Killing

It turns out that my paranoia about my eventual demise at the hands of our animals or random murderers was misplaced.

Apparently it has been matricide at the hands of my darling middle child, Alexis, that I should have been worried about.

We went out to an early dinner on Mother's Day.  Early because we had 4H that evening and since my kid is the president of it, I kinda figured that she should show up even if it meant spending my Mother's Day evening in a small town hall that is horribly echo-y and causes all kinds of sensory overload in my already cranky self.  Hell, earlier that day we had driven home from Columbus as she had a dance competition and of course had to perform her solo that morning.  Guess I should not complain though as there were people who danced that afternoon/evening so my paltry 4H meeting is totally a first world problem amongst first world problems.

So, dinner.  Now when I am out and about with my family, there's a good chance that the most random topics will come up.  Like one time I ended up offering my niece a thousand bucks if she could fist bump the Pope and five thousand if she could spoon with him.  Video or it didn't happen, of course.  Then another time my nephew was talking about how he isn't into Facebook anymore so I asked him if Internet gambling and porn were more his speed.  And another time my nephew and I made a parody of Elf on the Shelf that involved the replacement elf (because the original quit due to a labor dispute with Santa) feeling up a ginormous stuffed bear and puking up his liquor like the lightweight that all elves probably are.

My family should probably not let me around my nieces and nephews unsupervised I think.

Somehow the subject of boot camp in the military came up, and Alexis asked what boot camp was.  My sister informed her that boot camp is where people in the military go to learn how to be killing machines.  Alexis, very casually, and without looking up from the picture she was coloring goes "Oh, I'm a killing machine."

Uh, the fuck?  She said it so nonplussed.  Like one would say something like "Oh yeah, I graduated from high school in 1998."  Like a statement of verifiable fact.  Apparently this is something I totally missed in my kid's life, the fact that somewhere in her 11 years of existence she has developed the ability to kill someone with her bare hands.

Mother of the YEAR, I tell you what.

So the conversation moved on, and Elizabeth is showing me this thing she got in her Ipsy bag that is like a double headed eyeliner, where one end is a regular line drawing eyeliner, and the other end is a star.  We were talking about all of the cool (?  Not so sure that look would be cool for anyone over the age of 14 on a day other than Halloween, but whatevs...) things you could do with it and Alexis said she wanted a "tattoo" of the star on her cheek.  My response was, "oh, like a teardrop tattoo?"  She again, very casually, affirmed that was in fact what she wanted.

I hope to god that she was just going along with this story for the laughs (we almost made my brother choke on his food a number of times with the discussion of her abilities to murder) but Imma be honest here...I'm a little freaked out.  I mean, the kid seriously has like no spine when she dances as evidenced by the way she can bend herself into all kinds of unnatural folds...would it really be that much of a stretch to assume that she has also along the way picked up some other talents, like the ability to break a neck with a single twist?

Maybe all of this time I have been worried about the wrong child being a serial killer.  Or perhaps this has been part of the plan all along, to keep the focus on the little one and glide along in the shadows like some sort of ballerina ninja ready to pounce should someone displease her.  I almost kind of feel like I need to start packing heat when I sleep.  Or like I need to up my meds.  Probably both.

Mother of the YEAR here, bitchez.