The universe has thrown yet another little bomb at us today. I guess we didn’t have enough to deal with, now that Will is finally done with jury duty and MY REFRIGERATOR IS FIXED! I’m only a little excited about that.
As I settled into my desk at 6:30 this morning, I started to get profanity-laced texts from my husband stating – sans 4 letter words – that he had left the room very briefly and came back to find the kids OUTSIDE WANDERING IN THE DRIVEWAY. In the dark. In their pajamas.
He lost his proverbial shit. I don’t blame him. I was losing mine as well here at work.
Once the comeuppance had been dealt out, Stella blamed it on Felix. Damn. The age of fibbing is upon us. And I had just told about 6 different people that Stella didn’t lie – that there wasn’t an ounce of guile in her little body – unless it came to blaming farts on other people – usually her father, who typically isn’t even in the house when said fart escapes its butt cheeks of origin.
Oh, and knock knock jokes. She’s hooked on knock knock jokes. Dammit. There is nothing more annoying and less funny than knock knock jokes.
So now, as we prepare to start a new season of dance and I frantically make to-do lists for her birthday party on Saturday (followed by our first ever Chuck E Cheese party for a friend on Sunday for which I still need to acquire a present) and research hyperlexia to combat the Harpy with, I have to worry about my children wandering around outside without supervision. Maybe I need to request an electric fence for my birthday.