I Am the Reason for His Bad Poetry
I am single handedly giving a four-year-old scoliosis with my giant pregnant belly.
An adorable, bright, happy little boy is going to be reduced to a hunched back teenage loner who will write bad poetry about cheerleaders and their “vapidness.” That’s right. He will make up words … he’s gonna be that kind of sixteen-year-old.
On the flip side I’m hoping I will also be responsible for eight years of no grade school kickball, because honestly, the kid is small. Kinda scrawny. I think he could fit in a shoebox. Convenient for traveling, not so much for assorted contact sports.
See, he likes to plunk down on my lap to read a book. He also likes to sit there when he watches television, does a puzzle, or play Candyland. This was not a big deal back in my four months gone, slightly puffy phase. It is becoming very much a big deal in my current “I could wear clown pants and they would fit” condition. He leans back into me and I can actually see his spine curve into a horrible backwards “C.”
Looking down at his little face, his eyes shining brightly, I can feel my eyebrows arch. There is no way that this is comfortable. He’s doing a back bend, he’s doing a gymnast skill of flexibility every time he wants to listen to the Berenstein Bears and their struggles with junk food and messy bedrooms.
“Hayden,” I finally say, “buddy, are you sure you wouldn’t rather sit on a beanbag …” Hayden interrupts me.
He interrupts me by farting on me.
Exploding into hysterics of laughter, he bolted from my lap, clapping and dancing. It was so manic a performance that I thought he was having a epileptic seizure.
“I did it! I did it!” he crowed. “The gasman did it! I farted on your leg!”
My jaw dropped.
“Have you … is that why you sit on my lap? You’ve been waiting to fart on me?”
Hayden giggled and danced around in a circle.
Suddenly, I don’t care so much about whether or not he’ll need to wear a back brace to his freshman dance. I don’t care if people put magnets on him and use them to hold up signs that say, “Kick me, I have a curved spine.”
But then I think of all the horrible poetry that already exists, some penned by my very hand. The world deserves better than this. America has fallen on some pretty dark times and I worry that a country in such peril can’t take another angry spiral bound notebook of rants and angry diatribes about the unfairness of love. God knows my thigh high stack, still kept pristine in my old bedroom at my mother’s house, have done enough damage.
So I am hoping that the lap sitting will cease now that he has achieved his very lofty goal of farting on my leg. At the end of the day I just don’t have the will power that is necessary to ask a preschooler to leave me alone. Call it early maternal fluffenutter oozing of the peanut butter sandwich of my existence, but I can’t bring myself to ask this preschooler to quit the lap. I love the cuddles, however, I’m not crazy about the exploding ass facet that has sprung forth from these little affection sessions.
Have I mentioned I’m so happy to be having a girl?