Mommy the Santa Claus Murderer

We’re deep in the territory of the terrible twos in the Three Ring Mom house, and one more instance of snarky toddler defiance (“No!”) is going to make me completely lose my damn mind.

Y’all, I tried to sell my kid on Twitter the other day, and I was only partially kidding.

By the standards of those super competitive my-offspring-is-better-than-yours-because-I-don’t-allow-him-to-consume-trans-fats-or-Yellow-number-7 parents out there, I’m a horrible mother. Not only do I cow to his picky taste, but I let Boo watch TV while he eats.

This morning, like every morning for the last few weeks, he fell into a semi-comatose state while watching a show called the Bubble Guppies. In the five minutes I spent half-listening to the show while reading my e-mail, I figured out that it’s about half-fish children who sing about bubble puppies and clambulances, and it’s supposed to be educational. (And to think that our parents once worried that watching Rin and Stimpy would rot our delicate minds. Heh.)

One of the characters on the show is a giant goldfish named Mr. Grouper.  Around the same time that I caught wind of this, I realized that Boo was shoving fistfuls of Goldfish crackers into his mouth. Which are, oddly enough, cheddar flavored Mr. Groupers. Suddenly, Boo looked up at me with a gleam in his eye that I’ve come to associate with issuing red faced apologies to complete strangers. “Mama,” he said. “I’m eating the Bubble Guppies!”

And then he bit the head off Mr. Grouper’s cracker doppelganger.


In the last two years, I’ve populated a list of things I never, ever thought I’d have to say in my adult life. At this point, it’s just a Word document on my desktop that I drop the occasional headscratcher in, but it’s filling up so fast that I’m seriously thinking about having the phrases professionally illustrated and bound together in a book I can give to Boo when he’s older. You know, as a keepsake he could hand down to his children one day.

The first page would have to come from a conversation we had a few days ago:


Boo: (grins, keeps rubbing string cheese on his armpits) Daddy does it.

Chelsie: I quit.


And then this afternoon, Boo was pissed off because he couldn’t have more pudding and decided to punish me by singing Jingle Bells at the top of his lungs for half an hour. Let me just say this: the kid, though adorable, is no fucking Luciano Pavarotti. It sounded like two cats fighting in a garbage bag.

Chelsie: Boo, you need to be quiet.

Boo: No, Mommy. I wanna SIIIIIIIIIIIIING Jinga Bells!

Chelsie: But it’s not Christmas, sweetheart.

Boo: Mommy, you keeled Santa!

Oy. Only eighteen more years of this to go!


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About Chelsie

Mommy. Beauty product whore. Plastic lawn flamingo enthusiast. Nosy neighbor. One day novelist.
This entry was posted in Boo, Nerdness, No one else will think this is funny, The Month of Blogging Dangerously, Weirdness and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Mommy the Santa Claus Murderer

  1. Melissa says:

    Daddy does it! hahahahahah, that me me laugh so hard. I wonder what else Daddy does when nobody else is looking.

    And don’t feel bad about Yellow 7 or transfat. I chugged food dye by the gallon and ate Burger King and McDonalds almost every day after I grew teeth, and I’m practically a certified genius with no health problems and a projected lifespan of 145 years. Some people worry too much.

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