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.

How I Got Yama the Kung Zhu (by guest blogger: the Dictator)

Guest Blogger, the Dictator, continues her shopping-themed blog in this classic follow up to her original, "How I Got Tank the Triceratops."  She labored over this entry for a mere 47 minutes.  Enjoy:

it all started out wen we, or me and the anarchist,  were going to spend  our allowance.  we went to target.  we got the thing,s mom needed first.  then we went to the toy aisles.  i fond squinkies that i liked.  then mom saw kung zhus for only 2 bucks!  i saw yama  i really wanted her.*  then we went to the check out line.  i saw my teacher do you know what her name is?**  then we went home.  the end.

 *The gender of all male Zhu Zhu Pets have been changed to protect their girl-friendliness.
**If you don't, too bad.  The Dictator's lips are sealed, apparently.

Study in Black and White, by the Dictator.  From L-R:
Pinkie the Zhu Zhu, Rivet "River" the Kung Zhu, and
Tank the Triceratops.  Yama would eventually join the clan.

NOTE: While we dotingly believe that the Dictator is brilliant for five, we readily acknowledge that she's no prodigy.  Thusly, we would like to point out that the accuracy of the spelling in this blog is due only to the Dictator's insistence that we "make the red squiggly lines go away."  All grammatical and punctuation errors were left intact.

The Many Fine Paternal Qualities of the Bureaucrat

Let me just say that, short of my own father, I believe that the Bureaucrat is the most perfect daddy on the planet.  And I'm not just saying that because I don't have a Father's Day present for him this year.  I swear.

In honor of Father's Day (present-less though it may be), I would like to take a moment to reflect on all the outstanding fatherly qualities that we find in my loving husband, the Bureaucrat.

 Sense of humor:  The Bureaucrat has the sense of humor of a 4 year old.  Hence, the Anarchist and the Dictator find him absolutely hilarious.  After all, he was the one who taught them to laugh uproariously every time someone "makes a fart."  I'm so proud.

Gentleness:  The Bureaucrat may not be a rough-and-tumble wrestling-on-the-floor type of father, but who needs that anyway?  The Anarchist does enough wrestling for the whole family.  Instead, the Bureaucrat is known for his gentleness.  Just look at how he holds that preemie.  He didn't crush it or anything!







Responsible with Money:  As in, he pays the bills...on time...without forgetting  a single one.  To me, that's fairly impressive.  I have such high standards.  (Notice that in this picture the Bureaucrat is looking a little concerned about how much money is being spent on souvenirs.  Notice how I am oblivious to his concern as I peruse more neato things we can buy).

Awareness of his Surroundings:  Play Where's Waldo? with me for a second.  Do you see the Bureaucrat in this insane crowd of people?  I bet he didn't lose a single child that day.  Yet another way in which the parenting skills of the Bureaucrat  balance out my...umm..parenting skill-lessness.  I mean, he notices super subtle things like, if he's walking through a puddle of battery acid, or if one of the children is stuck under the couch, or if something has inadvertently caught on fire.  We can't all be as observant as you, dear Bureaucrat (and here I'm speaking mostly of myself and the Dictator).  Thank goodness you're around!

Patience/Steadiness:  The Bureacrat quells the neurotic tendencies of the Dictator and the manic qualities of the Anarchist with his calm, steady, non-frenetic demeanor.  He has the patience to do things like build toys out of cardboard without once flying into a fit of rage and pitching the cardboard out the window/at the cat/into the face of the nearest bystander.  I call that good parenting.

Appreciation for who his children are:  The Bureaucrat himself probably never had any loft ambitions of his children being ballerinas/cowgirls/race car drivers/gymnasts, but he'll support them no matter what.  He'll even sit in a hot sweaty gym on Father's Day to watch his kids attempt cartwheels and one-footed hopping.  Now that's love.




The Ability to Teach:  Despite the fact that the Bureaucrat has now officially left the profession of teaching, he retains his desire to instruct everyone...about everything.  Just the other week, he couldn't resist teaching the Dictator all about tornadoes and hurricanes.  She's already building a storm shelter.  And a few days ago, he saw fit to explain to the bug-phobic Anarchist that the only ants that bite you are red ants, like the ones he grew up around in Louisiana.  She now lives in holy terror of "red ants from Louisie,"  And of course, he's also a stickler for vocabulary.  He still trying to get the Dictator to use "dichotomy" in a sentence.  Afraid of losing all friends for all times, she's wisely chosen to ignore this request.

High, yet Obtainable Standards:  The Bureaucrat sets the bar high: "Of course she can read...she's three," "I want to hear you ask for that cracker without screaming," and "I think you're old enough to use a fork when eating spaghetti," are commonly-heard phrases in our house.  Guess which accomplishment is the only one that either of our children has actually achieved (hint: it doesn't involve food or basic civilized etiquette).

He's a "Good Finder:"  Okay, I may have exaggerated this trait in an attempt to avoid having to look for small, missing toy dinosaurs myself, but that doesn't negate the fact that the trait exists.  Do you know how many times this heroic man found the Dictator's pacifier in the pitch dark black of night as she screamed bloody murder?  I'll tell you how many...too many.




He's the World's Best Role Model:  Whether it's showing his children the value of a strong work ethic, working calmly through problems, or the importance of relaxing with a "bottle," the Bureaucrat is always living out his values to the utmost.  And his children are the better for it.  We love you, Bureaucrat!  Happiest Father's Day! 

 P.S.  This was your present.