My Husband's Son

“Children are a reflection of their parents,” they say. “That’s pure hogwash,” I’d reply. The notion that Dylan’s serial killer antics reveal my own flip out nature just doesn’t add up. Plus, there’s no way I’m taking responsibility for the bulk of Dylan’s infamous behavior e.g. going for dad’s jugular; refusing to share anything; or rubbing meals in his hair. And the high pitch screams just to get a rise outta ya? So not me. But then life happened as it often does, providing its unsolicited perspective to reveal the fool I truly am, all whilst battling a ballsy, over-confident, pest of a fly who had it out for me. (Let the record show: I won.) 

“STUPID FLY! I’M GOING TO TAKE YOU DOWN AND ALL OF YOUR FRIENDS TOO!” I shouted at the fat, buzzing fly that was harassing me. He was one of those extra annoying bugs that enjoy the chase, taunting as he whizzes about, practically laughing as he flies past unscathed. “OH, YOU THINK YOU CAN SIT ON MY SON’S HIGHCHAIR? CONSIDER YOURSELF DEAD, IT’S PERSONAL NOW!” I yelled, wielding an empty box of Honey Nut Cheerios back and forth in the air because I'm totally normal and have my shit together. Then I got ‘em. “OH YEAH! GOTCHA! TOLD YOU I’D KILL YOU, YAY!!!” I dropped the box and disposed of the enemy. But before I could relish in the victory, I was stopped in my tracks by a Cheerio box flinging toddler, grunting and hopping around the kitchen. Oh…so that’s what I look like. 

Watching Dylan imitate my fly catching performance was horrifyingly funny. I guess I just didn’t consider what an idiot I looked like, trash-talking and swinging at Mother Nature’s undesirables. I was too occupied with taking the enemy down to even consider the imprint my questionable behavior would leave on my sponge toddler. So I did what any other self-respecting parent would do in the face of an offspring induced mirror, I paid the emulation no mind, took back the box and tossed it. Blatant denial, ya know? 

But my mind wandered and revealed a plethora of Dylan behaviors that could be traced back to me…like when he talks to things that don’t talk back, or when he lifts his sippy-cup in the air to “cheers”, or when he repeatedly tells my husband, “Let’s go!” when we’re supposed to go “bye-bye.” So fine. I’ll accept the whole “children are a reflection of their parents” thing with one unwavering condition: if it’s bad, if it’s embarrassing, if it’s sadistic or questionable…it's from his dad.