Call me Gertrude
Like seagulls eyeing a funnel cake discarded on the sand covered in blueberry goo my children clamor after me, calling my name “MOMMOMMOMMOM….” to no end as soon as the weather gets warm. When school lets out its either me or their Dad at home with them (rarely are we both home on the same day with them because of stupoopid work) and we assume, well I ASSUME, that they are speaking to me.
Saying “MOMMOMMOMMOMMOM…” over and over is pointless and I hate it. Usually it is a predictor of some sort of something they want and most likely know they can’t have. OR-even more nails-on-a-chalkboard is the constant call from the middle of the pool or from the diving board or to talk about how so-and-so cut their hair.
They cling to me when I venture into the pool like oysters on a piling. Bringing their small friends with caregivers too intelligent to get in the pool when its kid swim.
That constant “MOMMOMMOMMOM” makes me want to stab someone, then myself, in the eye.
Also summertime is the time of danger. They could slip and fall on the diving board and drown, they could be attacked by wild pit bulls roaming the city in the front yard, they could be talked out of their bike and watch someone ride off with it (true story), they could be sunburned or have lotion in their eyes-an emergency requiring some motherly type assistance.
I would wager that 87% of all “MOMMOMMOMMOMMOM” are completely bogus, silly and petty.
If you are not bleeding, on fire, being attacked, drowning or suffering from an injury that requires outside medical attention ( I am a nurse you know, I can handle most things at home) please, for the love of sweet buttery jesus, call me Gertrude.