Nanny 911

When I refer to The Emperor of my Universe, I'm sure some of you think it's just a cutesy little affectation of an indulgent mother.

It's not. I've spawned a little Napoleon. Y'see, I refer to him sometimes as "my late in life baby" but it's not like I was 47 or anything. I was a whopping 36 when he was born. Compared to the other kids, yes he was significantly later, but c'mon I wasn't worried about breaking a hip or anything.

The problem with having a baby through artificial means and being OLD and knowing he's your last is that you tend to coddle. And baby. And hate the sound of their tears. You find yourself scrambling for rose petals to fling in their path when they stumble from the bed to the bathroom. Think Eddie Murphy in Coming to America-and that's the E.

However. Here's the dark side. He began to set his own bedtime and in his mind, it's a carnival up until he falls over in a coma around 1 am. He jumps on the bed, he throws my (non waterproof) pretty pretties in my bathwater, he gets in the refrigerator for a "midnight snack so I can be strong and hellfy", he uses my cell phone to call Hong Kong. I, however, would like something akin to a social life with other adults and that's chiefly accomplished by phone since I'm soooooooooo far away from all the cool people. It's impossible with a small child hitting you in the face with a Spiderman pillow.

I'm embarrassed to even call SuperNanny or Nanny 911. Those families are intact nuclear families with 11 bratty kids. In my casa, it's just one 44 pound tyrant who has an emotional cattle prod trained on his mother.

So, if you hear wailing and gnashing of teeth coming from the Southeast, hide. Mama's on a pissed off rampage and it ain't pretty.


Thursday May 17, 2007 - 09:55am (EDT)