Invasion Of The Mad Mumbler

Apparently my son no longer knows how to speak clearly. It is driving me insane. A typical exchange with him goes something like this:

"Spenser what is it that you want to do today?"

He looks at us first like we are aliens. Then he thinks. I am sure during this time he is thinking something like: 'What can I do to make them go even more insane?'
He looks at us with determination in his eyes, and then says:

"Farfel marfel flibber flob."

"Spenser, what did you say?"

"Fliffel piffel droobel drop."

"You have to speak up, I cannot understand you."

Now at this point he changes his tactics slightly by clearly saying the first two words. This of course gets me thinking he is actually going to speak clearly the entire time. No. This is just the second part of his evil plan to drive us parent folk crazy.

"I said--Flurpy burpy fiffel drivel bop."

At this point I want to pull my hair out. Literally. As it is I have a hard time hearing to begin with. That is of course what happens when one grows up right next to a very active train track. He knows this. I think he finds it more then amusing that I have to keep saying, huh, what? Constantly. My irritation at his inability to speak so I can understand, is starting to break through the surface of calm Mommy exterior. The cracks have started.


"Spenser, if you do not speak up so I can understand you, and stop the mumbling, I will go insane. Please speak so I can hear you. It is not funny. Stop laughing. Seriously boy. Stop. Last warning little boy. Speak up or you don't get to do anything."

This is obviously the big Mommy card that needs played. The do as I say or else card. It always works. No way he is gonna dog me now.


The gleam in his eye is now a huge honking sparkle of mischief. It is all but mocking. His eyes. They mock me. His face, toys with my fragile little Mommy ego. He is out to get me. To even the score. I have apparently just declared war, and he is going to fire back with the biggest weapon in his arsenal. Nuclear grade mumbler bomb. It will be a mumble bomb raid. I will need to take cover. It is not going to be pretty.

With a smirk that belongs on a teenagers face he begins his assault.

"I said, now listen closely Mom, fluffle puffle dripple dopple. Whim pummle bot. Did you understand that. I spoke clearly."

A little almost silent laugh escapes his lips after that. I am doomed. How to respond. Do I run away shrieking? Do I start pulling clumps of hair out of my head, because that is more pleasant then trying to decipher the demon boy? I slowly shake my head. Don't give in, don't give in. Yes that is what every fiber of my being is shouting. I think you could probably hear the shouting in New Zealand. Calmly, coolly, I simply answer, with little to no expression on my face.

"Well son, since you can't answer me correctly, I guess you don't want to do anything. Pity."

I turn and exit the room. My sanity while still there, is in no way intact anymore. He is a vicious fighter. He knows that one day soon, or realistically in another hour or so, I will have to ask him something, or try to speak with him. He will use this as his opportunity to get me again with the mumble bomb. It will be a long day indeed.

Hold me.

(No mumbles were harmed in the production of this blog entry. Sanity on the hand was squashed like a tiny bug. Ground into bits, and stuff into the trash heap.)