If you are alone with your three young children on a Saturday night and committed to a gluten-free, dairy-free eating plan and have had no social invitations, here’s a low-maintenance option: let your 6-year-old apply gobs of eyeliner, visit a Japanese restaurant so your kids can pretend to be almost on fire, then teach them all gross words on the way home.
Japanese restaurants rock because everybody can sit around a grill, and the samurai chef throws oil on it and sets it ablaze in order to scare the bejeezus out of patrons. He also may or may not use his extremely sharp knives to turn onions into erupting volcanos. It all seems quite unsafe.
The Tyrant thought the chef was a Great Lava God. “I wish he was in our family,” she said. I smiled tightly at the mere idea, because I cannot possibly care for another single breathing being. A chia pet might push me off the sanity cliff.
I spent $60 for the children to see fire and eat white rice #WORTHIT and since the food wasn’t good enough that we’re likely to go back, I feigned nonchalance when the kids turned into uncouth dervishes.
We drove home singing that awesome Thrift Shop song. I’M GONNA POP SOME TAGS….GOT TWENTY DOLLARS IN MY POCKET…..THIS IS FUCKING AWESOME. Instead of FUCKING AWESOME, we sang MMMPH-MMMPH AWESOME, but the Diva and I traded secret glances so she knew that I knew that she knew it’s really FUCKING AWESOME.
In the middle of it all, the Tyrant let out one of her trademark burps, which honestly sound like her belly has imploded, and I thought I heard the boy say, “OH, MY FECES.” That surprised me! It’s cool when my kids know big words.
“Where do you learn that word?” I asked. After some amusing confusing chatter, we determined that he had said, “OH MY GEEZEES.”
But nothing gets past the Diva. She wanted to know the meaning of feces.
“Well,” I said. “It’s like a formal word for poop.” BWAHAHAHAHA! The car exploded in monstrous high-larity punctuated by verbal exclamation marks. POOP! FECES! MOM’S A FECES! YOU’RE A POOP FECES! Several surreal minutes flew by, with me chugging along in little Splenda*** smiling at my brilliant children on a Saturday night as they entertained themselves with advanced potty talk.
Good times, good times. Seriously, it was a good time.
I forgot about it until last night, when I took the kids out to eat with some friends. The Pterodactyl kept running up to me and shouting, “Mom’s a FECES,” then laughing like a hyena and running off. It finally occurred to me that he thought no one else in the world knew the meaning of this stupendous word. “Honey,” I said the next time he came over, “all the grown-ups here know what feces means.”
That was a buzz kill. But not too much. Because I forgot to tell you that I also taught them the term gluteous maximus, and they love to point out that Mama has a big one. YEAH, BABY! ME AND KIM KARDASHIAN! That’s not quite as fun as talking about feces, but it’s close.
***Okay, don’t be mad that I forgot to tell you this, but we sent the Motorized Landfill to a very nice entrepôt de chiffonnier-ferrailleur. That’s fancy French for junkyard. Honestly, I thought she had a few good miles left, but the duct tape holding the front bumper in place looked saggy. And the automatic door was broken. And the radio kept changing stations unexpectedly. And the back windshield wiper was missing.
Anyway, now I’m driving a Mazda 5, which is like a mini-minivan. We barely fit in it.
I hate it. I so appreciate Hot Firefighter Husband’s help in buying me cool new wheels! The kids have named it Splenda, for reasons unclear to me, and the Diva says she wants one just like it when she’s old enough to drive.
“Darling,” I explained, “when you’re old enough to drive, you can have Splenda.”
“AWESOME!” she screeched.