Hey Mama, I know a pack of starving zombies is rapidly approaching our house, but I’d like to try putting my socks on by myself today.
I can see what you’re thinking: Why the socks, why today? I believe it was Dr. Maria Montessori who said, “It is necessary that the child teach himself, and then—”
Big reaction! Do you need the Calm Down Corner? Some belly breaths?
Yes, I can hear Mrs. Dawsey screaming across the street. Though your caterwauling kind of drowns hers out. You’re not the only one who’s stressed, you know. This morning Daddy was turned into a flesh-hungry zombie, and I got a boo-boo on my thumb. Which are equally bad things.
Time to get crackin’ on these socks. Is it too on the nose to wear skulls? Candy canes feel tonally off. These wool ones are a sweaty sensory nightmare. How can I escape zombies with clammy tootsies? And why do all my socks have cartoons on them?
I’m both a big boy and the man of the house now. I can’t wear Bluey.
Real quick, watch this cool jump. Sorry that wasn’t it. If I hadn’t tripped, that one would have been 10 out of 10. Mama, are you watching? At recess, Ms. Jenny said, “I’ve never seen a 2-year-old jump so high! You must be a superhero!”
Your silence speaks volumes.
The zombie horde got Ms. Jenny? Well. Do I have time to make a drawing about my emotions?
OK, cool, guess I’ll let these Big Feelings eat me alive—like the zombies ate Ms. Jenny.
You know, I’m not one to criticize, but try using your gentle hands while you pack. You tossed knives next to my jellyfish stuffie and on top of the cheese puffs. Do you feel like you’re making good choices? And is that crossbow new? I have to eat off-brand Pirate’s Booty, but we have money for—
No, I have not forgotten about the socks. I picked green because it’s the color of Zombie Daddy’s skin. What does undead mean, by the way? Are you a widow? Am I half an orphan? Does Zombie Daddy have a new family?
Alright, almost got this sucker over…my…toes…
Mama, do not panic, but my pinkie toe is separated from the others on the outside edge of this stupid sock. Perhaps if I yank hard, it’ll fix it?
This is the worst pain any human has ever felt.
You’re right; I don’t know what it feels like to be eaten alive by zombies. But I’d like to point out that you don’t either.
Any chance we can bust out that knock-off Pirate’s Booty? My stomach sounds like when a fork gets stuck in the garbage disposal. Hey, maybe it’s not zombies! It was my tummy all along!
Kidding. The zombies are pretty close.
OK, yes, the socks! I’ve liberated the little guy and am wiggling this one….right….on!
The un-Undead Ms. Jenny said I have “trouble with transitions,” but I never felt that was fair. An object at rest stays at rest and an object—fine, fine!
I’m not going to lie, those growls are pretty loud now – both yours and the zombies’. Not a peep from Mrs. Dawsey, but I’m getting the vibe that that’s a bad thing. Remember you said you hoped she’d rot in hell?
In a way, your wish came true.
Hey, whoa, whoa, you know I don’t like to be thrown over your shoulder like this. Gentle hands, gentle hands!
Wait, I thought we weren’t supposed to skip steps? Or slam doors? Or shove furniture against the door? Or hide in my closet with your hand over my mouth while you smother me in your rotting meatball breath?
Did you even brush today? Rules for me but not for thee, I guess. And is that you saying “braaaaiiiinnnnnns” or—
Oh look! It’s Ms. Jenny!
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Dianna Heitz is a journalist living in northern Virginia. She is a volunteer reader for CRAFT Literary and a judge for NYC Midnight. Her work has appeared in The Razor.