I Really Want to Throw a Yogurt Drink at My Son’s Head
Lately, I’ve been having this dark fantasy: I want to pick up a Yoplait yogurt drink and chuck the half-filled, open bottle at my teenaged son, Judd’s, head and watch the pink liquid dribble down his perfectly coiffed hair.
There are a few reasons why I’ve been yearning to do this. The first is simply a matter of payback.
When Judd was an adorable, happy-go-lucky toddler, he and I were driving along in my brand-new car, fresh off the lot. He was sitting behind me in his car seat, sipping on a yogurt drink and singing along to The Wiggles. Meanwhile, I was focused on the road, inhaling the clean, factory scent emanating from my shiny vehicle. The ride was smooth and pleasant, until out of nowhere, a yogurt drink whizzed by my head, droplets landing in my hair before the container smashed into the dashboard, splattering the creamy beverage everywhere.
“I’m done,” the little shi*t behind me yelled out, with a big smirk on his yogurt-stained face.
Along with scolding Judd about the dangers of throwing things at a driver, I also told him that one day in the faraway future, when he gets his driver’s license, and if he’s lucky enough to get a car of his own, I’m going to throw a yogurt drink at his head and dashboard.
I’ve been waiting years for this day to arrive. And we’re finally here. Judd has his driver’s license and a car to drive, too. But, of course, as the saying goes, two wrongs don’t make a right, and so I’ve held back with my sweet revenge, even though the thought lingers in my imagination more often than I would like to admit.
Yet there are other reasons why I want to chuck a yogurt drink at my son.
It’s because my cute little boy, who occasionally acted like a little shi*t when he was younger, grew up, and now he sometimes acts like a big shi*t to me––his mother––the woman who gave him life.
What does he do to thank me for bringing him into this world? He picks on me.
Judd tells me I’m a bad driver. I don’t put my blinker on. I swerve on the road. Really, Judd? I’m a bad driver? The same lady who sat in the passenger seat, holding on for dear life while I taught him how to drive.
Judd tells me I’m a gaper. That’s slang for someone who looks silly on the ski mountain. Really, Judd? I’m the same lady who, when he was a toddler, skied with him between my legs, held onto him with a harness, lugged his skis and my skis to and from the mountain, and wiped his snot-stained nose throughout the day. Oh, and I’m also the same woman who helped him out of his Superman underwear and cleaned his four-year-old ass when he took a big shi*t in the middle of a ski run.
Judd tells me I make annoying noises when I chew. Really, Judd? I’m the same lady who nourished him from my breasts the first year of his life, only to be left with two sad-looking, wilted, deflated balloons for a chest.
The other day, Judd told me I was rude to the lady working in a toll booth because I didn’t respond when she asked me how my day was. I do feel bad about that. But, really Judd? Maybe I was a bit distracted getting him to his lacrosse game on time in another state in the middle of a pandemic.
I also hear this: “Mom, how did you make this steak? It’s gross” or “Mom, how much salt did you put on the chicken?” and “You bought the wrong sweet potatoes, again.”
Sometimes Judd tells me my jokes aren’t funny, that I nag him, that I don’t listen, and despite the thousands of hours I’ve put into watching him practice and play lacrosse, I don’t understand the sport at all.
I realize this is all part of the child-rearing cycle. It happened with my daughter, too, when she was in high school.
My kids started off precious and cute, treating me––their momma––like I was a famous rock star. They only wanted to hold my hand. They ran into my arms after school. They cried when I said goodbye. They embraced me tight, not letting me leave their rooms when it was bedtime. They listened, wide-eyed, when I told them stories. They giggled at all my ridiculous jokes.
And then one day—BAM—they hit their teen years, and my celebrity status took a nosedive.
It’s all okay. This, too, shall pass. I know Judd appreciates me. He tells me he loves me––a lot. And he thanks me for everything I do for him. He also tells me I’m the best mom ever. Then again, that line usually comes after he asks me for something.
As far as I know I never threw a yogurt drink at my mom when I was little (considering yogurt drinks didn’t exist back then, I definitely didn’t). And thankfully, my mom’s rose-colored glasses skewed her memory of my early childhood; she has no recollection of her darling angel doing anything of the sort. However, she and I both clearly remember my teenage temper tantrums, slamming the bedroom door, claiming that she was ruining my life, and my overall sassy attitude. There were probably many days when my mom wanted to throw a yogurt drink at my head.
To this day, for the purposes of amusement only, my brother and I still enjoy ripping on my mom––in her presence, of course. I suppose I will be enduring the same fate. From here on out, I will be the butt of my children’s jokes, an easy target to laugh at. It’s fine. I’m a big girl. I can take it.
As for my son’s trash talking, that’s a different story. One of these days, I might reach my boiling point, and when that happens, Judd, beware: I’m coming after you, with the biggest yogurt drink I can find.