|
|
 |
|
The views expressed on this page are soley
those of the author and do not
necessarily represent the views of County
News Online
|
 |
Broke Wife, Big City
My favorite
parenting book is “Frankenstein”
By Aprill Brandon
It never ceases to amaze me how similar talking about raising kids
sounds to the plotlines of horror movies.
“I woke up, disoriented, only to discover his face was mere inches from
mine, his milky breath washing over me. I screamed while his face
contorted into an evil smile.”
“I slammed shut the bathroom door but when I looked down I saw two
pairs of sticky hands slowly reaching out for me from underneath.”
“It was a dark and stormy night. I grasped for a diaper but my hand met
with nothing but air. With dawning horror, I realized we were out. My
terrified eyes met hers and that’s when she unleashed hell from below.”
“The restaurant only had white milk, no chocolate, and there, right
before our very eyes, they transformed, their bodies and faces
contorting into inhuman angles and expressions. Where once small
children had been were now hideous monsters, their banshee screams
filling the night air.”
But that’s the devil’s bargain you make when you create life. In
exchange for creating a creature of pure adorableness, that
adorableness is wrapped around the brain of a psychopath.
Which is why, once you reproduce, there is nowhere to run, nowhere to
hide anymore. They will FIND you. Thinking of having kids? Forget
reading parenting books. Start with Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein.”
Homegirl tried to warn us.
Just like in any good horror movie, among the nooks and crannies of my
haunted house, there is now only one small corner I can retreat to when
things get too terrifying. Thanks to a heavily fortified baby gate, the
kids are barred from entering the kitchen. However, from the baby gate,
they can see pretty much the entire kitchen, which is why they hang out
there, moaning and growling and straining to get in like zombies if
zombies wore duck-covered footie pajamas.
But that ONE corner in the kitchen. It’s dark and dingy and usually
dirty BUT they can’t see me.
The first time I discovered the power of this secret corner, I was
trying to make dinner. The kids were tired and cranky and out for
blood. I was at the end of my rope but couldn’t escape. Or so it
seemed.
I reached for something in the fridge, their cries making the blood in
my veins turn to ice, when one of them shouted “Momma! Where are you? I
can’t see you!”
I crouched down and froze. They can’t see me, I thought to myself. Holy
crap, they can’t see me. Maybe they’ll stop hunting me if I ignore them
long enough. Stop breathing so hard, you idiot! They’ll hear you. Just
don’t move. Don’t blink.
And IT WORKED. Soon enough they got bored and actually started playing
with their toys, their thirst for maternal torture temporarily slaked.
Because that’s the thing with kids. Or at least my kids. Out of sight,
out of mind. If they can’t see me, they start to function like actual
humans, able to do things without my immediate presence or assistance.
However, if I am in the room, they magically forget how to do the most
basic of things, like how to operate a blanket and stack blocks on top
of each other and hold a book.
Better yet, if I hide out in my dirty little kitchen nook long enough,
they’ll eventually get bored enough that they’ll attempt to
interact...WITH EACH OTHER.
Which is why I now leave a book or newspaper or magazine in my corner.
I’m also thinking of having my husband build me a little wet bar back
there. I know a recliner won’t fit back there but maybe a small chaise
lounge or something.
Who says horror stories can’t have happy endings?
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
|
|
|
|
