Several times I lost my shit at my oldest, in front of the Flemish, who were constantly being slammed into and injured by a tween and his runaway skate board. I can't say I was even upset when the maimed would look me in the eyes, as they raised their fists and called my son an asshole in their native tongue. It's "klootzak," btw.
In an urgent and guttural hiss I berated them when they over did their martyrdom and super-gagging, at the food in Jaime Oliver's restaurant at Covent Garden. I still can't figure out if Jaime Oliver's place sucked, or just the English cuisine.
I even screamed at one of them, as the other one and I had our feet in the warm waters of the Mediterranean sea, while we splashed and searched for mermaid's tears (sea glass) that had washed up upon the beach of Capri. (When Mommy says watch her purse no matter where we are at in Italy, watch her goddamn purse!!!)
I guess what I'm saying is, I love my kids more than anything in the world, and I realize how fortunate I am that I got to show them a little piece of it. Besides, the best part of me pitching a fit at them is when the calm returns, they always do their best Goldmember impression as a duo and sing song back at me, "Would you like a smoke and a pancake? You know, flapjack and a cigarette? No? All right. Cigar and a waffle? No? Pipe and a crepe? No? Bong and a blintz? No? Oh, well, then there is no pleasing you..."
Sometimes they just might be correct!
Comments
Post a Comment