Sunday, October 17, 2010
Last week, he broke my Nook.
Yesterday, he broke (yet another) glass by throwing his plate into the sink, frisbee-style. His helpfulness? Not always so helpful.
Think about what it must be like, to be t.rex. How do you follow up that sort of record?
You decide to take your mohawk into your own hands and slather half a tub of Daddy's hair paste into your 1/4 inch hair while mommy is dealing with a tantrum upstairs because, and I quote, "These pants are WRONG."
MUCK, he shouted. MY MUCK. By which he means, of course, his mohawk.
What's funny is that his sister did the same thing-- but several months earlier than he did. And she ate some of it, too, prompting our first call to Poison Control. See evidence here.
Why do I put up with people who ruin all my stuff?
Because of this.
They wake me up before 6am and spend all morning smiling and hugging each other and, yes, making loads of mischief.
But it's the love that's important.*
*And also my Nook was important. And HE BROKE IT. OH, MY NOOK. HOW I MISS YOU. WHY DID HE DO IT? WHY DID HE HAVE TO KICK YOU? I DON'T EVEN LIKE CHICKFIL-A ANYMORE, BECAUSE THAT WAS THE SCENE OF THE HEARTBREAK. WOE! WOE! ALAS, CAP'N AMPERSAND!**
** Just kidding. I'll live.***
***Somehow. In fact, I hear you can actually purchase these archaic collections of tree pulp printed with ink and read them. And they don't shatter into half of Gertrude Stein's face when your kid kicks them in the parking lot, either.