Spoiled.

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I don’t want to have spoiled kids. But, I think my kids are spoiled as shit.  Probably because we spoil them, and other people spoil them.  Duh.  And it sucks because sometimes I feel like I want to press the re-do button and limit certain things and say “No.” a lot more, but other times it just feels so damn fun to buy the weird toy and so damn easy to just give in and say “Yes.” rather than fighting the good fight.  I’m not sure where that leaves me on the parenting scale, but regardless, here we are.

And if you are wondering what “here” looks like—A couple of weeks ago when I took Rex to visit his brand new baby cousin in the hospital, he cried when he found out that she wasn’t going to have a present for him.  I mean, I get it.  She really should have stopped at target on her way out of the way out of the fucking birth canal to buy him a gift since he had endured the impossible and terrible car ride over to see her which is so obviously deserving of a fucking present!  So, I mean, that’s who I am dealing with--someone who thinks people need to give him gifts the second they touch down on this planet because a brand new real life baby cousin is not enough. Think about that.

Anyway—this weekend we took them bowling because I was trying to think of the most germ-infested place I could possibly go now that flu season is here.  They were SO excited to go.  We get there, check in, grab the shoes, and sign up for one lane for one hour.  A FULL HOUR OF FUN AND HAPPINESS! Well, the boys threw (literally) five or six balls before almost killing the lady in the lane next to us and then deciding that they would rather be playing the video games with the guns tucked in the corner of weirdly-carpeted side room instead. Fantastic.  Forty-nine minutes left on our lane rental, and off they go.

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Turned a few Abe Lincolns into some game coins and they were happy.  Said happiness lasted for approximately eight minutes during which time I chased Bizzy around and found her eating an old piece of popcorn and licking one of the skeeball machines.  Once the boys were out of coins, all hell broke loose.  “I need more coins! You don’t love me!  This is the most terrible day ever!” Dudes, we came here to bowl and you guys were really excited about that so how has this shifted so God damn quickly?!  No more games, psychos. 

In the heat of their meltdown I turned away to pretend that they weren’t my kids and I saw a blinking “start” button on the skeeball machine.  Oh, hell yeah.  Someone paid for this mofo and never played.  Mama’s lucky day.  Stepped right up and after a couple 20’s I hit that 1000 like the Lebron of skeeball that I know I am.  Out came twenty-seven orange tickets.  My arms went up in full celebration.  And then, they saw me.  Oh, shit.

“MOM!!!!!!! What are those?! What can we get?! Can we get something?!”  Rex grabbed them and ran to the prize counter.  Is it just me or does twenty-seven tickets sound like a couple bracelets and a slinky?  Twenty-seven sounds like a decent amount, right?! Well here, in germ-hell, twenty-seven tickets gets you two of the tiniest tootsie rolls in the universe.  And that, my friends, is IT. “NOOOOOO! I want that snake!! I WANT THE SNAKE, I WANT THE SNAKE!”

I threw the tickets on the counter, with the bowling shoes, and dragged my little sugarplums the fuck outta there.

Matt gave a quick car lecture about “The boys who always asked for more who were arrested and shipped off to live alone on a deserted island” or something like that, and we went on with our day.  I just wish they knew how lucky they are that we are safe and happy and healthy and that we get to go bowling as a family and wear the germ shoes and lick the skeeball machine.  SOME KIDS DON’T EVER GET THE CHANCE TO LICK A SKEEBALL MACHINE YOU SPOILED BRATS!!!! But maybe that’s too deep for them right now.  I don’t know.  I don’t think so. I’m gunna work on it. 

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