On Friday, driving to Mom Prayer Group, Kiddo#3 said, “Why is he singing about Dr. Doom?”
Since I don’t listen to Marvel Radio, I puzzled for a moment, with an intelligent “What?”
The song playing was Tina Turner’s “What’s Love Got To Do With It.” He repeated his question, and I said, “She’s saying ‘got to do’ not ‘Doctor Doom.'”
My son said, “She’s saying, “What’s up, Doctor Doom, Doctor Doom?”
He made me turn it up louder so he could hear the words. And now, gentle readers, you know what kind of music I listen to in the car. And I am at the same time wondering why I ever bother changing the channel because clearly my son isn’t listening to the same songs I am.
But it was terribly, terribly funny.
We got to Mom Prayer Group and turned the kiddos loose in our founder’s house while we moms drank coffee and socialized. It’s usually a 90 minute thing; we talk until about 1:15 and then pray the rosary, talk a little more, and then I have to be out the door by 1:55 in order to be home for Kiddo#1.
On Friday, only an hour after Dr. Doom’s serenade by Tina Turner, I had to separate Kiddo#3 from one of the other children of the mom-pray-ers. They were tormenting one another. I told Kiddo#3 to play by himself.
Two minutes later I look up in time to see him toss a ball into the air in our hostess’s kitchen and swing at it with a bat.
Of course, my son had perfect pitch. He hit the ball right onto her counter, inches from her laptop, and right into a stack of wine glasses.
One dead wineglass and many apologies later (plus a whole lot of broken glass cleanup) I strapped the child back into the car and said, “I don’t want to hear a word out of you. I don’t even want to know you’re around.” We drove home again, and I told him, “Since I’m supposed to be praying with them right now, and I’m not, you stay in time-out until I’m done praying.”
Which he did. It was only fair.
So I wonder, how is it that we can love someone and think they’re intolerably cute at one minute and then an hour later want to strangle them? The personality that loved to hear Tina Turner crooning to Dr. Doom was the same personality that thought it would be a good idea to play baseball in someone’s kitchen (something which, by the way, he would never do at home.)
They’re both processing errors by an inexperienced brain, but one was funny and the other infuriating.
The wine glass cannot be replaced (I looked online, and when I couldn’t find it, had my friend look too.) She says it’s okay, that they like us have enough wine glasses for the feast at Cana. I’ll give her the money and a bottle of wine to console the bereaved wine glasses left in the set. Our friendship wasn’t damaged, and the child wasn’t damaged. But still. It’s a shame the cute has to be offset by the frustrating.