If You Give a Boy A Fuse

Many of my friends have children, but almost an equal number have no interest in them. I support all of my friends in their choices, so if you don’t want to hear another story about my kids, this is your warning. Kid shit ahoy!

Background for this story: Tiny Titan had found a nickel and a red car fuse somewhere in the house earlier. Example of the fuse below (I hope we all know what a U.S. nickel looks like). I told him to put the nickel and the fuse in his pocket, but of course…

car fuse with a hand for scale

Tuesday afternoon, Tiny Titan looks up from his toys and says, “I’m going to Target. I’m gonna get my shoes.”

This surprised me for lots of reasons, but probably the biggest reason is that he’s four. How was he going to get to Target?

Ooooh, right.

Fast forward, and I’m now at Target.

Fast forward again, and we’re finishing up and heading toward check out. Then I hear,

“MOMMY! I DROPPED MY RED THING!”

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. I didn’t say it aloud, but I wanted to. I wanted to scream at him for not putting it in his pocket like I had told him to. I wanted to swear and curse at the person who left fuses lying around my house. I wanted to rip the Little House on the Prairie dresses off their hangars and tell Target how ugly some of their stuff is.

Instead of doing all the things I wanted to do, I said, “Oh, no, but I told you to put it in your pocket. How did you lose it?”

Through 4-year-old tears, he tells me how it was in his hand and how he was holding it but then he dropped it and he has to have it because it’s his red thing and if he doesn’t have it, he’s going to be so saaaaaaaaaad and he’s already sad because he doesn’t have his red thing.

I wanted to tell him too bad, so sad and leave the store. It would have been easy enough, and no one would have blamed me.

I could have done what I wanted to do, but for some reason, I didn’t. I remembered every time I had told an adult an important-to-me thing and they dismissed it. I remembered how much it hurt my little kid ego and how dumb I felt. I remembered how I stopped telling people about things that I thought were cool, interesting, or important to me.

I decided I didn’t want to be that mom. I didn’t want to be the mom who told her kid that the thing they cared about most in the world at that moment was dumb and didn’t matter. I didn’t want to dismiss something when we didn’t have anything else to do, so why not? Why not retrace our steps looking for a red fuse in the aisles? What could it hurt?

aisle of Target where we were searching

After looking at the example of the aisles of Target, I realize that I was gambling my sanity, but every parent/caretaker of a child has to tell their kid NO more often than we want to. Dammit, I didn’t have to this time.

So we looked for a car fuse in Target. We went up and down every aisle we had already been through with our eyes on the ground. I had to remind him more than once, “Are you looking?”, but he’s almost 4. That kind of thing comes with the attention span.

We didn’t find it, but that didn’t matter by the time we were done. We tried. That’s what was important.

We did find a dime though.

That was cool.

Dear Automatic Toilet

I just wanted to let you know I wasn’t done when you decided to prematurely flush and send your toilet water spraying all over my unmentionables. I was just bending forward to grab the toilet paper from the guts of the dispenser.

Not to make light of the situation, but I’m pretty sure what you did to me can be categorized as sexual assault. You don’t deserve a place in restrooms anywhere. You’re terrible, and you deserve to know it.

You, Mr. Fancified Self-Cleaning Litter Box, only make sense if you don’t stop to think about it. Yeah, I said it. Not having to touch a handle isn’t worth having to deal with you.

First, you don’t have a lid. Every time you flush, you’re spraying poop particles EVERYWHERE. On this British show, Trust Me I’m a Doctor, they found that 25-30% of people had feces (aka poop) on their hands even after washing them.

Even. After. Washing.

These people gave it the good ole college try washing their hands and still had poo hands. And you, Trouble Toilet, are just spraying that water everywhere? You probably put poo in my hair. I’m never going to get it all out…

Let’s forget about the light misting action for a moment, okay?

Why were you even invented? Because people didn’t want to have to flush a handle that everyone else has touched. You don’t even solve that problem. “Why don’t you just use toilet paper to unlock the door?”

Oh, puh-leeze. No one in the history of toileting has ever used toilet paper to open the stall door. The same hands that I was trying to avoid cross-contaminating my hands with touched the handle of the door. You failed at your one job. FAILED. PERIODT.

But my real reason for being mad today: You scare the absolute bejesus out of children. Small children have to potty, too, y’know.

They’re already scared of vacuum cleaners, and now you’re trying to destroy all the progress we made in potty training because kiddo thinks he’s going to be sucked straight to Hell with your aggressively volatile flushing?

No, YOU go straight to Hell, Mr. Lacking Latrine.

I’m tired of your shit.

The Problem
Problem Solved

In the Beginning

There was LiveJournal, and it was bad. If you didn’t have a LiveJournal, you were probably well-adjusted and didn’t suffer through “I can’t see through my bangs,” too much eyeliner, clumpy mascara, and/or none of your blacks matched because they all fade at different rates stages of adolescence.

You. Lucky. Bastard.

I never really got too into LJ because Netzero was the worst and most unreliable internet connection ever. The fact that more than half the time I wasn’t accccttttualllly supposed to be on the internet because teenage me couldn’t be trusted around chatrooms had absolutely everything nothing to do with it. Let’s blame Netzero and how freaking long it took to get online with dial-up.

Shortly after high school, I jumped on the MySpace wagon. Selfies in the bathroom. Duck lips. Still heavy bangs. Cryptic updates. Existential angst if I wasn’t on someone’s Top 8… then Top 12, 16, 20. Oh, good and bad gods, I’m so glad that level of stress has been removed. Now we never know if someone swiped left on us. So much better… right? right?!

Probably the best thing that ever came out of MySpace other than rudimentary knowledge of html was the blog space. I’ve always had more words in my head and hands than come out of my mouth. I’m not much of a talker unless something absolutely needs to be said.

Everyone knows the saying: You have two eyes and one mouth; look and pay attention twice as much as you speak… Or something like that. I figure that we have two hands for the same reason.

And I used my hands to write about everything and nothing. I even got sucked down a rabbit-hole once where I researched “love bugs” and wrote a blog about that. There was a blog where I wrote like my conscious and subconscious having a conversation back and forth. I would do anything to be able to read that as a mid-30’s woman looking back into her early-20’s psyche probably whining about being broke and tired. She knew so little about what was ahead of her circa 2006.

So what happened to that blog and why haven’t I blogged since? As most things, it’s a long story, and worth its own post.

Short Answer: my ex got onto my MySpace and deleted every single blog post. It was soul crushing, and I haven’t blogged since… UNTIL NOW BWAHAHAHA