ABOUT ME

About me: My husband Chuck, our six-year-old Junior, our three-year-old Everette and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.

Friday, September 12, 2008

I'd rather be pelted with kisses than chickenfeed

Today was our new nanny’s first day. Her name is Diana and she looks like a mom in that comfortable kind of way. Disney would probably like her. But they can’t have her.

She brought an entire loaf of bread with her, which I thought was strange, but she also brought her 16-month-old son, Brian, and was Junior ever happy to see him. His face lit up like a Christmas tree doused with gasoline.

Suddenly it was so clear: My little oompa loompa has been starving for a little buddy!

Chuck worked from home so he could help Diana navigate the house and hold one of the kids if she had to pee. Before I’d even stepped out the door she had asked what chores she could do while the kiddies were sleeping (Oven Girl? Who’s that?) and where my recycling bin was.

I practically skipped to work. Halelluyah! The sun was shining bright over Mulletville!

Then, after lunch, Chuck called.

“Things have been interesting around here.”

“What? Did she quit? Did the cat sit on her? What? What? What?”

“Relax. Junior’s just been kissing Brian all morning.”

Kissing?”

Kissing. On the mouth. He really likes him.”

“Oh. Is he slobbering on him?”

“Not too bad.”

I hung up and walked over to the copier. “Junior’s been kissing his new buddy, Brian, on the lips all morning!”

I’m sure you all know what’s going to happen next. When you stand up and make a bold declaration to an office full of people—especially one comprised of older women—you have basically affixed a bulls-eye to your forehead.

I did what any good little worker would do: I stood there like a trooper and let them pelt me.

“You need to have a talk with him!” someone shouted. “Make sure he knows the difference between lip kisses and cheek kisses!”

“They’re both boys?”

“Distract them! Then they’ll stop!”

“Don’t kiss on the lips in front of your baby. He’s mimicking you! Keep that stuff to the bedroom.”

The more the words flew, the further my hands crept towards my belt. A proper mooning was clearly the only acceptable response to the dribble. So I bent down, clenched my waistband, turned towards the copier and…

Removed my copy from tray 2.

Come on! I would never moon an office full of women. Attractive firefighters who had just finished posing for a Hottest-Hose-of-the-Month calendar? Yes. Menopausal hens? No.

Besides, aren’t the risqué habits of Chuck and me what started this whole Tour de Lips in the first place?

Well?

5 comments:

The Fritz Facts said...

I think it is cute. He has a friend! Not a problem...Tour De Lips. hehehe

Dto3 said...

No joke! When we were married, the bird seed phenomenon had come of age, as not to implode the little sparrows in the trees. That stuff hurt flying at us as we navigated our way to the limo after getting hitched. Wait, that wasn't the primary purpose of your post, was it?

Mekhismom said...

You have me cracking up! I can't even imagine what would have happened if you mooned the old biddies. I am sure your son will grow out of it - he doesn't know the difference yet.

Jay said...

LOL
I really enjoyed your blog...Thank you!! If you are interested in swapping blogroll links, please let me know!
Jay
http://www.halftimelessons.com

DYSFUNCTIONAL MOM said...

Oh, please. You don't have to stop kissing your hubby in front of your son, that's just silly! Just tell him to only kiss mommy and daddy on the lips, or something like that.