Everything sounds nicer in Italian. Especially “don’t spit up because it will come back to hit you in the face,” as Little Grandma, my Italian great-grandmother, used to say.
That line of poetry was what I was thinking this morning as someone asked, with this crazy weather we’ve been having, (see? Everyone DOES talk about the weather), have the kids been getting sick?
“Oh, no!” I beamed. “We’ve been healthy!”
And then I saw I had a voicemail from your school.
You had diarrhea, Baby Girl. With a virus going around, could I please come pick you up immediately and because we are a two-for-one special, your brother, too.
We’ve been having discipline issues lately. And when I say discipline issues, I mean you guys do whatever the heck you want and cry when faced with the atrocity of being told no and laugh in my face when I try to stop you. No, you can’t do a Triple Lindy off the couch and onto your head naked, no. And why are you naked? You have to wear a diaper. Until you go on the potty, you have to cover that up. The rules are the rules. No. No. No.
This morning you wanted no part of going to school. Beach! were the cries. TV! Chocolate milk!
…A mere hour into school there you were, so happily waiting for me in the lobby. Your hands on your laps. Your backpacks strapped over both shoulders. Baby Boy, your straw fedora titled just so. Are you two, or going to offer me a cuban cigar.
In your minds this was great. Yet again, you got what wanted. You had to shit your pants to do so, a little drastic, if you ask me, but it worked.
“Yay!” you cried taking my hands walking toward the car. “School over! All done! Beach! Kites…!”
I may lose the battles, but I will win this war.
(By the way, the Triple Lindy reference? Rodney Dangerfield. “Back to School.” Look it up.)