LMFAO penned and performed so sublime an ode to the subject of drunken disorderliness that it would be almost criminal to attempt to make it analogous to anything else. The song “Sorry for Party Rocking” is a testament to all that can go terribly wrong when one is overtaken by a substance that has the power to leave you mentally impaired and overconfident in your own physical ability.
In LMFAO’s case, Ciroc and Red Bull (and I suspect a little bit of cocaine) were the culprits. However, a very different white granular substance overpowered my youngest child…and that substance was the demon ‘Sugar’. All parents know what effects of sugar can have on a person under 50 lbs, and yet many of us continue to feed it to our kids, thinking it can’t be that bad in moderation.
Huh. I say huh!
As I watched my two year old daughter whiz around my sister’s house this summer, I tried to imagine what the world must have looked like in through those pretty brown eyes, glazed over in her heightened state of consciousness. She must have felt so powerful and so very alive…like she could do anything without fear of reprisal and repercussion. The astounded look on the faces of her parents and aunt must have only fueled that belief. As she cackled manically flitting from one room to the next, leaving a path of destruction with every step she took, I could audibly make out the sounds of a beat machine in the background. It was screaming:
Sorrrry for Toddler Rockin’!!!!
How did this all happen? None of it was my fault, I assure you. I know sugar and kids don’t mix. My sister is yet to learn that painful, however.
My sister invited my family to a house warming party a few weeks ago in DC. Unfortunately it was cancelled because there was leak in her a/c unit and she didn’t want her guest to suffer in the oppressive heat. The plans for the party had been in play for weeks though, and she had already purchased drinks, snacks and food for her would-be guests. Chief among these snacks were chocolate chip cookies (of all varieties) and ready to drink packets of Kool-Aid. My children made quick work of the cookies. They were sitting on the fireplace in plain view, and my sister had assured them that they could help themselves to as many as they wanted.
“I bought them for you guys,” she said warmly. “And no one else is going to eat them. Auntie A-Dub is on a diet.”
(I snickered and helped myself to a cookie. I never diet. Dieting means giving up on your favorite foods, and I never give up. For my dedication, I am rewarded with thighs that applaud me – thunderously – with every step I take.)
Liya, the baby, wasn’t so interested in the cookies. She took a bite out of mine and then walked away. In a few minutes, she came back and growled a request.
“I want d’ink!”
The cookie had obviously made her thirsty.
“Do you have anything for the kids to drink?” I asked.
“Yeah!” my sister shouted from the kitchen. “Those Kool-Aid packets in the living room.”
I pierced the straw into the foil, handed it to Liya and sent her on her way. She sucked the purple liquid greedily and walked down to the basement where to toys – and my sister’s sewing items – were stored.
Ten minutes later she was back again.
“I want d’ink!!”
I was reading an email on my phone and didn’t have time to pay attention to this repeated request.
“Babe, can you get Liya a drink?” I asked absently.
He pushed himself up from the couch and handed her another Kool-Aid packet. This exercise repeated itself, with her asking for ‘d’ink’ and three irresponsible adults handing her Kool-Aid, for the next 45 minutes. Finally when her sugar lust was satiated, it was time to unleash the hoard within.
Liya was unstoppable.
Unaware of the squall churning within her lithe body, we stood in the kitchen discussing fixtures and accessories that might go well with the space. To my right, I saw a brown figure clad in resplendent white climbing up the open shelves where my sister kept her alcohol and collection of shot glasses. Liya thrust one at me one from Mexico with an impish grin.
“Oh…thank you, baby,” I cooed.
I didn’t want to alarm her and have her loosen her grip on the shelf or drop the glass. The fall and/or the shattered glass could’ve hurt her. I pulled her down gently and my sister recovered her artifact.
“Don’t climb these shelves,” A-Dub cautioned. “You could fall and hurt yourself.”
I re-iterated my sister’s warning. Liya grinned and shot off like a rocket.
Sorry for Toddler Rockin’!!!
A few minutes she was back again, this time with something black in her hand. It was a Sharpie. She laughed uproariously as she scribbled on my sister’s cream colored walls.
“Oh, God, no!” I yelled.
My sister was crestfallen. Above all else, she desires cleanliness in her home. Sharpie marks on the wall are the antithesis of cleanliness.
Sorry for Toddler Rockin’!!!!
We made it a point to pick up all the pens, crayons, pencils and other writing utensils that were within toddler reach. My sister stored them in a drawer, certain that no one would look for them there.
Night had begun to fall, and we had to sort out dinner. It was decided that pizza would be the easiest thing to do. My childhood best friend had come over on a whim with some big news.
“I think I’m pregnant,” said Tem, flopping onto the sofa.
If we were all 23 years old and just fresh out of college, it would be a big deal. However, since every woman in the room was well into her 30’s and had an established career, the news was merely par for the course. That she had made it to 34 without getting pregnant was astounding to all.
I decided to play along though, and assuage her “fears”. We went to CVS and picked up a pregnancy test. I waited by the bathroom door while she peed on the stick.
“I’m nervous,” she croaked.
“Oh please,” I said dismissively. “You’re a medical doctor. You make more than enough money. And you only have one more good year before your eggs rot and fall out of your uterus. It’s going to be fine.”
In the middle of my pep talk, I heard my sister gasp from the kitchen downstairs.
The sound of grating laughter and quickly retreating footsteps was all I heard next. I walked down to see what the commotion was all about, and to my utter horror beheld a sight so grisly, all I could do was apologize.
“A-Dub. I am SO sorry.”
Liya had dipped her hands in pizza sauce and pawed half the wall his her tiny hands. Her eyes gleamed with delight as she peered at the two of us, who were exhausted by this point and staring in disbelief at the wall which was clean just moments before. Before we had time to contemplate next steps, she bent down to throw something red at my sister. It was a pin cushion.
“No, no, no Liya!” my sister wailed.
The sound of her distress only seemed to amuse the child-run-amok all the more. She flew down the stairs with reckless abandon, looking for something else to get into and hopefully destroy.
Sorrrry for Toddler Rockin’!!!!
I looked at her results and scoffed.
“Negro, please. All that degree learnin’ and you can’t even read the test. That’s not a plus. It’s a minus. You’re not even half pregnant.” And you better be happy you’re not, I mumbled internally.
“Oh!” she said, brightening instantly. “In that case, hand me a drink!”
A-Dub handed her a mix of vodka and Fanta. All seemed back to normal until we heard two children laughing uproariously from behind a closed bedroom door. Stone and Liya had gotten into my sister’s jewelry box and ripped a beaded bracelet apart. I’d gotten it for her when I was in South Africa. The look on her face is difficult to describe. To put it simply, she looked pained. Little orange beads dotted her dark wood floors and lay lifelessly at her feet. The more distressed she looked, the more my children mocked and pointed.
Sorrrry for Toddler Rockin’!!!!
It was time to put Liya to bed. Enough was enough! Marshall struggled to bathe her. She squirmed and slithered in his massive hands, but she was no match. Diapered and clothed in a t-shirt, he dumped her unceremoniously into her borrowed crib and walked out of the room. The silence in the house was deafening…and sweet.
The next morning, Liya woke up and stalked up the stairs. The sound of her footfall was heavy and sluggish, almost as if she was hung over. I waited for her to reach the top of the stairs before I dared to look in her direction.
“G’morning Mawmeee,” she growled. Her voice was guttural, her eyes were crusted over, and she was completely naked. What had happened in the crib in the night?!
“Can I have d’ink?” she said. It was a brazen demand, not a polite request.
That was enough toddler rockin’ for one day.