Wednesday, September 21, 2011

My Children Are Probably Going to Kill Me Someday, But What Can You Do About It?

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.