Children can be the biggest joy of our lives. They can also jack things up for you when you expect it, and need it least. In my experience, the old saying, "If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy" has been severely distorted by my children. I think my kids heard it wrong and misinterpreted it as saying, "If Mama's happy, in a good mood, and feeling good about herself, I ain't doing my job", or maybe its "If Mama is unhappy because she is having a bad day, what can I do to ratchet things up and make it a little more interesting?"
I don't have bad kids, but I do have children who have a warped sense of humor. They like to see me squirm, and when they can, they seem, for a while, to relish getting the best of me and the upper hand. Oh, I end up rebounding and recovering, but once it happens, it can't be undone. At that point you have a couple choices: Laugh it off, or be ready with an explanation to exonerate yourself.
After going out with someone a few times, you're ready to have him over to meet your kids. You made sure the house was spotless, and you went over the expected code of conduct. Before you answer the door, you glance at your children standing off to the side, angelic looks on their faces, their hands benignly held behind their backs. "Please God", you pray silently, "just don't let them embarrass me". And so the evening goes--you all sit down to dinner. Right in the middle of dinner, and interrupting dinner time conversation, your fifteen-year-old beauty queen daughter will channel her inner competitive-eating construction worker and belch a belch the likes of which no one has heard before. You feel the blood rise to your face and your eyes begin to twitch as you politely admonish her. She will reply with the unthinkable, "At least it's not as bad as you passing gas all the time, Mom!" She will smile at you and narrow her eyes, looking first at you, then at your date, gauging his reaction. You will want to die, but don't. You'll leave a messy kitchen.
The teenage daughter is not done yet. Dinner is over. Dishes are washed. The kids have all wandered away to their rooms. You and your date are watching television in the comfort and the quiet of the family room. It remains peaceful for approximately twenty-seven minutes, at which time your teenager will enter the adjoining kitchen and begin rummaging loudly through your junk drawer. After a few minutes of the unpleasant background noise, you will ask, "Can I help you find something? What are you looking for?" To which your child will put her index finger to her lip as if deep in thought, and then after carefully choosing her words, she will answer you. "The itch cream. I need the itch cream. You had it the other night--it's probably in your bathroom". Horrified, you stand up. Your date stands up. He never looks you in the eye as he mumbles his pleasantries, thanks you for dinner, and leaves. "I wonder if I'll ever see him again?", you think to yourself as you unconsciously begin scratching an imaginary itch on your leg. You won't.
You're on the way back home from a dance recital three hours away. On a Sunday night. You have to be up at the butt-crack of dawn for work, and your daughter has school. In an effort to save time, you allow your child to remain in her leotard and full dance make-up for the long ride home. By ten o'clock, you still have two hours until you hit your driveway. Your child has fallen asleep in the back seat and in an effort to stay awake, you insert a CD and begin singing. Loud. As we all know, you can't drive slowly while you're belting out tunes meant to keep you awake. On you caterwaul through "Love Shack", "Copacabana", "Highway to Hell" (you have very eclectic musical taste), and just as you begin the opening strains to "Mas Tequila", you see lights flashing behind you. `Arriba! With a lump in your throat you calmly slow down, and come to a stop at the side of the highway. You gather your registration, license, and composure. You are amazed to find out that you were going 87 miles per hour. Hell, you weren't even sure your car was capable of going that fast. Where am I headed? Very good question, officer. And so you explain how your daughter had a dance competition and you're trying to get home to Fort Wayne. She's got school in the morning, and you have to be at work. At this point the officer realizes you have a passenger back there. He shines his flashlight into the rear of your car. Your daughter sleepily emerges from under her blanket, with her smudged black eyeliner, red lipstick..... panty hose,body suit, and hair extension flopping in her face. She's quite disoriented, and looks in bewilderment at the officer, then to you, and back at the officer, and cries, "Are you going to take her to jail?" she asks the officer, looking at you. That was not the correct question to ask. You're lucky if all you get is a ticket out of that one.
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