Where We Don't Slap Our Weiners At The Table...
Tonight was a Thursday night, one of the better nights for me here at The Ranch because the Precious Boy comes over to spend some quality time with his Auntie (And Granny and Grandpa, but they are secondary to me unless I'm napping. Because I'm the shining star in everyone's life unless I'm napping. And even when I am napping, I still manage to be the shining star in many people's lives. Like Dixie's.)
The last several Thursdays I have found to be quite trying because by the time Thursday rolls around, I'm getting kind of CRANKY from working and going to school and maintaining my status as a well-functioning human being. As a result, I've found myself over-correcting my precious little nephew on many occasions; like last Thursday when I gave him a quick reprimand for talking about the farting noises the Ketchup bottle made when he squeezed it.
And really, come on. Who reprimands a seven year old for talking about THOSE kinds of noises?
So tonight, I let everything slide. I was the hip and cool Auntie (Who was only asleep on the couch for forty five minutes of his night. Tops.) I didn't tell him to sit up straight and properly, or remind him to use his 'proper table manners' when dinner was served; I didn't remind him to put his milk glass at the top right of his plate or any of the other inane things that I remind him to do in a night.
And it was amazing, because I wasn't stressed out and the world didn't stop turning at any point in the evening. And when he started whacking the weiner on his plate with his fork, I didn't bat an eye until my mother told him that in this house, WE DO NOT SLAP OUR WEINERS AT THE TABLE.
And I quietly finished my Kraft Dinner and weiners, and I drank up every last drop of my milk and left the table. I made my way to the living room where the laughter that was held deep inside of me through dinner let out, and my stomach ached and tears rolled down my cheeks because my MOTHER said that we don't slap weiners at the dinner table.
Only in this house, I swear, would such a statement pass anybody's lips.
The last several Thursdays I have found to be quite trying because by the time Thursday rolls around, I'm getting kind of CRANKY from working and going to school and maintaining my status as a well-functioning human being. As a result, I've found myself over-correcting my precious little nephew on many occasions; like last Thursday when I gave him a quick reprimand for talking about the farting noises the Ketchup bottle made when he squeezed it.
And really, come on. Who reprimands a seven year old for talking about THOSE kinds of noises?
So tonight, I let everything slide. I was the hip and cool Auntie (Who was only asleep on the couch for forty five minutes of his night. Tops.) I didn't tell him to sit up straight and properly, or remind him to use his 'proper table manners' when dinner was served; I didn't remind him to put his milk glass at the top right of his plate or any of the other inane things that I remind him to do in a night.
And it was amazing, because I wasn't stressed out and the world didn't stop turning at any point in the evening. And when he started whacking the weiner on his plate with his fork, I didn't bat an eye until my mother told him that in this house, WE DO NOT SLAP OUR WEINERS AT THE TABLE.
And I quietly finished my Kraft Dinner and weiners, and I drank up every last drop of my milk and left the table. I made my way to the living room where the laughter that was held deep inside of me through dinner let out, and my stomach ached and tears rolled down my cheeks because my MOTHER said that we don't slap weiners at the dinner table.
Only in this house, I swear, would such a statement pass anybody's lips.
posted by Amanda at 01:01
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home