Photo: Erin McPhee
Bless my son, Ben. Bless his little yogurt-drink-addled-four-year-old brain, which has reached the all-important (and all-consuming) ?Let?s play make believe!? stage. Maybe he?ll be a famous method actor one day and support his mother in her old age. But in the meantime, curse me, and curse my husband, Jason, for not also creating a brother to entertain him. Because there are a lot of things I?ve aspired to be in life, but here?s a (not comprehensive) list of things I don?t want to be: A tarantula. A baby tarantula. A mommy tarantula. A customer at my kid?s shitty store, where he only sells me toys I?ve already bought him. Elsa, Anna or the octopus from The Little Mermaid. A kitty cat. A kitty cat with black fur and green eyes. A kitty cat with spotted fur and blue eyes. The Bad Guy Who Gets Put in Jail. A puppy. A princess. The Beautiful Unicorn. The Joker. Or Batman, Spider-Man, Wonder Woman, Iron Man, The Hulk or Captain America. ?Then what superhero do you want to be, Mommy"?
?I?m superhero cleaning-out-the-kitchen-drawer.?
?That?s boooring.?
You know what?s boring, kid" Following you around the house pretending I?m a subway. Let?s play Binge Watch HBO! Let?s play Fail at Making the Latest Recipe from Bon Appétit! Let?s play Shop Online for Clothes for the Kid Who Looks Cute but Plays Stupid Games!
While I adore my only child, there?s still a certain chill that crawls up my spine every time Ben starts calling out in a singsongy voice (you k...