The Cave Troll was unhappy.
When the Cave Troll is unhappy, he does what many of us do–he blames the whole fucking miserable world for his unhappiness.
“Mom…you lost my transformer!!!”
“That’s right kid. I stole your transformer and lost it. I’m mean that way.” (Because sarcasm goes over well with the pre-school crowd, right?)
“Mooom… you have to find my transformer. You lost my transformer. YOU HAVE TO FIND MY TRANSFORMER!!!”
The hysteria was becoming truly unhealthy, so I figured I’d try a re-direct. “Okay–here’s what I need you to do. You lay down and take a nap,” (because, can you tell? It was definitely NAP TIME) “and once you lay down, I’ll find your transformer guy.” I have no idea how I’ll do this, btw–but I know it must be done, because the Cave Troll? Not one of those kids who forgets after the nap. Nope. Nosirree, nuh-nuh, nohow.
So what follows is fifteen minutes of my life I’ll never get back, sitting on the edge of the bed, threatening, cajoling, promising, rewarding, hugging, and weeping until e pluribus Cave Troll is laying down in (get this) MY bed, threatening me with dire consequences (i.e., more whining) should the transformer not be there when he wakes up.
I stand up, exhausted by the mental effort already, take two steps, look into the top of a laundry basket, and HOLY SHIT AND PASS THE POTATOES, THERE’S THE FUCKING HAPPY MEaL TOY.
“See!” I yelled, doing a (mostly) dignified ‘I”m-bad-uh-huh-I’m-bad” dance at the foot of the bed. “I TOLD you if you’d just lay down, I’d find your transformer!!!”
*sigh* It’s not often that mama-justice is that immediate, but I tell you, it sure is sweet.
(P.S. We didn’t bug-bomb. If I’d seen any single gnarly-wiggly-nasty little spiderleg the next morning, it would have been a no-brainer, but I didn’t see a damned one, so I think we’ll wait until it’s not a bazillion degrees outside. But thanks for the tip about the hairspray! How much does it say about us as a family that I don’t think we have any to make the little goombahs stiff before we vacuum them up?)
