Pr0n-igal Son

It’s what parents says in every news story where they screw up and something horrible happens to a child:

“I just turned my back for five minutes.”

Jesus is watching (and plotting his revenge for all those jokes I make about him), so I’ll fess up that it was actually more like 15 or 20. I was in the next room on a phone interview for Thursday’s deadline. I was doing that thing I do where I suck as a mother so I can rub a couple of  coins together. To give myself credit, I’m not nearly as nuts with the freelance as I was when The Roo was a baby. At one point in her infancy, I found myself talking on a headset (another phone interview) and typing on the laptop as I bounced on an exercise ball to keep her quiet while I nursed her in a sling.

True story.

Yes, my very next call was to a therapist. Thanks.

But yesterday’s Joan Crawford Award moment resulted in a 4-year-old downloading an adult movie because Mom wasn’t there to get another on-demand Dora rolling. I’d asked him to not interrupt me while I was talking to my “work friend,” so he did his best to figure out the remote on his own to comply with my request.

But I hadn’t considered how hard that can be when you can’t read. And he just assumes that if you push enough buttons, Nick Jr. comes back.

But what he got was more along the lines of “Dora Does Dallas.” Thankfully, I got there at the beginning and it wasn’t anything too creepy, but it was yet another wakeup call that I need to focus more on him and less on deadlines.

And call the cable company to ask them to credit us that $9.99.

When Dear John got home, he asked the important questions:

“Is it still there, and can I still watch it?”

Time for me to turn my back for another five minutes.


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