My husband and I haven’t been getting along. We’ve both been trying to get along. But, I guess we kind of love / slightly loathe one another. Not as cute as it sounds (only looks so in saccharine sitcoms). Today we had to have a talk in the driveway, sitting in the car as the windows steamed up, before we could proceed with our plan for the day without trying to kill one another (our murder weapons: eyerolls, tense silence, cutting remarks that likely sound harmless on the surface). The plan for the day ended up being an entirely civil and then, as it turned out, very fun family-bonding trip to Olympia and the Hands On Childrens Museum. So, to quote Plankton, “See? Everything works out.” Oh and let me also point out that our children sat quite patiently through our entire “discussion” (read = moderately tense with only a 1.5 rating on the Sarcasm O-Dick-a-Tron) and waited it out. I don’t know whether to be proud or chagrined.
One of the things we’re arguing about these days is Ralph’s relationship with our son. They aren’t really getting along, either, some of the time. The poor guy – by this I mean Ralph – has been on the receiving end of Nels’ verbal and occasional physical abuse. It sucks. Sucks for them both, sucks for me to witness.
And let me interrupt myself – guess what? I get a few emails and comments from blog-readers who seem to look up to my parenting skills or envy my family life. So how’s about this for awesome? This evening at the gas station Ralph deigns not to allow Nels to help him pump gas. Nels cries, is sad, pleads. I hop outside to talk to Ralph about something and see our son is working hard to roll down the window to address his father. Why, what could the little tyke possibly have to say? I wait with baited breath.
Window down. In pristine frustration he bellows: “Goddamnit, dad!”
He goes on but… I’m split precisely in half, completely dismayed for Ralph to be yelled at this way and (inside) also completely laughing at how perfectly, perfectly Nels is expressing himself. Oh yes, and about four hundred people heard this. And likely thought they were better than us.* So, I guess we do offer that service to the general public: the opportunity for onlookers to feel smug.
This evening at home Nels is mostly civil until Ralph puts his Legos away too soon. Nels waits, waits, waits outside the bathroom patiently. Circling like a sleek, studious little shark. When Ralph emerges he says calmly, “Dad? You’re an asshole.”
To quote Talladega Nights**, “Did that blow your mind? That just happened.”
I admit it: that one did shock me.
And not that it’s any of your business, but no, we adults in this household do not speak to one another this way (out loud anyway).
Hogabooms: house of malaise.
* Let me point out that in barfy mags like “Parenting” etc. stories like these are told but the kid always yells something “horrible” like, “fart” or “turd”. OOooooooh… and the eyerolls keep coming.
** The type of cinematic fare that, potentially, accounts for my son’s language? Can’t be quite conclusive. Still, between Will Ferrell comedies or a few years of Barney songs? I’ve made my choice.