a veruca salt sort of day...

i feel petulant this morning.

i don't know why, but i'm fairly certain it has nothing absolutely totally to do with that small wildebeest otherwise known as esmé. yeah yeah yeah...she's a peter pan sprite of an imp who never fails to bring a giant smile to my face. no matter how many times she flushes items down the toilet that she never ever ever wants to see again. like that old beanie baby angel whose wings she hacked off with her safety scissors.

i asked but how will he fly?

mémé shrugged. answered i think him's had enough of the flying.

i just stared at her. it's a technique i often use when someone says something really unsmart or unkind or just plain mean. i'm the passive-aggro princess when it comes to tilting my head to one side, smiling, and asking faux innocently i'm sorry? just so the meanie must repeat.

that never works with mémé, as she's the queen of french exits. that little surgeon turned on her heel and walked away.

i sat there thinking manson. i told you i tend to fast forward with my worry. and then i heard the flush. the gasp. the pause. the mom? MOM? i think him needs your help!

i'm going to pretend she felt guilty. that the garbage bin was simply too temporal for her liking. she could maybe still hear his screams.

so last night i was trying to put her to bed. in my bed. {when did i become a co-sleeper sort of parent? i am chagrined. first time ever using that word. but it's what i am.} and i was tired and cranky and miffed and petulant. toilet dramas always put me in a mood. add a sad wet beanie baby to one? oh, it's over.

so i may have threatened you'd better fall asleep now because it's the witching hour and if they look in our house and see that i'm the sort of mother who lets my baby stay up this late...they'll...they'll...

at this, i pretended to die or pass out. whatever sounds less awful.

all of a sudden, a small hand lightly smacks my open mouth. i sat up and there's charles manson. i mean mémé. with her hands folded behind her head. just lounging.

you're right. she said. the witches tried to get you. but i think we'll be ok now.

i'm sorry?

today, i'm saying "i want" a lot. in a really mad voice. i want a white devil laundry bag i can wear in the winter. my summer sack is all ripped up and way too white. but no one will make me one in a charcoal jersey or even black. can someone please say yes to me? also, i want that indoor stove to be more than a master thesis project. i would like it to be in my home. and would it be too much trouble for someone to make me a fluffy cake or three? or at least take pictures of some like france ruffenach does? mostly, i want a child-free bed. if i get all of that or just one good night's sleep, i will be in a mucho better mood tomorrow. promise. one more thing: you know how i feel about my mémé. and if she wants to sleep in my bed for another twenty years, i probably wouldn't mind one bit. she wakes up a few times nightly, kisses my cheek, and says i love you, mommy. she's a dream. i just need sleep. xoxo.