We’re Not In Rio Anymore

by Cookie

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You know how little kids become obsessed with things?  And the next thing you know, it’s all over their walls, and all their t-shirts sport pictures of it?

Well, the Destroyer has a minor toddler obsession with the movie Rio.  She’s also got some crazy thing for birds in general, but if there is a hearthrob that makes this little girl’s heart go thumpety-thump, I’m guessing it’s Blu from the movie Rio.

It could always be worse.  She could love Justin Bieber or New Direction, right?

Anyway, last night I took her out for dinner at some Thai restaurant with the girls.  She LOVES restaurants so I didn’t think this was going to be any sort of problem.  That’s the things with kids though.  As soon as you let your guard down…

So we’re driving to dinner and some song from Rio 2 comes on the radio, and I look back at my Twee Destroyer to see the happiest little girl ever.  We turn up the volume and smile all the way to dinner.

Then we pull into the parking lot and she looks up and realizes that we aren’t going to see her movie again after all.  I guess that song on the radio was some sort of divine direction about how the night was supposed to unfold, and I missed God’s cue.  So, yeah.  Enter temper tantrum # 1.

So we finally get her calmed down by giving her some bullshit video of people playing with play doh to watch on You Tube.  Don’t ask.   I don’t what she likes about it.  But as long as she was no longer screaming about fucking Rio and how I wronged her she could have been watching porn for all I cared.

I order her some fancy slushy drink that she putts her all into drinking.  Good.  She’s busy.  I can go back to complaining about the other child I have who doesn’t sleep ever.

Then dinner comes.  She’s not a picky eater, so I put some pad thai in front of her.  And she immediately goes for some questionable looking shaved stuff on the side of the plate and puts it in her mouth.

Then she turns to me and gets that look in her eye.

And proceeds to puke up pink fancy slushy drink into my hands.

Fuck.My.Life.

Luckily for me, my friends are no dummies.  Napkins come flying my way and then finally an empty plate under my hands comes along so I can stop holding the puke.

You know you’re in it for life when your hands go towards the vomit to catch it and minimize damage to the furniture, rather than running from it in horror.

And to all you fuckers who think you’re a hero for holding your drunk friend’s hair when they’re puking, go fuck yourself.  You know nothing, Jon Snow.  Just wait until you have kids who throw up for the sake of being an asshole and you have to catch it in your hands to save the brand new carpet.

Or your ego in public. Or not.

And that, Bitches, was Tuesday with the Destroyer.

 

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