This Week, On Masterpiece Theater . . .

Fickle Pickle Fun

MR. C:  It’s so lonely around here, and the house is always messy.  I need to get married so it won’t be lonely and messy anymore.

ME:  (while visions of blackmail dance through my head)  Who should you marry?

MR. C: I don’t know.  You’re already married; maybe we should trade.

ME:  You want me to trade Daddy for you?

MR. C: (shrugging)  Or Daddy could trade you for me.  But Daddy’s not here, so let’s pretend we’re getting married.

ME:  (feeling a little Oedipal)  OK.

MR. C:  So, it’s the marriage day.  And you be the person who says, “Uh, so do you want to marry this person?” and if you say “yes” then that means yes; and if you say “no” then that means . . .  no.  So, uh, do you want to marry this guy, or something?

ME:  (with feigned emphasis) Yes.

MR. C: (with another shrug) OK, then, that’s it.

We stare at each other with apparent perplexion.

MR. C:  So, we need to kiss to be married.

ME: (wondering which Kindergarten slut taught him that one).  OK.

(We chastely kiss)

MR. C:  Are we going to live at your house or mine?

ME:  Yours.  Mine’s apparently too messy.

MR. C:  (choosing to ignore me) Anyway, we’re at my house.  Now we need to be a family.  So we should start having babies.

ME:  How many should we have?

(MR. C shrugs)

ME:  (hoping to shock him)  How about 20?

MR. C: (rolling his eyes)  No!  Don’t be silly.  What about two billion?

ME:  Two billion?!  I’m the one who has to have them all; I don’t want two billion!

MR. C:  Oh, come on; it’ll be easy.  They’ll just shoot out of the bagina.  Ready?  (He proceeds to sweep his hands back and forth between the general area of my stomach and the air in front of it)  POW!  POW!  POW!  See?  Not so hard.

ME:  Yes.  And very accurate.  Now what?

MR. C:  Well, you should take care of them now.

ME:  What?  Why don’t you take care of them; you helped make them, you know.

MR. C:  But you’re the mom.

ME:  (in a desperate and apparently useless attempt to abolish 1950 from our home)   But, they’re calling you.  Hear them?  “Dad!  Dad!  Dad!”

MR. C:  (with no originality)  But they’re calling you more.

ME:  (sighing)  Fine.  What should I do with them?

MR. C:  Anyway, you should feed them.

ME:  Then go get me two billion bottles.

MR. C: (heading towards the kitchen)  OK.  (Stops and comes back)  Wait, they’re too small.  You need to feed them from your boobies.

ME:  (dreading the answer)  Is this how you play at school?

MR. C:  (helpfully)  Huh?