The Dating Game. It ain’t happening.

I usually engage in pleasantries and such at the beginning of my entries.  Not today, y’all.  Not today.

Apparently, according to the Destroyer, everyone in his grade except him is dating and our policy has made him a pariah.  (Not true, unlike his mother, the Destroyer is popular.)  I think I’ve touched on the whole middle school dating thing in the past, but I’m much too lazy to go back and look it up, much less link it here.  However, the Big Man and I have decided that no one here dates until they are sixteen. Why?  I’m glad you asked  Or didn’t.  Whatever, this is MY blog. Note: this focuses on the Destroyer because that’s who I just argued with.  I’m sure when I fight with Wondergirl  about this it will be entertainment at its finest. And you’ll get to read all about it.

1.) Responsible dating requires good decision making.  Something the Destroyer has a hard time with.  This is a boy who borrowed $190 Beats headphones from a friend and promptly got them stolen because he left them in his open backpack. Like, immediately. He just now requested that we buy him a steel door for his room.  Because we live on the Starship Enterprise.

2.) It also requires trying to keep a 14-year-old girl happy.  Never, ever, in the history of humanity, has there existed a perpetually happy 14-year-old girl.  Never. (We never think about it, but you know that at one point Michelle Obama threw herself  on her bed and cried because she was the only one who could go to a Marvin Gaye concert. YOU KNOW SHE DID.)  Listen, I was a fourteen year old girl. Which means I was the star of my own tragic soap opera. As are most 14-year-old girls.  I absolutely do not want my son to feel responsible for that. (Also, for future reference, I do not want Wondergirl to inflict that on someone’s son.  Although, to be fair, in her case it absolutely would involve bail.)

stocl
So, I know I use Storm a lot, but sometimes she has like, zero chill. 

 

3.)  This may sound a bit callous, but raising kids is an investment.  I mean, food, gas, sports equipment, and–most of all–time.  If I’m putting all that into my son, I expect to see a return on my investment.  I don’t need some girl turning his head, distracting him, and possibly ruining that.  And, I’m about to be real you guys, if some girl does, she’s going to have to pay me back. Oh, y’all think I’m playing?  I’m dead serious.  I will have my hand out and she will have to run me my coins. To the tune of $75, 000. (Figures are approximate.  But I remain dead serious.)  That’s a lot of overtime at Chick-Fil-A or wherever the kids are working these days.

I don’t know.  I know that a lot of parents feel confident in letting their kids make the choice to date in middle school.  I’m probably taking the easy way out.  Which is what I do.  See the above statement about laziness.

Random Round-Up

He you guys!  So I was not feeling well this week.   You know, cause I sent the kids back to that petri dish they call school. Also I have been writing for other folks, and again I am too shy to share. I just straight up told Mama Prime I would direct her to my work and when I got home I cried because I don’t want her to know how awful my work really is.  Yes, I said shy.  Why are you surprised?  Oh, because I am a butthead loudmouth on here?  Yeah, well.

Anywhoo.  Pop question:  When everyone in the house is sick, who do you tend to first?  A) Your oldest, B) the middle child who never gets enough attention, or C) the baby because he’s the baby?  Haha, trick question—the answer is D) the Big Man.  Because he is pathetic.  Or pitiful.  I can’t decide. Pathetiful? Yes.  YES.  No one copyright this until I feel like it.

Now.  To my random thoughts.

I told the Destroyer that if he goes to a school dance, and a girl he’s dancing with dances anything like I do, he should call me immediately and get away from her as fast as he can.  If a girl can booty roll and shake the way I could (and, *ahem* still can) I don’t want him anywhere NEAR her.  #parentalhypocrisy

I finally gave away my hope jeans.  You know those jeans you hold onto hoping you’ll lose weight back into them?  Yeah, well I lost hope.  Also, they are now out of style. I wish you well in your Goodwill endeavors, hope jeans.

The Destroyer, my son, who came from my own body, didn’t know how to spell Vegeta.  Or Super Saiyan.  I have failed him spectacularly. Don’t call CPS.

Yeah, Vegeta. That's how I felt, too.
Yeah, Vegeta. That’s how I felt, too.

Remember how I said Skeletor was undateable?  Well, I follow him on Twitter and he seems cool.  Danzing  is still undateable, though.

My grandma’s in town!  This is awesome because she’s awesome.

I live in Vancouver, Washington.  I thought it was cloudy today, but I think I’m wrong.  I think it may be the haze of smug coming across the river from Portland.  Yes, smug.

I was late taking Kid Sensation to school the other day.  He was up in his room playing so quietly I forgot he was there.  You guys, he was being so nice and quiet that I was validated as a parent.  I mean, if I can forget you exist, you’re a pretty good kid, right? Please don’t call CPS.

I want to have a cooking show.  But I can’t because I wouldn’t know how to cook without being interrupted. Or having to break up a fight. Or getting into a fight.  Or putting out a small fire.

On second thought, my cooking show might be pretty good.  Will you guys watch it?

SHALLOW. Like son like mother.

Again, I admit I’m a terrible person.  It’s kind of my running theme.  And I’m passing it on to the next generation.  Thank me later.

So I was talking to The Destroyer about a girl he likes.  Liked.  Here’s the deal:  I try to instill in my children that looks aren’t everything.  I try to tell them that what makes a person special is on the inside.  Stay with me here.

This is how the conversation went:

“Hey, whatever happened to ____?”  (At this stage, I’m not trying to remember their names.)

He shrugs.  “She’s not my type.”

“What does that mean?”

Another shrug.  So, I think, she’s tore up.

“Destroyer, everything can’t be looks.  I mean, is she smart? Funny? Interesting?”

“She’s smart.  I just don’t like her, mom.  Leave it alone.” I wasn’t about to leave it alone.  Me?  Nerd extraordinaire? Raise a shallow kid?  Not gonna happen.  If he can’t see inner beauty, then he’s the same as all those shallow jerks that I went to school with.  You know, the ones who couldn’t see my inner beauty.

“Listen, there’s a such thing as inner beauty.  I mean—wait.  Is that her?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.  Oh, my. WOOF. Jaysus. My goodness, Destroyer. Did—did you know what she looked like?”

“I was trying to tell you.”

“Okay.  Duck.  I’ll peel outta here before she knows you’re here.”

Don’t get mad, you guys.  I really do want my son to be with a woman of substance.  I just don’t want her to be tore-up ugly.  And I don’t mean like a big nose or overweight or a limp.  I mean looking like a Garbage Pail Kid.

Sweartogod, this is HannahMckaylaBrittneyEricaAleshaRenee
Sweartogod, this is HannahMckaylaBrittneyEricaAleshaRenee

And I know there are parents out there who wouldn’t want their son- or daughter-in-law to be fat like me.  I’ve decided not to be mad about that.  (Especially since I know that my mother-in-law wanted her son to marry a pretty, petite, blonde.  Which is the polar opposite of me and I decided not to be mad about that.  Especially since I make the Big Man very happy. Also, I’m sexy-fat.  So there’s that.)

The thing is, men get to be shallow about ALL KINDS OF THINGS. Like if a woman has hammer toes.  So, I feel like I get to be shallow about some things.  And this is one of them.  I get to think that my smart, beautiful son is out of a particular girl’s league.

I happened to marry an attractive man.  And I know that they’re my kids, but my kids are pretty darn good looking.  And I would like to have good looking grandchildren.

I don’t worry about this too much with Wondergirl.  She already has criteria in place for the man she wants to meet in 2026.  (That’s the year she has projected, not me.) She actually said, “He has to be reasonably handsome.  Not way fine, cause I’m not trying to fight over him. ” (This is a lie.  She wants any excuse to fight.) “And rich,” she added. “He has to be rich.”  Of course he does.  How else would she fund her world-dictatorship campaign? (Omega Prime, I’m looking at you, kid.)

Look, I guess it boils down to this:  If a dad can tell his son to date hot chicks, so can a mom.  Also, I hope that she’s kinda dumb. That way, I can trick her into telling the truth about what her and my son have been up to.

Oh, and then, THEN, another girl had the nerve to tell the Destroyer that she didn’t want to talk to him because some kids said that his mother is crazy.  WHAT?!?  Only SOME kids think I’m crazy?  Well, I must be losing my touch.

There she goes again.

I know, I know, another Wondergirl post.  But you have to admit, she’s pretty entertaining.  I’ll even throw in some bonus Kid Sensation and The Destroyer.

Actual conversation on their way to school:

Big Man:  Wondergirl, are you supposed to be chewing gum?

WG: (Smack, Smack) Nope.

Big Man:  Aren’t you going to get in trouble?

WG:   Probably. (Smack). It doesn’t matter, Principal Conners is soft.

Soft?!?!? SOFT?!?  How are you ten and calling someone soft like you’re The Rock?  Like, I’m fully expecting her to continue that statement with, “You wanna cross the Wondergirl? Well, the Wondergirl says this…”

The week she was on steroids and became a ten-year-old rage monster (I told you guys it was going to be great):

Kid Sensation was flying his paper airplane in her vicinity.  Yeah, I know.  I’m not sure how he thought it wasn’t going to end badly, or if he was willing to risk it unaware of just how badly it was going to end.  This is how–and you guys, just, you guys.  Wondergirl, who was curled up in the recliner trying to suck her thumb despite her swollen face, was trying to watch TV.  Besides the steroids, she was also going through thumb withdrawal.  No bueno.  So then Kid Sensation comes through with this airplane. Wondergirl is tracking the plane with her eyes.  It passes in front of her face twice.  Somehow the barometric pressure in the room drops, so I know it’s about to go down.  Third time–and I swear on my Batman T-Shirt–her feet shoot from underneath her and she grabs the airplane out of the air with one hand simultaneously.  She crushes  poor Kid Sensation’s airplane while staring him down, then balls the airplane up and slams it into the garbage.  Then she went back to the chair, curled back up, and continued her attempt to suck her thumb.  It happened so fast, if the Big Man hadn’t asked me if I had just seen what he did, I would have thought I imagined it.

You guys, I'm pretty sure this is what happened.
You guys, I’m pretty sure this is what happened.

She blew  up at The Destroyer so hard you guys he just put his hands up and walked away.  He was trying to tell her that dinner was ready.

Wondergirl was in her room ranting for no reason.  Well, maybe there was a reason, but I was scared so I didn’t go in. Or even knock. There might be a body in there, but all I smell is Bath and Body Works Sweet Pea lotion so I think I’ll leave it alone for now.

Oh, and Kid Sensation tried to get himself killed.  The other day he threw himself face down on the couch, then lifts his head, coughs, and says, “Oh, I think it’s Dad’s bottom.”  He then lowered himself down to floor and immediately put his own head down.  He already knew.

Oh, oh, and I have to take timeout to be that parent who brags about something her kid did like other people really care and aren’t just politely nodding and thinking about how to escape.

So the Destroyer runs track, and he ain’t half bad.  He runs the 400 and the 4 x 100, and he throws discus.  So last week, he’s running the third leg of the 4 x 100 and his teammate steps on his shoe during the handoff.  The Destroyer trips, falls, and his shoe comes off.  He rolls over, pops up, and finishes his leg and handoff. WITH. ONE. SHOE.  I thought that was kinda cool.

Anyway, how have you guys been?

I have a feeling…

So I have all kinds of weird quirks. But you already know this, because you’re a faithful reader of this blog. Well, you could at least fake it. That’s better.

Anyway, back to my weird quirks. One of them is that certain things make random parts of my body feel weird. Like touching velvet makes my teeth hurt. I don’t know why. Here are some more. Fascinating, I know.

Random fake hair. I used to see this a lot when I worked downtown, usually on Monday morning. People get in fights over the weekend and sometimes weave gets snatched out. I understand why it happens, but it still makes me feel funny.

Body part that feels funny: Stomach.

The guy down the street who brings his parrots out for a walk. I know parrots are supposed to be great pets and good company. Maybe his parrots need fresh air, I don’t know how parrot parenting (say that five times fast) works. But when you drive down the street and you see some parrots stone-cold chilling in the cut, it looks weird. Also, his windows are covered with aluminum foil.

Body part that feels funny: Eyes.

Peach fuzz. Peach fuzz feels funky. I can eat a peach that has been sliced and skinned, but I can’t take a bite out of a peach. I also like peaches in Bellini form.

Body part that feels funny: Tongue.

The Destroyer’s bedroom. Okay, so I’m totally a slacker mom when it comes to making my kids clean their rooms. Also, if I made them do it, then I’d have to clean my room, and I’m not really feeling that. But his room tends to be way gross. WAY. The times that I have to go in there and get stuff I have to put on shoes and a jacket (my homemade HAZMAT suit). It perpetually smells like Takis and boogers.

This is what ordinary humans who try to go in there become.  I have been exposed for years, so I'm immune.
This is what ordinary humans who try to go in there become. I have been exposed for years, so I’m immune.

A few months ago I ventured in there to get a towel for laundry and I thought I saw something move in the corner, but I’m not sure because I just screamed and ran out. I believe the towel is still there.

Body part that feels funny: Feet.

Tiny shorts in the little girls section. So I’m shopping with Wondergirl and we’re looking for stuff to transition to spring—t shirts, capris, etc. She holds up a pair of shorts and I told her that I only buy her underwear in packs. She laughed at me and said, “No, mom, I need shorts.” I told her she had better go find some then. “I like these shorts.” My brain still wasn’t making the connection between what was in her hands and shorts. My understanding was that shorts were garments that were meant to be worn outdoors. Apparently, my version of shorts is prehistoric. So Wondergirl doesn’t have any shorts.

Body part that feels funny: Chest. Head. Gut.

I don’t know. Am I the only one that gets these? Please share. Except for you, Big Man. I’d rather you didn’t.

I also hate butterflies.

Hey y’all! I know I haven’t been around but I have a really good reason.

I didn’t feel like it.

Anyhoo, I’ve told you guys over and over that I’m pretty much a horrible person. It all came to a head this week. Here are a few of the horrible things I’ve said and done. I’m telling you guys this because misery loves company.

There was this football game that happened this weekend and everyone keeps asking me about it. I’m over it, so I’ve been telling people I was at a funeral.

I went for a walk yesterday and this little dog kept following and nipping at my heels. I was trying to figure out how to kick it without getting caught, but then it went home.

I ate the last cookie and told each kid that another kid did it, hoping for a kid-on-kid fight to the death. It never happened.

It would have been so awesome.
It would have been so awesome.

I watched Maury Povich.

I stuck my tongue out at a kid that was staring at me.

I told a telemarketer that I was dead.

I stepped on one of Kid Sensation’s toys and threw it away in a fit of rage. Then I tried to pretend that he never had that toy in the first place. He didn’t buy that explanation so now I owe him. Which is worse than owing the mafia.

This lady came and stood next to me when I was picking out apples at the store; I guess she wanted some apples too. She smelled horrible. I blurted out “Oh my God!” Really loud.

In his line of work, The Big Man’s shoes get wet and stink up the joint. I insist on making a production out of Febrezing them.

Wondergirl and I were watching show where a husband pranked his wife by putting salt in her coffee. Wondergirl says, “If that were me, I would have poured that coffee over his head.” That was my cue to tell her that second-degree burns are an inappropriate response to a little prank. Instead, I laughed.

I vow to be nicer this week. Wait, no. Next week. Next week, for sure.

Baby got Back. Not what you think.

Happy Friday you guys!

Well happy for me, because my back and I made up and are friends again. Oh, I didn’t tell you that we got into it? Yeah. Now I have to tell you all about it. You shouldn’t have asked. You didn’t? Well, I’m pretending you did.

So a few days ago, I was all nice and cozy in my bed and I didn’t want to get up. Honestly, I never want to get up, but I have to do parenting and wifelike stuff, so I have to. But on this particular day, my Back didn’t want to get up either.

“We don’t have a choice.” I was nice at first.

“Listen, if you get up, you’ll be making a mistake.” Back tried to warn me. I took this warning lightly, thinking (foolishly) that I was the master of my body. Oh, how quickly I forgot about the Great Bean Dip Catastrophe.

“Look, Back, I have things to do. Get your stuff together and let’s go.”

I climbed out of bed and immediately bent double in pain. “What the green beans are you doing, Back?”

“I warned you. I’m fed up. You don’t exercise, I have to carry around those huge boobs all day–”

“Yeah!” came a tiny voice. “Shut up, shoulders,” I said.

Back continued, “And when I try to tell you that today is not a good day, you ignore me. I’m going on vacation.”

“Wait, whaaa? No, you can’t! Who’s going to replace you?”

“Oh, my friend Spasm.”

“Not Spasm. Anyone but Spasm. Please. I’ll change, I promise. I hate Spasm and Spasm hates me. I’m begging you—aaaauuugh!” Too late. Spasm had arrived. Time to fight.

So I hobble to the shower, thinking about how much Spasm hates warm water. Also, Nose hates it when I stink, so, two birds and all.

At first, it worked. Yes! Me:1 Spasm: aaaauuugh—shouldn’t have bent down to get that towel. So, Spasm:1.

When I tried to go downstairs, I was already cranky. Stupid Back. Then everyone wants to ask questions like “Are you okay?”or, “What’s wrong?” like they cared. So I gave the answer guaranteed to make everyone leave me alone: “Cramps”. Clears the room every time.

Spasm was starting to get really mean, though. I could barely walk. I tried stretching. Spasm laughed and then attacked me with what I am positive were lightening bolts. This was getting out of hand. I headed to Urgent Care.

Spasm and Mjolnir might be the same thing.
Spasm and Mjolnir might be the same thing.

Now, anyone who has ever been to Urgent Care knows that it should be called Care Four Hours From Now. So I’m sitting up in there with Spasm just going to town and not caring about my feeling at all for hours. But then.

The Dr. Comes in and she says the magic words: Muscle Relaxer. Awww, yeah.

An hour later, the pill kicks in and I’m all, “Take that, something about something, ZZZZZZ” Ah, sweet, sweet incoherence. Of course, this is when Back decided to return and act right.  I can’t win.

So anyway, that’s the super interesting thing that has been going on with me. Oh, and The Destroyer made Honor Roll. Which gives me hope that he won’t be a vagabond.

Time, that’s what happened.

Hey you guys. You guys, I have been so sick, and I still am a little bit. But I feel good enough to run my mouth today, so here we go.

The weather here has been pretty nice the last few days, just a little chilly. (Somewhere in the Midwest someone is flipping me the bird right now. ) So since it isn’t raining, I make my kids bundle up and then kick them outside until they have mild hypothermia. Parenting, ladies and gentlemen!

Anyhoo, I was watching them play and it reminded me of things I used to be able to do effortlessly. “Oh, here she goes with her lists,” I can hear you thinking. Well, it was kind of rude for you to think that, but I’m going to present my list to you anyway.

1) Running. No, not jogging or running for exercise—which I don’t do—but an all-out-full-bore-sprint for no reason other than to run. The Destroyer runs everywhere. Everywhere. Full speed. And he’s got nowhere to be; I have no idea why he’s running. But if I wanted to sprint somewhere (you guys, I just stopped and busted up laughing after typing that, tears and all) I would really have to get ready to do it. First, I’d have to put on my sports bra that’s made of titanium alloy. Then I would have to psyche myself up. Then I would have to stretch. After that, I would have to talk myself out of going back in the house to lay down. Oh, and I’d have to make sure there was no one around within a ten mile radius. Okay, and your mark, get set, go! I did it! Now, I’m just going to lay face down in this grass twenty feet from my house…

2) Jumping. Every one of my kids likes to jump down the stairs. Like five of them at a time. I guess their femurs shooting up through their kneecaps and the ensuing patella ricochet isn’t a concern for them. It is for me though, so if I ever have to jump down from somewhere, first I get my feet as close to the ground as humanly possible. Then I point my toes as hard as I can in order to get even closer to the ground. Then I use my arms to launch myself to wherever it was I was stupid enough to have to jump to get to. I try really hard to make sure that my ankles and knees are bent when I land so that I don’t collapse into a heap of two immediately broken ankles. Jumping down one stair is not for me.

3) Pull-ups. The Destroyer was doing pull-ups for fun. I haven’t done pull-ups in years. Just kidding! I’ve only ever done one pull-up in my life, and I’m pretty sure I was drunk.

4) Falling. The Destroyer was playing basketball with one of his friends in front of the house. On the street. And he dove for the ball. He fell, of course, but then popped right back up and continued dribbling. I remember doing that all the time. Just popping with a skinned knee or something and going on about my business. People, I am so for real when I say that, now, to me, falling down is devastating. It always happens in slow motion, I can never stop myself, and it seems like it’s always really loud. Like a couple of weeks ago, I fell after misjudging a stair—in my own house, a stair that I have gone down only a million times—and when I landed it sounded something like PLAP! It was horrible. I had to lay there in a pile of embarrassed Mom for a minute so I could recover. Was anything hurt? Well, my feelings. And my pride. I have no dignity left, so that wasn’t an issue.

Like this.  Except nobody cared so I just had to lay on the floor.
Like this. Except nobody cared so I just had to lay on the floor.

So, while I’m sure every last one of you is in better shape than I am, (I’m obviously a walking disaster) what are somethings you used to be able to do easily? By the way, if you say pull-ups, I’m going to call you a liar.

Why can’t I be Bruce Wayne?

Okay, so I you read my blog on a regular basis (and I know you do, because it’s just that entertaining) then you know that I love me some superheroes. Marvel, DC, Justice League, Avengers, all of it. I’ve already done a post about which super powers I would like to have.  Now I’m going to do this one about which superheroes the people in my life actually are.  I mean, if you think about it, we all have people in our lives that have traits of certain mutants or aliens.  Like, my sister Birdie and I have mutual acquaintance that would be Rogue because she sucks the life out of everyone.  Like that.

Of course, I would be Batman. Wait–The Destroyer has just informed me that I am not Batman.  He is insane.

“Of course I’m Batman.  I’m fabulous all day and then I lurk around all night fighting dirt and crime.  Mostly dirt. Also, I always wear black.” Not sure if Batman wears black because it’s slimming, but whatever.

“Yeah, but Batman carries out his threats.”

“Not the point, look, I’m trying to type here–”

“You’re actually the Punisher.  You just go around busting up everyone’s fun.”

What?  I thought I was fun, not the fun-buster.

“No, it’s just that being the fun-buster is fun for you. That’s why you smile when you do it.”  (Note:  This is not why.  I just have this weird quirk where I smile when I’m angry.  Don’t ask me why, I wish I looked fierce and scary and intimidating.)

“You shut up and let me be Batman before I punch the air out of your lungs.”

He laughed, said “Punisher” and went to eat all the food out of the refrigerator.

I have previously called the Big Man my own personal Hulk.  But now that I think about it, that’s not quite right.  He has no Bruce Banner side to him;  he always just walks around being huge and intense.  He’s the Juggernaut. Like this:

He does that several times a day.

Wondergirl is Captain America.  She doesn’t make the rules, but she sure will enforce them.  With violence.  Sweet, sweet, justified violence.

The Destroyer.  He’s Beast.  No, he’s not blue, and he’s not even really hairy yet.  But he does run around on all fours (not joking)  and can physically do some pretty amazing crap. He’s also pretty smart when he feels like it.

Kid Sensation.  I almost put Kid Sensation down as Iron Man, because of how good he is with technology. But Iron Man talks too much.  So I gave him Cyborg.  I would ask him what he thinks of that, but he won’t say anything, anyway–he’s on the computer trying to buy something behind my back.  Haha, Kid, there’s no money in that account.  There’s no money in any account.  Joke’s on–well, all of us, I guess.

Birdie is Storm.  She’s usually the voice of reason, until she gets mad.  Then it’s lightening bolts and tornadoes for everyone.

Yay!  Family dinner!
Yay! Family dinner!

Ah yes, Supermom.  No, she is not Superman, she is Darkseid.  I’m dead serious.

What about the folks you know?  Who are you?

Just plain weekend.

I have to admit, I sometimes feel that everyone is having a better weekend than I am.  So I documented my weekend and realized that they probably are.  But that’s okay, because mine wasn’t half bad. Here it is:

Go to the farmer’s market with your six-year-old. It is so nice to go with someone who doesn’t have any time constraints or an agenda. Kid Sensation was cool to wander with me, sample food, be the only one dancing to the live band, and tip the violinist. Although, apparently balloon animals are okay, but the prospect of getting paint on his face on purpose is terrifying and definitely not okay.

Throw the football with with your twelve year old. Ask him what him and his friends talk about at school. When you suggest boobs, he will emphatically tell you not boobs. Which probably means boobs. You will also find out that his friend, Optimus Prime is a serial dater but that The Destroyer has incredibly high standards for someone who still loses arguments to his six-year-old brother. And who smells like old hummus by the end of the day.

Go boot shopping with your ten-year-old. She will be picky. You will be impatient if you are the Big Man and feel like you should be at home watching football—but you promised. She will hug her Daddy and you will be caught smiling.

Fight with your six-year-old. He will have stayed up late to sneak-watch Frozen, so he won’t be on one, he’ll be on all of them. The final showdown will come at 1 p.m., right as you’ve arrived to your Sunday meeting, where he will melt down as you try to tuck his shirt in in an effort to avoid someone thinking you just brought some random homeless Ewok with you. (He also needs a haircut.) You decide it’s time to go nuclear and call in the Big Man. Kid Sensation is taken out for a few minutes, comes back tearstained and chastened, and instantly falls asleep.

ewok

Have cramps and be cranky and mean.

Eat chips and dip. Feel better. Have a mimosa. Feel even better.

Have your kids make dinner under your direction. Wonder if The Destroyer’s spaghetti is better than yours. No one says it isn’t. Have hurt feelings.

Watch Peyton Manning break Brett Favre’s record. Realize again how cool it is watching history being made with kids.

Pray and be thankful for everything and everyone you have.