It’s not often that you get told you don’t talk enough about your kids, but unlike some people that I’m married to, I don’t post a whole ton on Facebook (and my dearth of FB posting is literally infinitely more than I used to, since I only recently re-opened my account).

However some family members recently asked me to share some photos and stories of the kids, and rather than devote a ton of space and time to one story, I thought I’d spend a bit of time telling a few. 🙂

Why? Because the little brats are small and it’s not like they can read.

Story 1: Oh. My. God. DON’T DRINK THAT!!

This one happened just yesterday. Happily I do not have a photo of it, but if I did it would probably be a selfie of me vomiting in to the sink or something.

Recently Kendra started back at her old job, so on the days when I feel like going in to the office the house sits empty for a few hours. Or many hours. It kind of depends. Yesterday however it was the better part of 10 or so, and our Nest thermostat allowed the place to sit at 85 degrees for all of that time.

The problem? When hustling the kids off to day care Daddy (that would be me) forgot to put Mal’s sippy cup full of milk in the sink. So when he got home, Mal ran right up to it and started sucking it down.

I don’t know why, but I happened to be looking right at him while all of this went down. It took a solid few gulps for his expression to change. He looked at me with an expression of dismay and then horror. He held the cup out to me and just said in the most pitiful voice ever “Yucky.”

I could smell from where I was standing what was wrong.

I opened the cup and it wasn’t just spoiled. It had fully curdled. When I poured it out there were huge and disgusting chunks. The smell hit me like a punch and I almost lost my lunch.

And Mal? He got a cup of water and brushed it off like a champ.

And P.S. It’s stories like this that I just can’t bring myself to eat cheese curds. As it is I have to concentrate really hard on not thinking about what I’m eating when it comes to yogurt and cheese.

Story 2: The Store Turns Exciting . . . and Judgy.

Taking one kid above the age of 2 just about anywhere is not exactly exciting. A trip to a store is a special kind of torture. It’s an insane mental and physical exercise in weaving away from all shelves and displays while saying things like:

“No, those balloons are NOT for you, they’re just for decoration.”

“No, those toys aren’t for sale. They’re all broken.

“The candy is broken too.”

“Damnit, where are your real parents and when are they picking you up?!”

But when you add in another kid in a car seat, things become nearly impossible because they just don’t really FIT. Not two kids + actual groceries.

This past weekend however, Kendra stumbled upon the ultimate solution:

Yes, I know. Georgia isn't actually IN this cart. We figured this out halfway through the shopping excursion.
Yes, I know. Georgia isn’t actually IN this cart. We figured this out halfway through the shopping excursion.

Just let the damn kid hold on for dear life on the front of the cart. Apparently this is something she was allowed to do when she was a kid (my folks sure as hell didn’t let me do this . . . I wasn’t allowed to do pretty much anything resembling this thing called “fun”), and Mal has never enjoyed a trip to the grocery store so much in his life. In addition to getting him out of the actual cart, his arms are busy holding on for dear life so he isn’t able to grab every single thing you venture near to.

The downside to this brilliance? You would think that we were publicly walking around and chanting “Hail Satan” while painting a pentagram on the kid’s forehead for the looks which we were getting. His feet were all of 6 inches off of the ground and we were going at a speed that could charitably be called “a brisk crawl,” and yet I am genuinely surprised that we were not stopped and given a piece of someone’s mind.

In short, people be cray.

Story 3: A visit to Gigi’s

As you may or may not recall (or be linked to previous blog entries), our little girl Georgia Marie is named after my maternal grandmother, Marie. As a weird bit of coincidence, apparently “Gigi” is a common nickname for Georgia as well, and Gigi has been what all of the grandkids call her since . . . well, since I was a baby (I have no idea why. Just one of those things).

In any case, the kids and I took a trip up to see Gigi last week, and I thought my grandmother was going to cut any and everyone who even suggested that someone else could hold Jordi. That was HER great grandbaby and you could fuck right off if you thought it was your turn to hold her.

Seeing them smiling at each other was enough to warm this cold jerk’s heart.

Fin.

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