One way to keep yourself sane as a parent is to foster a wickedly demented inner voice.
It all started in our music class. For one song, everyone sings one kid’s name, then the teacher chimes in with an activity that rhymes with the name. Like so:
“I know a boy whose name is Lance…”
“And he likes to sing and dance.”
Harmless enough? Well, the first time our teacher used my daughter as an example (and you’ll all know her real name by now), she sang as her reply:
“And she likes to hold the urn!”
Then she got all embarrassed about it, I suppose because of the implication that Boobaby plays around with her grandma’s ashes. I shrugged it off, but ever since then I haven’t been able to rid myself of reprobate rhymes.
The class will sing “I know a boy whose name is Jackson!” and my brain (not my mouth) will immediately leap in with the reply: “You go out and sell that crack, son!” In my head, poor Jacob has spent his life wearing makeup, and I silently instructed Sue to hold her breath until she turns blue. (Mostly I’m not witty or quick: for Ashley the best I could come up with was that her potatoes were mashly.)
I worry about these involuntary thought-spasms sometimes, to the point where I can even be ashamed of what I’ve thought. Not that I ever come up with anything mean or vindictive; the talking dwarf inside my head is more absurd than anything else. It just bothers me that I have a hidden maniac streak unseen by all.
Gotta let that dog out more often.