The other day, my babiest Baby C and his P.I.C., Miss M were having a tug of war over Corbin's Woody (from Toy Story, you pervs) doll. I did the right thing and made him give it to her because she's a girl and that's just the way things work so he may as well get used to it now. What did he do??
He picked up a machine gun and shot me...twice. Now, I know some of you don't allow little boys to play with guns and that's fine but let me tell you a secret: they're making guns out of their fingers, sticks and their penises every time you turn your back. It's in their dna.
Because my littlest little is so atttached to me, I figured if I played dead- real dead, because I am an actress, people, that he would feel bad and stop. This is how the conversation went after he shot me. I need to tell you quickly that they still babble incoherently, so the things I infer for myself, I'll write like this.
Miss M: You shot you Mommy, Torvin?
Baby C: Yes. I'll shoot any bitch who messes with my Woody doll.
Miss M: You shot you Mommy, Torvin.
Baby C: She dead. Give me my fucking Woody doll.
Miss M: Here's your Woody, Torvin. (giving doll back to my son)
Not once was the little bugger concerned that I might actually be dead. He shot me with a machine gun, folks. From time to time, it occurs to me that I may have gone slightly wrong somewhere while raising them...I think it was somewhere between The Wiggles and Yo Gabba Gabba.