may want to find yourself a new boyfriend. This one isn't very supportive. And this is SO going on my blog.



Even though throwing up is fun, I hope Sheri feels better soon.