We’ve established that when I was a kid, I was kind of a freak. (Seriously, who bites their stuffed animals?) But here’s something else you should know about me: I don’t like kids. In fact, I can’t stand them. You wanna know what’s worse than kids? Babies. They cry, they eat, they puke, they poop, and then they poop and cry some more. I’ve yet to see what everyone finds so endearing about these bundles of womb projectile because to me, they’re just gross (almost as gross as the term “womb projectile”). Also, they make me really uncomfortable. People are always like, “HOLD MY WOMB PROJECTILE” and I’m like, “ehhh… ok.” This is kind of a problem, because as you may know, I have six nieces and nephews.
My oldest nephew Christian was born when I was about six or so, and I’ve realized that this may be part of the reason that I’m going to give children apples or wax candies every Halloween. See, my older sister Danielle was always in the limelight, and I had grown to accept that. I guess I just figured that after you pop out four offspring, you’re about spent on your attention budget. But then womb projectile #1 came along, and everyone was all, “OMG BABY!” and I was like, “WTF?!?” So yeah, might have been harboring a bit of resentment.
This turned out to be a problem one March night when Misty (Christian’s mom and my oldest sister) was going to have Danielle and I over to spend the night. She was driving us home with Danielle in the front seat and me in the back next to the three-year-old Drool Master 3000 when we decided we were hungry. We stopped at a Sonic, because I was too young to realize that the only redeemable thing about Sonic is their drinks, and grabbed some kid’s meals. This was in the days before they had milk and bananas at fast food joints, so I got a cherry limeade and Drool Master got a Hi-C, both of which were in the standard Styrofoam cups. Misty asked nine year old me to supervise the Drool Master and make sure he didn’t throw his drink at her head or anything. I said OK.
So we’re driving down the road a while and then we start to hear the unmistakable sound of a straw being removed and reinserted into a plastic lid. It was all, “skah-week ska-week ska-week” and Misty was all, “are you watching him?” So I looked over and sure enough, Drool Master’s squeaking away at his drink, just as happy as can be. So we drove for a while with the “ska-week ska-week ska-week” all the way along, when all of the sudden the “ska-week” stopped and the Drool Master turned into Captain Waterworks.
So Misty pulled over to find that sure enough, Captain Waterworks had poked a hole in his cup and was now covered in Hi-C. Misty was like, “I TOLD YOU TO WATCH HIM” and I was like, “I did watch him!” And she went, “you watched him POKE A HOLE in his cup!” And I probably said something like, “you didn’t tell me to DO anything about it,” because yes, nine year old me was kind of an a-hole. She was really mad, and it probably didn’t help that I was cracking up. I couldn’t help it- it was like when someone loses a scoop off of their ice cream cone- you can’t help but laugh.
She’s still mad at me for it and brings it up every chance she can. And I laugh every time because I still think it’s hilarious. (Note: So does said nephew, who doesn’t remember the incident). Moral of the story: I’m a bad baby sitter. Other moral of the story: don’t ask someone who doesn’t like kids to supervise your womb projectiles.
Note: Though I don’t like children, I do love my nieces and nephews. I’m not a COMPLETE a-hole.