My First Death Threat

Let me preface this post by apologizing profusely for not having posted anything all summer.  I know everyone has suffered greatly in the absence of my super-stellar writing.  I am terribly sorry.  Let me also let you know, right off the bat that I will not be writing about any delightful summer activities like birthday parties, Music in the Park, running through sprinklers, family barbeques, etc.  While these topics all make excellent blog posts (for good mothers who like to brag about their wholesome family-ness), every single one pales in comparison to the exciting milestone the Morton's achieved today.  This is one for the scrapbooks, folks: My First Death Threat.

Is that just red marker on the Anarchist's face? 
Or is it something more sinister?

I suppose I have been threatened with an untimely demise before (by the Bureaucrat in a bid to obtain insurance money).  And my children have threatened me countless times with bodily harm, destruction of property, loss of dignity, usurpation of authority, etc.  But never has one of my children had the motivation to actually threaten to wipe me clean out of existence.  Until now.


"No!  Mommy, I don't WANT to put away my HIDEOUT!!" screams the Anarchist at nap-time.

"But we have to clean up.  It's nap-time, Sweetie," I reply, lovingly (like one of those Moms in paper towel commercials, responding to a grape juice disaster...it's almost unreal how lovingly I respond).

"That's IT!  I'm going to DIE YOU!" the Anarchist snarls.

She's.  Going.  To.  Die.  Me.
Or something like that.

"What now?" (I am certain she means dye me, like wool, which makes no sense, but sounds ever so colorful.)

"I'm.  Going.  To.  Die.  You." 

"Sweetheart, do you mean that you want to make Mommy go away and have no more Mommy ever?"  (I'm sure this will clear things up...she couldn't possibly want that.  It would be such a disproportionate response to the request to clean up toys, right?)


"Yes.  No.  More.  You."


Okay, so she means what she says.  At this point, the Dictator, having overheard, is completely distraught.  She comes running out into the hallway weeping and flings herself into my lap, clutching my clothes and refusing to let go.


"Don't worry, the Anarchist doesn't know what she's talking about," I explain.  "She's too little to understand what she's saying."



And of course, despite her indignant response of, "No I NOT!" she really is.  The minute I walk away, giving in to her request--at least, temporarily--of no more Mama, the Anarchist flies into a shrieking fit of epic proportions.


"Come BACK!!  I WANT YOU MAMA!!!  MAMA!!!!!   I NEED YOU!!!!"

"But I thought you wanted to die me," I say, coming back as requested.


"YES!  I want to die you!  I want you to GO AWAY FOR ALWAYS!"

"Okay."  (I turn and walk away)

"COME BACK!!!! I NEED YOU!!!"

"So...you don't want to die me anymore?"

"Yes, I do.  I just need you to stay."


I'm still a bit confused (and obviously, so is the Anarchist).  Does that mean that she's simply conflicted as to whether or not she really wants me gone?  Does it mean she doesn't understand the concept of forever/death (which is extremely likely)?  Is she incredibly bipolar?  Or does she just want me to come back and stay put long enough so that she can actually "die me" for real...none of this pretend simulation nonsense for her, she's in it for realsies?  I suppose I'll never know for sure.  One thing, I think, I can know for certain.  Unlike her father, she isn't in it for the insurance money.