••• Friday, June 16, 2006

Her Royal HighnASS, the Queen 

It appears that a certain member of Chez Porcine has picked up a bad case of Adjustment to Summer Syndrome, a.k.a. ASS. For those unfamiliar, ASS is an insidious, seasonal affliction, striking 10's of thousands of children every year. The onset is typically sudden and almost always strikes within the first week of summer vacation.

Unfortunately, the only known cure for ASS, is to beat it.

How to Tell if You have ASS in Your Home:
1) After hours of bikeriding, running and otherwise frolicking in the neighborhood with neighborhood friends, under the loving supervision of her mother, the afflicted will show no appreciation for said mother's inability to do anything else with her life, due to the sitting outside to supervise the frolicking of not only her own child, but also some other children on the block, several of whose parents are unable to practice safe birth control despite their apparent inability to NOT safely supervise the 6-pack of Damions they done spawned.

2) When parent tries to get the afflicted into the house for dinner, the afflicted will become highly resistant, as exhibited through throwing one huge, hairy fucking fit, in front of all the neighborhood ::I think some people even stopped having unprotected sex for a minute, just to see what was going on::.

3) Once in the house, the afflicted will commence with increasingly aggressive and violent acts, which may or may not include kicking flip flops, one flop at a time, into the general direction of her mother's head, closely followed by the snapping of the mother's bare legs with the afflicted's beloved blankie.

4) After the afflicted has been seemingly subdued via a a swift pop on the butt a time-out, and all apologies have been made, the afflicted will immediately resume making demands to rule the Earth, under threat of further hairy fucking fittings, the likes of which escape capture via the written word.

5) After a few hours of contrite behavior and positive attitude, the afflicted requests to go out for ice cream. To immediately reinforce the most recent phase of positive behavior, the afflicted is granted the request.

6) Once home from the ice cream store, the sequence of behaviors outlined in items 2-4 is repeated. In the driveway.

7) At bedtime, apologies are made and a better day is agreed upon for the morrow.

8) The next day, all hell breaks loose before noon, and the afflicted is confined to the house for the remainder of the day, with full understanding of the reason, with the usual bedtime apology.

9) Following day: wash, rinse, repeat.
Truth be, this onset of ASS was quite the puzzle to me. I just didn't get it. She's going to be 5 years old in the fall. She's no longer a toddler. She can anticipate consequences. She feels the pain. She remembers. She wants to do well. And mostly, she wants to go outside and have fun. Yet, for whatever reason, she seemed to truly believe she that can do anything. With impunity.

And then I remembered. The Floam.

Whenever the TV commercial for Floam comes on, The Cakers can be heard yelling: I want that! Mom, I want Floam!

Yeah, Yeah. I'd say.

From what I knew, Floam was something for which you had to send away. A something which I would never do. So the Yeah.Yeah. seemed a safe response. At least until last weekend. That's when my husband and I took The Cakers on an afternoon of errands, which included a stop at Michael's, where they sell, you guessed it, Floam.

"Mom, remember when you said I could get Floam?"
Yeah. Yeah.

So we bought her a little cannister of white. You'da thunk she'd been annointed the Queen of the Freakin' Foamin' Empire, she was so happy.

"Mom! With Floam, you can do ANYTHING!

That's swell, honey. Swell.

Later that day, The Cakers was out back running with the six-pack of Damions, while I sat on the back deck and knit. I wasn't paying much attention to what the kids were doing, but it sounded like they were having fun.

After hearing the sound of arguing, I looked up to see two boys pointing toy guns at The Cakers.

"You're Dead! You're Dead! We shot you!"
"I'm not dead. I Floamed you."
"Nut-huh! Floam can't do nothin'!"
"Uh-huh! Floam can do anything!"

This was a really cute scene, so I quick like a bunny grabbed my camera to get the shot. Unfortunately, the autofocus on the camera automatically focused on the canopy poles and not the kids, so use your imagination.:

Yes, that's my daughter, Queen of The Floamin' Empire, ruling her kingdom with a 6 oz. tub of white. Notice the boys running away, obviously under the new impression that indeed, Floam can do anything.

By the time I got into a better lens position, the boys were gone, so the Queen took aim at her next objet du subjugation. The Momma.

Yep. That's it. The moment of infloamy. Caught in pixel.

You see, I swear to the gods of everything Chia, that from the very moment she took aim at her mother with a cannister of Floam, my daughter has been operating under the belief that she, like the product in question, can do anything.

The good thing about finding the cause for ASS is knowing the cure. What a shame that someone left the lid off the Floam can, overnight. Now it's nothing but a pile of dried balls, with which you can't do anything.

That's what I call beatin' some ASS.

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