I popped the bedroom television on after lunch and let the kids watch Sesame Street while I tried to sweep pasta from the floor. Have you ever tried to…no, of course you have. You’re parents. You have all swept pasta. (If you throw some dirt down there with it, the pasta is easier to sweep. So encourage your kids to dump their sand-filled shoes out all over the kitchen floor before lunch and you’ll have an easy time of it afterwards.)
Time slipped away a bit. The kids were quiet, the kitchen was getting
cleaned cleaner, I paid too much attention to Charlie Sheen. And then I heard the most feared sound in the world coming from the bedroom, harbinger of terror and creator of nightmares. My kids were alone in there, without me to protect them, and it was in there with them.
“….you, you love me, we’re a happy fami…..”
I ran around the corner yelling “Noooooooooooo!!!!” in slow motion and then did an actual ninja roll onto the bed so I could get to the remote on the far night stand and press “channel up” before Barney and his minions could finish their assault.
I ended up on the Steve Wilkos show, where the caption beneath the woman being interviewed read: “Are You Hitting On My Son?” Possibly not the best alternative, but my kids can’t read. (Neither can your baby. I don’t care what you think is going on when you pull out the “Your Baby Can Read” flashcards.) I will do a lot to protect my children. Don’t mess with me, Barney.
Sorry my life is so much more bitchin’ than yours. I planned it that way.