I was applying my make-up yesterday morning (what little I wear), trying to get out the door, shooting orders like a drill sergeant at the boys to get their back-packs packed, brush their teeth, and get jackets on – when I noticed out of the corner of my half-eye lined eye that my littlest bugger was looking up at me, one hand on his hip, the other pointing at me as if he was an old schoolmarm ready to scold me. 

Knowing that something was about to hit, I turned slowly, with a little trepidation in my voice and said “Yes?”

My little bugger, um bruiser, had something to say. He shook his finger, bounced on one foot and bellowed “I’m not going to school today!” with as much piss and vinegar as a WWE wrestler.

“Oh really? Why?” I replied, trying to not sound annoyed at this new wrench thrown in the already skewed morning routine.

As he bounced on his other foot, Matthew said in a sheepish voice, “Because Angelina is gunna marry Timothy, and I want to marry Angelina.”

Even though they’re only four, now I’m annoyed with Angelina, because clearly she has no idea what she’s missing.

I replied: “Well, does Angelina know that you want to marry her?”

“Yeah, I asked her, but she told me she was going to marry Timothy,” was the reply I got from my son. Matthew’s voice was laced with such distaste for Timothy, I got a little worried that he might have thrown down when (more like if) we ever got to school.

“Well, Matthew, you don’t have to worry about who you’re going marry now, you have some time to decide,” I replied in an authoritative voice, at least it was pretty authoritative for me.

He stormed away, and I was pleased with myself that I sailed past another mommy-landmine.

TWO DAYS LATER

Another harried morning, and I’m in my car, haphazardly applying make-up at each light (don’t judge) as I drove Matthew to school. From the stern of the car I hear Matthew scream over Adele’s “Rumor Has It” (he was holding my phone in his hand jamming to music).

“Mommy! Mommy! MOM! Timothy doesn’t want to marry Angelina anymore; she said she’ll marry me.”

“Oh really? So you’re going to get married to Angelina now,” I said with a little bit of an edge in my voice. What can I say? My son is not second best, he’s THE best.

“I’m marrying Eva.”

“Oh really? Does Eva know you are marrying her?”

“Yep!” he replied with a Fonzie-like coolness.

“Great, when’s the wedding?”

“When we want it to be,” he replied oh so casually.

Well, I hope it’s not till he’s 30, I thought.  

But then it dawned on me, and I threw out: “Wait, what happened to Angelina? You don’t want to marry her? She said she’ll marry you now.”

“She’s my Ex now.”

Perplexed, as in how the heck does a four year old know what an EX is, his reply rendered me nearly speechless. 

“Your Ex? What’s an Ex Matthew?“ I said inquisitively.

“Ummm, I dunno, ummmm someone that’s locked in your brain and breaks your insides into little tiny pieces.”

Huh? What? Really? Stumped again.  The conversation ended.

One of his friends broke his insides into tiny little pieces. At four? Angelina, that little hussy, is locked in his brain? Farts and poopies should be locked in his brain at four. 

But I sense what the real problem is – Matthew is really a lover not a fighter. The real problem is that there will be a lot of Angelina’s, that his insides may be broken into tiny little pieces more than once, and that he has to stop listening to my music. NOW.