Sam's Revenge

“Good night, Sam. I love you. Sleep a long time!”

Bye, Mom. [Bedroom door shuts]

Ugh, Elmo, she is the worst. I mean, I know – she’s my best friend. But seriously, nap time? Already? She just wanted some alone time. Probably wanted to watch Fox News without anyone judging her. Thank God she lets me read the New York Times on her phone.

Yeah well, I just wanted to finish my lunch. And yes, it’s been sitting on the table for over an hour now and I haven’t touched it, but that’s my trump card, my last move.

I’m all, “No, Mom, no nap! More lunch, more lunch!” And she’s all, “Ok, Sam, you can have two more bites, then you go upstairs.” She falls for it every time. Like, really Mom? How could I still possibly be hungry? I’ve been alternatingly working on train puzzles and my Curious George playground book for the last twenty minutes. And I had a monstrous snack earlier, enough Cheez-its to feed Nate’s entire preschool class. Plus some cheese samples at the grocery store.

But sure, make me an entire PB & J sandwich. And some yogurt. And some chocolate cookies. Better throw some of those cinnamon letter cookies on my plate, too, I’d like to practice my alphabet.

And, Elmo, she never shares her coffee! Oh, sure, she pretends to. She gives me an empty mug. Or a travel mug with water in it, but come on! “Oh, careful, Sam! I don’t want to scald you,” she always says. Yeah. Like I’ve never had a cup of joe before! Like I don’t know how to sip slowly. Dammit, woman! I don’t want burn my tongue either, think I want that? Hell, no. I wouldn’t be able to taste peanut butter for a week! Or my applesauce. Mmm, applesauce.

And if we have to go to that one playground with the stream again, I really will melt down! Seriously, Elmo, it’s just because she liked talking to that one nanny that one day and she wants to “coincidentally” run into her again. Stop stalking already! You don’t even know her name, Mom! What do you need more friends for?! You have me!

I’ll show her, though. I’ll get that steering wheel so sticky! Elmo, it’s classic. Every time, she unbuckles me from the car seat, I scramble up to the driver’s seat so fast that she can’t grab me and pretend I’m driving.  Hazard lights on, left blinker on, high beams and windshield wipers on, steal a couple pieces of gum from the center console, the works.

Sometimes, if I really want to show her who’s in charge, I disable the interior dome light and the automatic tailgate. It drives her nuts—pun intended—and she has no clue how to switch it back. She usually has to send Nate in to fix it. Moms are so dumb, Elmo.

It’s a good thing I have blue eyes, I can get away with anything. And both those idiots think I take after them, so they’re both secretly proud of the little mischievous things I do around the house. But they’ll never admit it.

Like, the other day, when I stole the remote and turned off Nate’s stupid Dora show. Really, Nate? Stop talking to the TV, you know Dora can’t hear you, it’s just a show. Anyway, Mom and Dad thought it was funny. They don’t even really care that I got cream cheese on the buttons. They call it “gutsy” and “fearless.”

Meanwhile, they secretly think that Nate takes after the other one. They each think he looks like them, but gets his moods wings and spiteful attitude from the other one. Ha! Wait until I turn three. Then they’ll learn the real definition of spiteful.

The only time she’s really been mad at me recently was the other morning when she told me not to touch the mysterious gold liquid in the middle of the kitchen floor while she ran to grab some paper towels and some Lysol. Anyway, as soon as she moved away—I couldn’t resist—I stomped in it! I mean, how could I not? I just wanted to feel it on my bare feet and see how it splattered on the cabinets and across the tiles.

Anyway, she screamed at me then.

Oh, and yesterday when she was wiping poop off my bare butt, and I reached over and grabbed a handful of wipes and tried to help. She’s all, “No! Sam! No!” and tried to swipe them from me with her free hand. But I was too quick for her and I managed to wipe some of the poop on my chin and in between my fingers before she wrestled them away.

She thought it was pretty repulsive, kept telling me, “Oh, No, Sam! That’ll make you sick! So many germs, so gross.”

No one buys that, Mom. No one gets sick from human feces. Come on. Plus, what did you breastfeed me for, Mom? I’ve got the immune system of an armored truck.

Let’s see, what else can I do?

Maybe I’ll just watch videos of myself on her phone. She thinks that narcissism is cute because it reminds her of herself, but it also makes her nuts because then she can’t text anyone and gets super lonely.

It’s like, Hey, Mom, get a job! Then you won’t be so lonely! Besides, Mom, I’m your friend. What’s wrong with hanging out with me? I’m awesome. Again, touch on the narcissism nerve.

Maybe I’ll just talk about pumpkins non-stop. Or drink from Wally’s bowl again. Or pretend I don’t know my colors. Yes, Mom, I know Thomas is blue—I only tell you he’s red because it really worries you. She’s always on the verge of tears: “Nate knew his colors at this point! And his letters!” Yeah well, Nate talks to the TV. Still think he’s smart?

Alright, Elmo, I think I’m—[Light toddler snoring. Erin wins again.]