I never realize how much of a jerk parent I am until I say things out loud to co-workers and their fingers involuntarily look up the number for Child Protective Services.
The other day, Sandy and Barb were complaining about a co-worker who was coughing and sneezing all day.
“There goes Typhoid Mary again,” Sandy said, all annoyed.
“Oh, I know what you mean. Yesterday, Chooch sneezed like eighteen times in succession and I was like, ‘God, get a life!'” I said, feeling a real sense of camardarie.
“You told him to get a life?” Barb reiterated.
“Well yeah, because he was annoying me. I mean, who needs to sneeze that much?”
They both laughed, but I guess I kind of saw how maybe I could have chosen my words better. Or, you know, offered him a tissue instead.
I hurt my back today. I started to notice it while I was exercising, but I’m on an intense “I’m Fat and Should Die” kick so I sucked it up and continued through the pain. By the time I was done, I was laying on the floor, whimpering and unable to stand up.
Chooch took no pity on me.
“Stop being a crybaby,” he said. “It doesn’t hurt that bad, let’s go outside.”
So we went outside, where I writhed on the front porch and reminded him every 3 seconds of the excruciating pain I was in.
Then he scraped himself and got all Wounded Animal on me, but I scoffed. “You didn’t care about my back, so I don’t care about your scrape!”
Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. I only found that out when I came to work and told Barb and Kaitlin about how much of a bastard my own son was being to me while I clearly have a broken back.
“Erin!” Barb exclaimed. “Who’s the adult here?”
“But he hurt my feelings!” I argued.
“Yeah, but—he’s five!”
I mean, at least I’m not hitting him in the face with hot frying pans, right? Is that not good enough?
Well then, I guess tonight if you need me, I’ll be sitting in my room working on the parent rosary.