Mommy Dearest

This week shows us that a sentence turned into an idea turned into a punch line turned into a storyline turned into a book turned into a talk show turned into a movie will be opening at theatres across the country. He’s Just Not That Into You will be the next romantic comedy to help lift this country out of the financial crisis blues it has been singing for months now. Just think, a movie starring both Jennifer Aniston and Drew Barrymore portraying unhappy dopes having trouble with love and life. Do you take Amex?

Seeing that a movie night out runs us close to $120 with a babysitter that costs more than a high end call girl, tickets priced for a Madoff silent auction and food, while tasting more like salted cardboard and grease, still manages to fetch a hefty sum from the slobs, like myself, who think reheated popcorn, hotdogs and stale Hot Tamales are a real treat.

Besides, I don’t need to see this one note masterpiece. I am living this movie every day. A week or so ago Otto decided that daddy was his favorite person in the world and I am just a random employee that exists solely to insure his utmost happiness and fulfillment all day long. I was warned that these parental preference stages would happen. Hell, I even liked it for the first few days, getting out of doing the poopy diaper clean up or changing his pants three times until he was satisfied with his fashion forward look. But now, the “daddy this” and daddy that’s” are getting under my skin and making me want to drink cheap vodka and go clubbing with Orange County teens who wear pantyhose with mini-skirts and backless sequin tops that scream “date rape is better than no rape, girlfrieeeeeeeend!”

I carried this lima bean in my belly for close to ten months, which is the actual gestation period of a human pregnancy but no one seems to know or understand that, except women who have carried these critters and remember the last months of awkward, painful sleeping positions and fear of any sexual contact whatsoever. You would think that Otto would at least choose me first when trying out the bad cop/good cop, who I like better game. I mean, he took my nipples and made them into pulverized Juju Fruits, sucking and pulling until tears ran down my face every fucking morning, mid morning, early afternoon, late afternoon, early evening, middle evening, late evening and late night. Oh, and the ever loving middle of the night when I wanted to crawl into our heating vent and die a hot, dusty, dramatic T.V. Movie of the Week death.

And as far as the crying, I do not look and have never looked attractive before, during or after a good cry. When the sniffles come calling, this mommy resembles an overcooked yam, complete with shriveled skin and oozing juices and if competing against one another in a beauty contest, the yam will always win. Maybe Otto remembers all those ugly, weepy times as he suckled my once fabulous breasts and made them his own personal Holstein utters. Maybe he realizes that daddy is a hell of a lot more fun than old stick in the mud mom, who asks him to watch his head when walking under slides or tells him to be careful not to fling himself off the changing table and crack open his skull on the side of his crib while I wipe his cute little anus. His dad throws him in the air like volleyball and allows him to sit on the seat of his uncle Scott’s Ducati and rev the engine. While I am wiping off dirty banana gunk and potentially hazardous bacteria from his tiny, gorgeous little mitts, daddy encourages him to rummage in the dirt pile out front where the neighborhood posse of feral cats deposit turds the size of soup cans.

So what if he closed the bathroom door in my face today as daddy was rinsing off after a shower, making it clear that no girls were allowed. So what if he asks for daddy the moment I walk into his room after his nap or insists on eating only daddy’s food and refuses to eat his hot dog and French fries when seated at his favorite fast food restaurant I take him to as a special treat. And so what if he always say daddy when I hand him a cool, vintage Matchbox car that I bought him. But deep down in my gut, the same one that kept him safe and warm for all those months, the same place that moved and shook and gurgled with joy every time I ate a steak or drank a chocolate shake, the same tummy that kicked and moved every time I told him I couldn’t wait to meet him, I know he loves me and will love me forever. He’s just not that into me, that’s all.