Birds of Prey

Our 6 year old has recently become quite attitude prone and argumentative. Especially with mom (and that has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that mom is way too nice in a push-overish sense of the word nice) and even at times has dared to become so in front of dad.

Mom occasionally will get worked up with all buttons pushed effectively and be in the middle of a rant before she realizes “Hey, I’m arguing with a 6 year old here. Who’s the boss?” It is at that point I usually repeat my first statement (If I can remember through the haze of frustration what it was), followed by, “I’m not arguing with you. End of discussion.” And then Smoochie be-bops away like nothing ever happened leaving mom trying not to flop and twitch like the Wicked Witch of the West.

Now Dad, on the other hand, generally chooses the squash it before it becomes an issue like using an entire can of raid on the line of red ants on our front sidewalk approach. And while Smooch seems to show no remorse for working his mother into the frothing at the mouth stage (which to give credit where credit is due, few do- I have a mother and sister who both will do it for the sheer entertainment value) he will think twice before ATTEMPTING to argue with his father. Because he knows dad will squash him. Like a bug.

Which is why I was surprised when Saturday night, smack in the middle of the popcorn making ritual, Bonehead came sauntering into the living room with the “I give up” look I often have myself and plopped in our wingback chair. I didn’t realize it at the time, but he was waiting. I hadn’t heard the exchange in the kitchen, but apparently it was over how the new can of Boy Scout popcorn needed to be opened. I’m thinking I should take a detour here to explain the importance of popcorn in my home.

Popcorn is the bomb. Do people even say that anymore? Oh well, I just did. We refuse to buy greasy smelly microwave popcorn. The only way it gets cooked in our home is in the hot air popper. There really is a ritual which is started off by the preparing the butter and the offering of complements to be sure it is in the correct mood of coatingness. While certain aspects of the ritual may vary, there will always be a loud “WOOOOAH! HEHEHE!” issued by Smoochie as the first few kernels fly with enough force to make a whacking sound on the other side of the giant bowl placed underneath. And there is always grated parmesan (the refrigerated kind not the canned kind because we are, after all, popcorn snobs) and oregano on the finished popcorn results. And now back to the regularly scheduled programming which left off at the frustrated plopping into the wingback chair…

Bonehead was waiting. Apparently there was a mild discussion about how to open the new package of Boy Scout popcorn, and Bonehead refuses to argue with a 6 year old. So instead of arguing and insisting his way was right, he came into the living room to wait for the sad, slumpy be-bop of Smooch into the living room to admit that yes, in fact, Dad was right, and ask for help.

It never happened. Approximately 45 seconds after Bonehead sat down, we heard the crinkle crinkle crinkle of the plastic safety seal being slid down the can followed by a smug little “Got it, Dad.” To which dad muttered something like “Unbelievable” and then went to continue with the popcorn ritual shaking his head as he went.

However, I do believe Dad lost it in the car on Sunday. We were on the way to feed a friend’s fish- which is a 45 minute drive there and another 45 minute drive back. We finally broke down and purchased the new Fratelli’s CD, which Smooch had in the back seat with him. When Smooch asked if he could open the CD for us, Bonehead responded with a “Sure kid, knock yourself out.”

And sure enough there was another fwip fwip crinkle crinkle, and Smooch handed it up front with a “Here you go.”

This would be the point where Bonehead lost a little bit of his sanity. He looked at me incredulously and stated, “What the heck did we do, breed little birds of prey? It would have taken me 30 minutes a pocket knife AND a razor to get that packaging off. (And with a swooping of his hands towards the CD for the visual) Does our kid have freeking talons or something?”

Regardless, the CD was open and ready for our enjoyment, Bonehead had finally lost a bit of his sanity, Smoochie was playing his DS like nothing had ever happened, and I was giggling at the sheer madness of our family existence. Poor Critter. He has yet to discover what he’s been born into.