Zombie Children

   I once believed I would never let my children watch television until they were, say, 12 or so. Then I was stuck at home with a new baby for three months in the dead of a Minnesota winter and figured she didn’t even know what was going on yet, so it didn’t count. I stumbled onto a cartoon network,  and I noticed  my colicky-baby-from-hell-Thing 1 was alarmingly NOT screaming, but staring zombie-like at the screen. At that moment I decided I would rather have zombie children than, say, werewolf-banshee children. And here we are.

            
The day now begins with  “JUICE TIME!”, followed by “Watch’a Show! Watch’a Show! Mommy, Watch’a Show!”, at which point I sleepily ask, “What do you say?” in a vain attempt to redeem my parenting.  

Thing 1 then turns long suffering eyes on me as if perhaps my hearing is already going and yells, “WATCH’A SHOW!!!” 

This is when I break out my best mom voice, “How can you ask nicely?”  

Comprehension: oh, right, that trick; “Please,” with an angelic face and a sign language gesture to sweeten the deal.  Sigh. 

This morning was Back Pack Jack from the library (I do not recommend.) all about trucks, recycling, garbage removal, etc.  Unfortunately, the only 10 minutes she likes is when they crush cars. Naturally. As I stumble around (with Thing Two wailing on my shoulder because the lactose gas in her stomach is obviously trying to murder her), attempting to use the bathroom and check my email, every 10 minutes there is a heart wrenching cry from the living room, “Smoosha da cars? Smoosha da cars. Skip to Smoosha the cars?! PLEASE! SMOOSHA DA CARS?!” By now she has found me and is staring at me with intense desperate eyes. Must. Smoosh. A. Da. Cars. Here is where I really fail as a parent. Instead of teaching my child that she needs to watch the show until the end or find something else to do, I push the damn skip button right back to that smooshing car machine and buy myself another 10 minutes. 

            
As I finally get a clean shirt over my head and am looking for some pants, Thing One finishes her juice, and begins hyperventilating and running in circles yelling, “More Juice! More Juice. More Juice? MORE JUICE! GIVE ME JUICE OR GIVE ME DEATH!!!!!" I am heading for the fridge when Thing Two expertly turns her head and vomits down my clean cleavage, and I contemplate faking a nervous break down so I can go somewhere quiet.