Archives For Toddlers Are Assholes

The Devil Wears Carters

August 28, 2014 — 56 Comments

the omen final edited

When Little Dude was a toddler, he was a real asshole. I took notes that I kept meaning to turn into a book, but I could never write.
He was too much of an asshole.

I’ve decided to turn them into a series of blog posts, “The Devil Wears Carters.” Here is the first in the series.


Little Dude had a speech delay. He didn’t talk until he was 27 months old. The irony is, he doesn’t shut up now for a minute. This kid talks from the second he wakes up, until the second he lays down to go to sleep. At 3 years old, he kept a running commentary on every single thought he had in his head. And his head was jammed full of thoughts.

At 3, he never ever fucking ever stopped talking.

I did everything short of burying his face in an ether-soaked rag to shut him up. NOTHING worked.

We had “quiet contests.” Whoever could stay quiet the longest, won. He lost after 2 seconds. We played hide and seek. He’d hide and I’d sit and have a cup of coffee, relieved to be out of earshot for 5 minutes. I developed a mysterious bladder condition which caused me to have to urinate every half hour. I’d sit in the bathroom just trying to enjoy the silence, which was short-lived. He’d stand outside and yammer at me through the door.

He’s almost 11 and he still does that. I can’t even pee without him continuing to discuss his latest Minecraft adventure. I propose we bring back the Medieval torture, the Rack, for the inventor of Minecraft. I will personally turn the handle that dislocates every joint in that motherfucker’s body.

I’ve been through a lot, but I had never experienced anything as draining as the onslaught of preschool chatter he subjected me to, all day, every day. He fell asleep talking. In the morning, he’d pick up his story where he left it the night before, as though there hadn’t been a 10 hour span between sentences.

His stories SUCKED.

They were about things I didn’t care about, didn’t want to know about, and couldn’t understand even if I WANTED to know about them.

And he had not a CLUE about proper story telling, which, in fact, has a beginning, middle and end. His stories were just endless middles, leaving us stranded forever on the Desert Island of Incomprehension. Me, and my little story teller. Marooned captain of the “USS What The Fuck?”

He had to begin every story by saying my name. FOUR TIMES. Well, my Mommy name, as in “Mommy Mommy Mommy Mommy, I farted in my underwear.”

Was this a speech impediment? Was he having a stroke? Was this a chanting invocation to conjure Satan from his infernal abyss?

I read articles about excessively talkative children, desperate for a remedy as my brain atrophied daily. I tried to focus my glazed over eyes on articles about kids like my own, as I felt the cytoplasmic proteins in my brain slowly leak out my ass. One woman wrote that her children talked constantly, and she loved every minute of it.

Was she fucking deaf? I doubt it, because even Helen Keller would have been signing “STFU” to my kid after 10 minutes.


This is what a typical conversation with him was like. I was innocently trying to cut up a cantaloupe, and became engaged in a “steel cage battle of death/nobody gets out alive” conversation.

“Can I have some of that? What is it? Where did you get that from?”

“It’s cantaloupe. From the supermarket, sweetie.”

“Do we eat that part? Is that the skin? What is that?”

“It’s the rind. We don’t eat that.”

“Do we eat the seeds? No or yes?”

“No, we don’t eat the seeds.”

“Why not? Are they yucky or yummy?”

“They’re yucky.”

“Do Lenny and Stevie eat the seeds? No or yes?”

“No, honey.”

“Does Sammy?”

“No, nobody does.”

“I farted into my underwear.”

I didn’t answer because really, there was no question there.

“Am I gonna die?”


“If I eat the seeds, will I die?”

“No, you will not die.”

“What’s dying?”

“You close your eyes, and sleep for a long time.”

“Are you going to die?”

“Someday, when I’m old.”

“Are you old?”

“No, I am NOT old. Aunt Bobbie is old.”

“Did God make that cantaloupe?”

“Yes, God makes everything.”

“Did he make me?”


“Did he make you?”


“Did he make Daddy?”


“Did he make Daddy’s car?”

“Ye—Well, not really.”

“Why not really? No or yes?”

This kid would make a fantastic prosecutor.

“Well, cars are made in factories.”

“What’s a factory?”

“It’s a place that makes cars.”

“Did God make the factory?”

“No, people built the factory. God makes all living things.”

“What’s a living thing?”

“People, animals, plants…”

“Are poops living?”

“No. Yes. NO.”

“Does God have a pee pee?”

“Well, since he’s a boy, I would have to say yes.”

“Is his pee pee on the inside or the outside?”

“He has an outside pee pee.”

“Why is your pee pee on the inside?”

“It just is.”

“Can I see?”

“No, you can’t see!”

“I would like to see it right now, now, NOW.”

(well, take a number, dude).

“No, it’s private.”

“Is my pee pee private?”


“Daddy has hair on his pee pee, and his nipples are turning.”

WTF?? “All right, you lost me there.”

“Why are my boobies flat, and yours hang down?”

“They didn’t used to, you little fucker!”


“Look what Mommy’s got! M&Ms! Here – take the WHOLE BAG!”


The only time he stopped asking questions was when he was eating. And not even always then. It was unreal. The stuff that came out of his mouth you couldn’t make up if you tried.

First of all, my son, like most kids, repeated everything he heard, which we learned the hard way when he dropped a sippy cup and exclaimed, “Jesus Chwist!” We realized we had to have a total moratorium on cussing in our household, or else explain to his preschool teacher that he learned “motherfucker” at the babysitter’s. And he had an utterly charming way of putting words together in a tuneless and grating song, like “asshole, butthole, asshole, butthole” which he would sing incessantly around the house.

He also strung the most bizarre words and thoughts together.

“Mommy, can I make a pee-pee in your mouth?”

WHAT?!! My kid was either experimenting with words, or he was a total freak. And given who his parents are, I wasn’t so sure.

Once, we had the unfortunate luck to get in the elevator at the mall with an elderly woman in a wheel chair. She had some kind of respiratory tubes attached to her face. I prayed to all the Gods that he wouldn’t notice.

He noticed. Luckily, he waited until we were out of the elevator to announce, “Mommy, she has boogers in her nose. Is that machine sucking out the boogers?”

“No, it’s to help her breathe.”


“Well, she’s old, and-

“Is she going to die? IS SHE GOING TO DIE?!!”

Another time, we were in Sam’s Club, and Little Dude saw packages of hangers he decided he had to have. We didn’t need them, and I wasn’t buying them just to tickle his 3-year-old fancy. Of course, this just put the little tyrant OVER THE EDGE. After all, he had decided he needed them. And he called hangers “hookers.”

So, I pushed my wagon out of Sam’s club at warp speed, while he shrieked at full volume,

“I want a hooker!! I WANT A HOOKER!

Like father, like son.


Do you have a child who you’re sure is the spawn of Satan? Who talks incessantly?
If so, do you drink in the daytime? What was the worst thing your kid ever did?
Talk to me.   I’m listening.