The heat wave we’ve been experiencing lately has translated into many hours indoors, planted firmly within the range of the air conditioner. Eliot and I have put together Legos, played video games, watched an insane amount of Netflix streaming offerings, and read piles and piles of books. We’re both going a bit stir crazy at this point. Today we ventured out into the heat for a change of scenery, just to have lunch and then soak up some of the public library’s air conditioning. I’m not sure if we’re both a little delirious from the heat and cabin fever, but our conversations seem to have gotten even more ridiculous lately than usual. Okay, wait a minute. Actually when I say “our conversations,” what I really mean is the totally random nuttiness that Eliot comes up with.
This morning he asked if we had any skeeters.
“Skeeters?” I asked.
“Yeah, like the kind we eat. Do we have any of those?”
“Ummm…we don’t eat….mosquitos…?”
“NOoooo, not THAT kind of skeeters, the other skeeters!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, dude.”
“The round kind. Skeeters. Kind of like M&M’s, only different.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said, “skeeters,” do we have any of those?”
At lunch today, he ordered biscuits and gravy, which is generally his favorite. If biscuits and gravy can be had, then that’s what he’ll have, regardless of time of day. As the waitress set his plate in front of him, Eliot grabbed his fork, eyed the biscuits and gravy and yelled, “Hey, you, biscuits and gravy, I’m gonna eat you up, and then I’m gonna PEE you out!”
When I shushed him, using his first, middle, and last name, admonishing, “We. Do. NOT. Talk. That. Way. In. Public,” through tightly clenched teeth, he laughed and said, “Oh yeah, because I wouldn’t pee it out anyway, right? I’d have to poop!” Yes, Eliot. That is why I scolded you. Not because you’re loudly talking about bodily functions in public, but because you were incorrect about said bodily functions. Obviously. *sigh*
Sometimes when I meet friends for lunch and Eliot isn’t with me, they act disappointed. I don’t know if the disappointment is genuine, or just feigned out of politeness. I suspect it’s only genuine if they haven’t eaten lunch with my son before. It’s not that he’s so bad, necessarily. He’s not one of those kids that gets up and runs around and yells and causes all kinds of pandemonium. It’s just that he makes any kind of meaningful conversation pretty much impossible. He wants everyone’s attention on him. Because look how devilishly clever and funny he is! Look, everyone! Look! I can’t really complain too much; after all, I’m pretty sure he comes by the attention craving honestly. In my own defense, I’m a middle child. Out of all my four parents with our blended families (I have 9 sisters total, 0 brothers), I’m neither the oldest nor the youngest for my mom, dad, stepmom, or stepdad. I’m firmly ensconced between other girls who brought (bring!) their own drama to the family. All my life, I’ve been jumping up and down, waving my arms in the air, screaming, “Notice me! Notice me!” hahahaha. So, yeah, Eliot is definitely his mother’s son. And, shit, he’s also ridiculously, devilishly clever and funny. So there’s that.
While dining out, he will inevitably “accidentally” end up with food on his arms and face, or let escape some not-so-quiet, “accidental” gas, or spill syrup on the tablecloth and then drive a matchbox car into it and exclaim, “Oh man, looks like this car is leakin’ oil!” If all else fails, he’ll crawl up into my lap and try to kiss my face, murmuring, “Oh, Mommy, I love you, I loveyouloveyou, mommmmmmy.”
The truth is, I don’t mind his hijinks all that much. It doesn’t bother me personally as much as it embarrasses me. I wish I could put the fear in him thoroughly enough that he would sit there and behave. Kind of. Then again, I don’t want him to be the kind of meek, personality-less kid that I was at his age, clinging to my mother’s purse straps and not daring to look any adult in the eye. So I guess I alternately admire him and am embarrassed by him. I don’t want to be THAT mom, the one whose kid is incredibly fucking annoying, and she thinks it’s charming. Sometimes I worry that I’m that mom. Am I that mom? *hanging head in shame*
In any case, I have to go now. We’ve got Batman to watch and Skeeters to eat.