Zombieocalypse*

*[Please note the word “zombieocalypse” was coined and patented by Mr. Says Me Anonymously…and by “patented”, I mean I have to give him credit or he’ll give me shit about it.]

The Daughter has never really been much for believing in monsters. At least not the supernatural kind (yes, we have had many, many conversations about stranger danger…I’m that mom…she knows to punch a stranger in the throat and run like hell if necessary). Still, she’s just not that willing to believe in crazy stuff. Guess she’ll never be a Scientologist…

Regardless, she’s still pretty entertained by the idea of zombies. Can you blame her? No, no you can’t. They’re awesome. I mean, have you seen Zombieland? The Walking Dead? Some other third thing?

Once, I even heard her ask her Magic 8 Ball this question: “Magic 8 Ball, tell me the real truth. Is my dad a zombie?”

For the record, he’s not a zombie. He’s not nearly focused enough to be a zombie, nor is he needy enough to be a vampire, or manipulative enough to be an incubus…

Dude, monsters are kind of douche bags, right?

There was another time recently she pretended she was afraid, and couldn’t sleep… even alleged there might zombies in her room.

And when I type, “pretended”, that’s exactly what I mean. She wasn’t really scared. She just wanted us to think she was scared so she could tell us she needed to watch this video one more time to get her mind of the zombies. It worked.

(Riding on a pig, baby monkey…you’re welcome.)

Then, yesterday, The Daughter was playing in the backyard. She rushed in, out of breath from playing/running/laughing, and sighed (jokingly), “I had to come inside. Thought I saw a zombie out there…”

I just laughed. I was making dinner, and therefore busy enough to not take this opportunity to fuck with her.

That Guy I Married wasn’t as occupied.

“A zombie? In the backyard?” he asked, seemingly worried. She just nodded skeptically, unsure where the conversation was going.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that,” her dad assured her. “Zombies eat brains, and you’re really smart, so you’ve got plenty to spare.”

I guess she looked less than convinced.

“Seriously, don’t worry about it. You have so many extra brains, a zombie couldn’t mess with you too badly. You’ll be fine.”

You know a person is going to grow to be adept at sarcasm and cynicism when, at age six, these kinds of shenanigans don’t even phase her.

I would also like to submit this wisdom for the parenting journals: Hey, parents out there, you know how getting your kid up from school can be a less than pleasant experience? You do? Of course you do.

Well, if they aren’t getting out of bed, and you’re too tired/lazy/nice to yell at them, let me suggest this: just open your child’s closet door, and exclaim, “Okay, monsters, go get [insert kid’s name here].”

This gets kids out of bed the way Jagermeister gets sorority girls into bed.

You’re welcome. And, thanks, monsters!