My kids are insane.
Oh, and when did you get your degree in Psychiatry to enable such a diagnosis, you heartless bastard of a parent, you ask?
While I could argue that several years of parenting is far more of an evidentiary trial by fire than years of medical training, I will instead just say the state of their mental health is plainly axiomatic. Case in point:
It is a typical day in the Dudley household / juvenile detention facility. At home are Monster Kiddo, his brother Sadist Kiddo, and me, the hapless Daddy. Monster Kiddo has Sadist Kiddo pinned to the floor, using his body to crush Sadist Kiddo’s head.
Sadist Kiddo is screaming bloody murder about this, drawing my attention away from whatever it was I was doing in an attempt to ignore my children and the disruptive influence they have on my peace of mind.
I rush to the scene of the crime and, after muttering, “I am crushing your head. Crush, crush!” under my breath, I separate the two pugilists. This involves some heavy lifting and invective on my part.
Mostly invective. As they get older, I expect the balance to tilt more towards the heavy lifting side of the equation.
Which is ironic, given that as they age, hearing invective is less inappropriate for them.
Having caught their breath, the boys shrug free of me and begin circling each other, licking their chops and sharpening their fingernails.
In an attempt to maintain my sanity, I confiscate both of their whetstones and, as I wonder aloud once again as to why the Missus would possibly see fit to provide them such instruments of mayhem, order the two bitter rivals to stay at least three feet apart.
They are small enough that this would keep them just out of arm’s reach of each other.
Sadist Kiddo, having recovered enough from his head squishing, immediately bursts into tears and dashes to his room, leaving me a trail of woeful wails to follow.
I find him on the floor next to his bed, curled in the fetal position, tears and mucous flowing freely from, respectively, his eyes and nose.
(Once it was the other way around, and boy was that a long night in the emergency room.)
Me: What’s wrong? Why are you crying?
Sadist Kiddo: Monster Kiddo is my best friend! I love him!
Me: But he was crushing your head. I had to stop it.
Sadist Kiddo: But now I can’t play with him! I miss Monster Kiddo!
Me: But he was crushing your head!
Sadist Kiddo: He’s my best friend ever! And now I’ll never see him again because of you!
Me: (sighing and knowing I will regret what I’m about to say next): Fine. I rescind the order. You can play together.
Sadist Kiddo: (running from room): Fat ass jerk rescinded the order! He rescinded it, Monster Kiddo! We can play again!
Monster Kiddo: (from the other room) I’m crushing your head! Crush, crush.
In the end, the kiddos make peace with each other and tag team me. I do the only thing I can, and make a strategic retreat: I surrender my tablet to them.
They immediately turn on each other, fighting over who gets to use it next. In the chaos, I slip away and lock myself in the bathroom.
There are now ominous clunking sounds coming from outside, but I have water and a toilet – I think I can hold out for at least several days.