Let me begin by saying that Linda, of It’s Good to Be the Queen fame, inspired this post. In its entirety—almost. Simply put, the woman oozes hilarity—in a twisted, irreverent, OMG-that’s-sick-but-really-funny sort of way. IS there any other approach to dealing with the insanity that is parenthood?

I think not.

Anywho, Queen Linda (who is a mother to THREE boys) recently shared some of her readers’ horror stories involving their sons and the infinite array of curiosity/stupidity they collectively possess and shamelessly display. Just click on the link in the paragraph above and prepare to snort geysers of coffee (or whatever else you’re drinking) all over your keyboard. Truly, you’ll be howling—even if you don’t have kids. Okay, ESPECIALLY if you don’t have kids. You will then be entitled to laugh uproariously at the very people you pledged you’d never become and at the madness they endure in the trenches of Parentville. So chortle away. But clean your own silly keyboard.

At any rate, after devouring every delicious syllable of the Queen’s spiel (i.e. “Summer, Oh Where Will the Time Go?”), I had to think of my own heathens and the brainless things they’ve done since school let out (even if those heathens aren’t boys—and even if they’re only seven).

For starters, Seek and Destroy spent some quality time together teetering atop the couch—taking turns shoving each other “…to see if we’d actually fall off, Mom.” The series of dull thuds I kept hearing—and puzzling over—led me to the scene of idiocy in the living room. Like Linda, I’m quite sure a patented, “What were you THINKING?!” escaped my lips—but in my head I had to have shrieked, “WTF? Are you morons on crack or something?!”

Then there was the afternoon during which my charges were bored out of their minds so together they came up with the brilliant idea of slathering on enough makeup (read: Bratz-inspired Spackle) to make a circus clown proud. Glittery glammory junk was liberally applied to almost every square inch of their faces, to include foreheads, noses, eyelids, lips, cheeks and chins—much to my chagrin. However, they soon tired of admiring themselves in the mirror (and marking territory with the shimmery, shiny lipstick they so adore), so they decided to liven things up a bit by kissing the dog. On the lips. “…to see if my purple lipstick would be on his lips, Mom.”

Dear God.

And although they fell short of that particular goal, they were somewhat satisfied with having made his nose purplish anyway. Mind you, this hideous event should not be confused with the sinful number of instances during which my children smooched the dog “…just because, Mommy. It’s fun and Jack likes to be kissed. His tongue is slimery.”

Bleck! I want to hurl. In a big bucket. Until the horrendous dog-lips-visual burned upon my brain disappears.

What’s more, there have been a slew of burping contests and dim-witted stunts (like surfing on teeter-totters, somersaulting off chairs and bare fisted boxing matches) along with some completely asinine dares (i.e. “I dare you to run through the poison ivy!” “Oh yeah, well I dare you to stick your whole head inside the Chimnea!”), sans blazing heat and fiery flames, thankfully. Good thing I interrupted their foolishness and precluded the logical progression of this particular train wreck: rifling through the pantry in search of the fire-starter thingie that Tom Hanks yearned for in Cast Away—to light the stinking stuff in the Chimnea, of course, (hence, making the dare infinitely more interesting).

I always knew I had a purpose in life aside from flushing toilets and finding errant flip-flops. It’s to keep my kids from torching the fricking place.

Likewise, one day I stumbled upon an abandoned gadget for our Jumping Monkeys game. It was lying in the hallway next to a big, pink sand bucket (deemed outstanding as a collection device for those fuzzy-headed, goo-filled caterpillar-ish creatures I so despise). Mysteriously, it was empty—which makes my skin crawl even now as I type these very words. Naturally, I theorized that a miniature catapult (intended for flinging a bunch of plastic primates into a plastic tree) had been used to launch caterpillars to the ceiling—repeatedly. Sadly, my theory was correct. Admissions of guilt were gathered sometime later as was the collective inspiration behind said atrocity: “We wanted to see how high our catties could fly, Mommy. Don’t you get it? Cat-a-pult…Cat-a-pillar…”

Arrrrrrg!

Strangely enough, my cherubs were amused not only with the disgusting creatures’ Herculean feats, but with their ornamental qualities as well. “Look, Mommy! I’m giving the pretty caterpillars a ride!” one of my dandies shouted as she hobbled stiff-legged across the living room, balancing the wicked things atop her bare feet. At that, I was rendered speechless and could think of nothing but “Holy $#!&, she’s wearing the most repulsive pair of fuzzy slippers I. Have. Ever. Imagined. Period.”

Furthermore, the creepy-crawly circus has been staged not only inside my house, but inside my car as well. As we left the soccer field for the umpteenth time in recent weeks (along with every other destination it seemed), those cagey characters of mine were spotted in my rearview mirror wearing sheepish grins and acting queerly—sitting perfectly quiet and still, peering into their cupped hands, whispering Lord-knows-what into that darkened hollow.

At one point I glanced back to see King Harold (as they affectionately named one of them) dangling perilously from someone’s fingertips, his smallish body zooming in and out through the air, superhero-style—saving the day, no doubt. I couldn’t help but think of my grandfather (who was coincidentally also named Harold) stunned and completely mortified by the notion. Or maybe he’d be mildly entertained and perhaps thrilled to have been included in their foolishness. Who knows?

I certainly don’t pretend to know, but I DO know that I’ve discovered an inordinate number of those worm-ish entities where they ought not to be—carefully tucked inside backpack pouches and handlebar totes, cowering on the floors of my cupboards and held captive inside empty water bottles and travel mugs (i.e. makeshift shelters for “…our new friends, Mommy”).

Egads! September can’t arrive soon enough!

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel