This past weekend, I had the good fortune of being able to pawn off my six-year-old son Ethan on some unwitting friends and depart for a weekend of hardcore frivolity in Palm Springs. Ethan was chomping at the bit for me to leave, as the choices of snack foods and desserts at our friend's home far surpasses the meager choices I tend to offer him. As Ethan joyfully bounded out my car with his small, SPONGE BOB overnight bag and charged through our friend's front door, I reminded him to give me hug as we said goodbye to one another.
He placed his SPONGE BOB valise carefully on the ground, turned, and then strode up to me purposely. He wrapped his small thin arms around my waist, grabbed my love-handles hard and said,
"You look really fat."
He then turned and bounded up the stairs to join his young buddy who was no doubt surfing the Internet and being exposed to emotionally scarring porn as none of my friends have had the foresight to put any type of parental controls on their computers. I casually glanced at the family matriarch who having heard Ethan's departing words was slightly horrified. I assured her that this last remark was Ethan-speak for 'I love and will miss you, dad.' She didn't appear convinced. In fact, I wasn't that convinced either.
Over the course of the last 6 3/4 years, my son Ethan and I have developed a private language that I consider 'creative,' 'playful,' and 'charming,' in direct contrast to our narrow-minded friends and loved ones who've labeled our small talk as, 'abusive,' 'hurtful,' and 'acidic.' Ethan and I often find ourselves in childish arguments where he tells me to 'shut-my-stupid-trap' and I respond that I'm calling the nasty government 'lady' who will officially take him into foster care. (I cruelly explain that the mean foster family that will take him will starve him and beat him with belts - and mind you, not the nice Prada or Gucci Belts he gets beaten with at home) Unimpressed, Ethan further tells me to 'shut-it' and tells me that the government doesn't listen to fat retards with 'muffin top' love-handles. At this point, I'm doubled over with laughter and kvelling from Ethan's innate charm. Who can resist such witty repartee?
My husband, George-the-Good, finds the annihilating banter between Ethan and I slightly unsettling. While Ethan and I hurl verbal bon-mots at each other, George squats on the floor of our dining room and rocks back and forth like an inmate at mental institution. His Apple Ear Buds are jammed in his ears blasting Lady GaGa at deafening levels desperately trying to drown us out. In an attempt to playfully draw George into our drama, Ethan will poke George in the arm and shout "Papa, daddy's being really mean and threatening to make me a ward of the state again. Kick his ass - I'll hold your coat." George glances at us and mouths that he can't hear a thing. Ethan takes the opportunity to punch me in the ass and make a run for it. While chasing him throughout the house, Ethan hurls fresh 'truth bombs' at me like "You got no business wearing those skinny jeans, you're too old and too fat!" I corner Ethan on the upstairs landing. We size each other up for a second or two and having spotted my opportunity, I make a ferocious pounce. As I drag Ethan to the floor, tickling him madly, he convulses in gales of laughter while at the same time crying, "Get off of me, lard ass!'
As I lay in the oppressive heat of Palm Springs, my too-small Speedo plastered to my middle aged hips - I realize that I miss my son horribly. Though my body has certainly seen better days, I am proud of my 'muffin top,' for having lived 'peacefully' with my son for almost 7 years, I've earned it!
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