Have you ever tried lugging around a ten-liter bottle of water while trying to shield your purse – containing your phone and other unwettable (yes, I know I made that up. Hey, I think I can start contemplating on adding lexicographer to my list of prospective jobs!) items like your other phone and that bag of yummy nachos you lined up so patiently for – with an umbrella that just seems to like you so much that it wants to hug you to death every time the wind blows against you? How about trudging it back by yourself – no bicycles, cars, skateboards, scooters, or any other means of help…like that cute guy you’ve been flirting with in the hopes of him doing just that – in the pouring rain, with waterlogged shoes, to your house some less than two kilometers away?
No? Good for you. I suggest you not try it, unless you savor the thought and feel of blistered palms and fingers. Especially not when the person who asked you to do it in the first place snarls at you the moment you walk through the front door in all your dripping glory, “What the hell took you so long? I couldn’t work because no one was looking after my son!”
That’s right. Her son. Her son. Not mine. I’ve work to do that doesn’t involve a cute-as-a-bloody-puppy-nephew-who-has-the-temperament-of-Fluffy-guarding-the-Forbidden-Corridor-at-Hogwarts, thank you very much. I’ve already fallen behind because she had me looking after
her very own two-legged Fluffy him for the past week when her nannies ran off. Why my dearly beloved sadistic sister insists on saddling me with babysitting duty when I can’t even take care of myself properly when she knows full well that kids scare frustrate annoy creep me out don’t appeal to me is beyond me even if the little bundle of cuteness does shut up when I’m the one holding and telling him to stop crying so we can all work with our heads screwed on relatively straight.
It’s a fairly good thing that I probably have MPD or am at least slightly bipolar; the fluffy-headed (ya know, all thick and curly and just so nice? Like Sirius Black in the movie? Even when it says in the books that his hair is supposed to be straight?) siopao-faced little critter doesn’t feel the compartmentalized negativity of dreading to read until two in the morning to partly catch up on time lost and getting up at four for classes. Or if he does, at least he doesn’t acknowledge them.
But that’s just plain creepy for a nearly two-year-old.
And I’ve just realized that he’s been staring at me for goodness knows how long. Like he knows I’m typing something about him. And on the off-chance that he already knows how to read and comprehend this kind of writing,
oh gawd, that’s just so creepy to even contemplate he can’t even see the monitor. And he’s waving at me and grinning around his oversized bottle. Why does he have to be so bloody cute?
It’s like what he does when he does something to sufficiently peeve me: act so bloody darn cute that I forget why I was gnashing my teeth and nearly tearing out my hair in the first place. He does it especially when either he or his mother is in trouble with me. And it works every bloody time because he’s so adorable.
And it’s even more potent if they do a tag-team of puppy-dog eyes. I swear, their antics will be my undoing. I mean it’s just sooo…
Right. Excuse me while I tend to my hand and try to remember what I was trying to rant about in the first place.
I swear. That kid is too cute for my own good.
And he learns too well from his mother.