Sign My Little Boy Is No Longer My Little Boy #13: Took him to a local store to by a few items for his high school uniform next year, just a few polo shirts and a sports shirt. They were a size 14. Got him home and got him to model one for his dad. I just looked at him. He's a handsome lad, and filling out from the weedy stringbean he used to be. He is only a couple of inches shorter than me, and I am actually rather tall for a woman. His dad and I just looked at him, standing tall and confident in his high school shirt. I felt my eyes prickle. I remembered a tiny, slippery individual with messy, sticky black hair, a coating of vernix (from being a couple of weeks early), and an incredibly worried look on his face when he was handed to me by a midwife. Now he's been nominated as Dux for his school this year, and due to start secondary school. Where have all the years gone? Don't worry, I'm not about to break into, 'Sunrise, Sunset'.
Sign My Little Boy Is No Longer My Little Boy #14: Drove him to a local store to buy some clothing for his school graduation party. He chose a black shirt, but there were no slacks at Best & Less - oddly enough. As we were leaving the car park, Adele came on the radio: 'There's a fire in my heart...' whatever the lyrics are. I commented I liked her. He pondered the physiological impossibility of starting a fire in your heart. (I did wonder whether to tell him his grandmother's pea-and-ham soup gave me frightful heartburn when I was pregnant with his little brother). He then said, 'I heard at school that there was this girl and she got really drunk and she poured kerosene down her throat and threw a match in - oh wait, it was her vagina. Uh, never mind, Mum!' I almost crashed the car.
Sign I'm Always Going To Be His Mum #4: He likes to play x-box live online. He has online friends, some from school, with whom he communicates verbally through the television. What an amazing technological age we live in. Sometimes random gamers enter into the game, and you can hear them talking to each other. My son won a game. I heard an older sounding person ask his age. Twelve was his reply, because he is twelve. Then through my television speaker directed at my son, I kid you not, came the word, 'Cunt!' I was in the lounge room in a micro-second, and shouted at the television, 'And how old are YOU?' A faltering voice replied, 'Nineteen.' I then roared, 'You are old enough to know better than to speak like that to someone, you foul-mouthed little son-of-a-bitch!' and switched off the x-box, and told my son I would not have him subjected to vicious abuse like that. I do believe nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to have been able to confront the monstrous troll face to face. I imagine this guy as an overweight, greasy haired git; perhaps a scrawny, greasy-haired git. Regardless of his size, he is no doubt unemployed and sponging off his parents, and unlikely to lose his virginity before age twenty-six, an encounter he will have to pay for. And when I confronted the virginal, socially inept jerk, I would peel the skin (after donning gloves because he's probably covered in zits all over, and dried jizz from his constant masturbation to Miley Cyrus videos) from his miserable carcass, and then stuff the pointless cretin into a barrel of salt.
There is no bitch like the one whose child has been threatened.
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