Our Sunday Best

"You know the message you're sending out to the world with these sweatpants? 

You're telling the world, 'I give up. I can't compete in normal society. 

I'm miserable, so I might as well be comfortable.'"

                                                                                                             - Jerry Seinfeld

Last Sunday I busted my butt to get my family to the children's Christmas program. Busting my butt includes, but is not limited to, the following: finding the girls' Christmas dresses, finding coordinating tights, hair accessories, and shoes, finding dress clothes that fit the toddler/man-child; finding something that fits me, having the children memorize their lines and songs, buying and wrapping gifts for Sunday school teachers and Program Directors, and making sure my husband is appropriately dressed.

All of these tasks were accomplished without incident until it came time to dress my husband -  who declared he was wearing jeans. An argument ensued. I was handicapped by lack of time and patience so I conceded the fight and off we went - the children and I in our Sunday best, and Justin in his finest pair of Wranglers. 

The program went well. Cute kids, screaming kids, booger-picking kids, bored-looking kids, memorized lines, flubbed lines, paparazzi parents ....Then came time for the adult choir to sing a song that they had learned with the children. 


The adults made their way to the choir loft when I spotted my dad, a 30+ year member of the choir. The infamous words of Clark Griswald then ran through my head:  "Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where's the Tylenol? " He was wearing sweatpants. A T-shirt and sweatpants.

I'm pretty sure Jesus didn't mind my Dad's sweats, but I'm quite certain my mother did. As Dad made his way into the choir loft, I could literally feel my mother's rage from across the church. 

What in the world was going on? Was he sleep-walking? Was he sick? Did he know where he was? Had he become senile since I saw him earlier this morning? Had God appeared to him and told him to wear sweatpants to the children's Christmas program? Was he making a political statement?

Well no to all of the above, but apparently Dad had came from his bowling league (where I guess he wears sweat pants?) directly to the church. And he must have had some nachos, because I'm pretty sure I could see some cheese dried on his thigh. 

I don't think Dad cared one bit about his sweats - he sang with gusto. I think he was pretty pumped up about the birth of the Christ child, or maybe his bowling team won? Or perhaps he was just happy that he had had some nacho cheese? 

He later explained that he thought the choir would wearing choir robes, and he'd be able to slip in and out of the program without showcasing his bowling wardrobe.

As we left the church, Justin's grin was so big that I knew that he was not smiling about the birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, but for the redemption that had been brought to him by my father and his nacho-cheese stained sweatpants. His Wranglers had never looked better. 

The Elf Went For a Drink

The Elf on the Shelf is one of those genius ideas that makes me want to slap myself for not thinking of it first. 


Not familiar with the Elf on the Shelf? Here's the idea - The elf is purchased with a book that explains to children that the elf will watch them throughout the day and then, at night, fly back to the North Pole to report to Santa their behavior. Then they are to find the elf sitting in a new place each morning. 


This idea assumes just one thing in order to work - that kids are idiots. There are so many holes in that story that I sometimes look at my kids as they marvel at the elf each morning and think "Really??? No - Really??? You're really buying this?"


Well, this morning our Elf on the Shelf quit. 


The girls found this note on the table:

With the weather taking a turn for the cold and rainy, my kids have tipped the naughty meter to a whole other level. They've been cooped up - the girls have been running through the house flinging green snot around while the baby has a found a new favorite past-time - digging through the garbage can. The poor elf just couldn't take it - he hauled his elf ass outta here.

He left me a little note too:

How Charming...

Flashback to 2006......

Me: I really want to buy this house Justin. Its so big - it has 6 bedrooms! Think of all the kids we could fill it with! 

Justin: I don't know...it doesn't have a garage...

Me: Oh who cares about that! Its an old house - its so charming. I want it!!!!

Oh I got it all right. What I got was a mini-van at 7:40am with frozen sliding doors and kids who were going to be late to school. How charming.


What in the hell was I supposed to do?


This was the exclamation point on our morning which included oversleeping, running out of Lucky Charms, and a feather extension getting yanked out by my frantic hair brushing.

Well, cursing and tugging on the doors (all while holding my 30lb toddler man-child) didn't work. 


I put down the man-child and pulled on the front passenger door with all of my Jillian Michael's built strength! Success! 


The girls climbed over the seat and I climbed over with Jack under my arm and got him buckled in his seat. 


After I started the car, it starting beeping like a tractor trailer. Apparently when I had tugged on the sliding doors, I had tugged just enough to unleash them but not enough to open them. The beeping was louder than my kids.


I couldn't push the doors fully open or get them closed - so beep beep beep went the min-van all through the town. AND as an added bonus, because the doors weren't fully closed, the interior lights faded in and out. I felt like I was driving my own personal parade float. The beeping, the lights....I'm quite sure I was on the verge of an epileptic seizure.


We got to school, and yet the doors still wouldn't open so the kids piled out the front door.


As we went beep beep beep all the way home, one door suddenly slid open as I was doing 60 down the highway. Cameron screamed, I screamed, the baby screamed....


We finally got home and I called Justin to tell him about the morning. I really needed some comforting and encouragement.

I got this:

JUSTIN: And THIS is where having that garage would come in handy....Too bad we can't park the car in one of those bedrooms....We're sure as hell not going to fill them with more children...


ME: Well....Well..... Beep-You!

My Big Fat Armenian Family

I'm uncertain as to whether the people of Armenia celebrate Thanksgiving. However, my big fat Armenian family threw down quite a Thanksgiving celebration this past weekend in a pole barn in the backwoods of Southern Indiana. 


We celebrate not by roasting a Turkey, but by eating an Armenian dish called Klayhma, which is raw beef mixed with cracked wheat. We also celebrate with a lot of liquor.


Grandmother, although 86 years old, was no exception. She too enjoyed her liquor. At one point in the afternoon, she sat outside and loudly sang old gospel songs stopping intermittently to tell anyone who passed by that the "drunks could all sit right here." God, I love her. 

Our Armenian Thanksgiving wasn't limited to family - we'll take anybody. My Uncle Harry, who hosted the event, invited several of his buddies (I lovingly refer to them as strays). We were happy to have them, and by mid-afternoon the pole barn was rocking with Prince and the camoflauge-clad strays were dancing under a black light. 


Speaking of the black-light, it managed to humilate my husband.....


JUSTIN: Abbie, you know those UV lights that they use to show all the nasty stuff in hotel rooms?


ME: Yeah - so?


JUSTIN: Follow me.


Justin proceeds to walk into the barn and takes a seat on the coach.

JUSTIN: Do you even wash my clothes?!?!?!?!?


ME: I'd say the more important question is what the hell do you do in your clothes??


When the day came to an end, I had consumed at least a pound of cream cheese (Thanks Aunt Lucinda!) and two bottles of wine. I was thankful. My cup and the fat over my pants truely runneth over.


And!!! Cameron learned a new song:

Welcome to the Doll House

I was picking up the girl's doll house this morning when something caught my eye.


The mother of the pretty plastic brood comes with a bath robe. No other family members come with any clothes. Hell, the babies didn't even come with diapers. However, Fisher Price obviously believed that it was necessary to include a bath robe for mom.  Clearly if this mother is caring for twins, a dog and a 3 story home she isn't going to have time to dress herself. A bathrobe is essential.


They also included in a carryout pizza - I guess mom isn't cooking much either. 


Way to go Fisher Price, you throw in a bottle of wine, and I'd say you nailed it.

The String Cheese Incident

Yesterday Hadley came home and requested string-cheese for a snack. Being a good servant -  oh I mean mother - I fetched her one, opened it, and handed it to her - an absolute fit ensued.


Why??? Why would she throw a fit after I had given her what she had asked for? Because, dear readers, I had dared to open the package.


She refused to eat it and wanted another one. Wasn't happening. 


She threw a tantrum, and I threw her in her room.


About ten minutes later this note was thrown down the stairwell:

Nice. I'm getting hate mail from my 6 year old.

For Real?

If I was arrested for everything I forgot while pregnant, I'd be in a federal prison....

Click here!

Tunnel Of Terror

The girls love going through the car wash. LOVE.  


Not sure why I'd ever spend the money to take them to Disney World. Ten bucks buys them ten minutes of real good fun. They bounce through the car, giggling and ducking from the sprayers.

They really find this thrilling. Not sure they could even handle the excitement of Disney World - their little heads might explode.

Turns out yesterday, it was my head that nearly exploded in what will henceforth be known as the Tunnel of Terror.

I drove in and Cameron and Hadley unbuckled and took their position by the window. As Hadley plowed herself over the seat, she knocked Cameron's Gatorade with her knee and it went flying through the van. 

Cameron proceeded to cry about her empty bottle while Hadley screamed that it wasn't her fault. I could've washed the van myself with all the tears that were flowing.

I tried to distract them by pointing out the colored soap, but by this time they were too busy fighting.

Cameron decided to escape her sister's screaming by climbing on my lap. In the process she stepped on my ipod, which was laying on the console and cracked the case. Now I was angry. I sent them back to their seats and told them to get buckled. 

All the while.....well, poor Jack. 

Poor poor Jack was terrified of the car wash. Every time a nozzle swung his way, he'd scream and cover his face. I tried to calm him down, but my efforts were worthless. I'm not sure he could even hear my voice over his sister's sobs. So, I did what any good mom would do - I snapped a picture.

We pulled away with the outside of the swagger wagon looking nice and new. The inside however was filled with tears, screams, broken electronics, and gatorade.


Hope that clear coat wax lasts a good long while.....I wouldn't drive back through that nightmare if it was free.

Show and Fail

This morning, Cameron got up and started readying her Barbie for Show and Tell. Barbie needed a nice outfit, her hair combed and two matching shoes. Cameron was having trouble with the shoes - Barbie lost her shoes two minutes after being sprung from the box. 


I gently broke the news that it wasn't Show and Tell day; However, I promised her that I would find out when her next Show and Tell would be.


When I picked her up, as promised, I inquired about Show and Tell. Her teacher responded by grabbing a giant dagger and stabbing it in my gut. Today was Show and Tell, and Cameron was the only child not to bring something to share with the class.


Wow. I felt bad. Really bad. Really Really Really bad. How had I missed this? Her teacher informed me that it had been in the newsletter AND placed on the school calendar. Hmmm - really?


Middle Child Syndrome? I get it now. 


Cameron, I extend to you my apologies, and I promise to do better. I promise not to let you fall through the cracks. I promise to not take your infinite patience and easy-going personality for granted. I promise to give you the best of my attention and if all else fails,  I promise to find you the most gifted therapist money can buy. 

Jack goes for a swim...

I'm pretty sure I could rename this blog "While at Wal-Mart..." All of my action seems to happen while on the premises of the superstore. I'm pretty sure this speaks volumes about how awesome my life is.


Anyways, while at Wal-Mart, Cameron had to go to the bathroom. I would rather take my chances squatting in a patch of poison ivy than use the facilities at Wal-Mart, but Cameron was insisting that this was, indeed, a potty emergency.


So, I left my cart outside the bathroom and walked her inside while holding Jack. I was also holding my breath.


After she used the facilities, she required some assistance (aka her ass wiped) so I set Jack down. While my back was turned, he toddled into the next stall and proceeded to give himself a bath in the toilet.


I'm pretty sure Jack was more harmed by his mother's reaction (which included shrieks worthy of any slasher flick) than by the germs in his kiddie pool. I was horrified, however, there was nothing that could be done. I took him to the sink and scrubbed him with soap and water until he was sterile enough for surgery.


Had this happened to my first child, I would have taken her to the ER, insisted she be admitted overnight for observation and then taken myself to the hospital chapel to pray. So in comparison, a little shrieking and scrubbing seemed like a perfectly acceptable and tame reaction.


A few months ago, I published a post about ridiculous products that parents get suckered into buying, which included this contraption:

I would like to extend my apologizes to the makers of whatever this called. Had I purchased this product, Jack would not be on the verge of developing Typhoid Fever. 


On the bright side, if he does survive this, he might just have the immune system of a super hero. I'll let you know how he fares this winter. If he does well, you can all take your children swimming in the stalls. 

No My Pet Didn't Die. I Got A Hair Cut.

Everyone tells me not to do it but I never listen. My friends politely try to talk me out of it. My husband just flat out calls me crazy, but I do it anyways.

Every two years or so, I walk into the salon and have them lop off all of my hair. This time I had nine inches cut off. On the bright side, my hair was donated and will be made into a wig for someone with cancer. However, I now look like a mushroom. Stupid fungus. I look like a fungus. 

Looks like road kill.

The stylist did a great job. She did exactly what I asked for. I love her and the salon. The problem is my hair or perhaps my lack of styling finesse. It looked cute in the shop. It looked cute when she did it.  However, when left to my own devices, I have myself looking like a damn Chia Pet. 

Sobbing to my friends on the phone leaves them alarmed - "What Abbie? What? What happened to your pet?"

This happens everytime I cut my hair. So why? Why do I keep doing it?

I guess I'm just hopeful. Hopeful that one day I'll get it right. Hopeful that one day my haircut will be great or at the very least steer clear of the fungi-family.

Cha-Cha-Cha Chia.  Hmm - Maybe I should try bangs.
Bangs are ALWAYS such a good idea.

I've seen too many chick-flicks

While in New Orleans, Justin and I celebrated our 8th wedding anniversary. To mark the occasion, we planned dinner at a restaurant where we'd have to fancy ourselves up a bit. 

Well, that plan fell through when I realized that I had forgotten to pack my spanx. The dress I had packed was incredibly unforgiving, and I needed that spanx to hold me together. Without it, I'd walk one direction, and one would surely see my fat flying in another. Flying fat isn't exactly what I had in mind for our anniversary so I frantically dug through my suitcase trying to make another outfit work. 


Justin was getting irritated waiting on me. However, he was on his best behavior as not to pick a fight. He eventually tired of holding his tongue and told me he'd wait in the lobby. I was to meet him when I was ready.


After a few more minutes, I put together some horribly wrinkled catastrophically bad outfit and called it good.


While headed to the lobby, I thought, "This could totally be a Pretty Woman moment."


Remember? Richard Gere standing in the lobby with the the necklace....Julia Roberts wearing the red dress he had bought her.... 


Well, maybe I'd come into the lobby, and Justin would be standing there with a gown and whisk me off to the most romantic restaurant in the city.


Ummmm.....No such luck. I found him outside with a beer in a paper bag.


What??? This is NOT what Richard Gere would do! This was more like Homer Simpson...


Doh!

The Kids Made Me Fat

I was working on my blog when Hadley came up and read out loud:
"The...Kids...Made...Me...Fat."


Uh-Oh. She's literate.


"What???" she questioned. I could tell she was slightly appalled.


"Its funny." I explained. "Its kinds of like a joke."


"I didn't do it." she said.  "You made yourself fat."


My mouth dropped - yet she continued, "And....you did it to yourself three times."


My 6-year-old just called me out on my bulls*it. I love her.

Getting big is easy in New Orleans

I'm in New Orleans. Justin has a conference to attend and I'm attending, well, for the booze. 

I had packed my suitcase full of good intentions. Contents included workout attire, Jillian Michaels DVDs and hand weights. My good intentions have gone unused.

Instead, I've been quite busy sleeping, shopping, drinking Hurricanes, and eating my way through The Big Easy.

Jillian can suck it. I'm sucking down liquor.

Last night, however, I hit rock bottom of the binge. After a night on Bourbon Street, we came back to the hotel and I passed out  went to sleep. I thought Justin was doing the same.

Time passed and Justin woke me out of my coma and handed me three White Castle cheeseburgers. I ate them laying in bed half-awake. After all, it would've been rude to refuse. I woke up this morning and found a crushed burger box beneath me.

Ugh - really? Apparently, yes, really. According to my burger dealer, it didn't take much convincing to get me to eat them.

The burgers wouldn't have been so bad if they stood alone. However, they had company. Earlier in the evening I managed to find some nachos, french fries, and Bananas Foster all washed down with lots of fruity mixed liquor. 

I'm headed home tomorrow morning, no doubt a few pounds heavier. But it's not always the size of my ass that matters (most of the time it is), but sometimes - just sometimes - it's the size of my soul - and my soul feels full, fat and happy. 

I'll count on Jillian Michaels to fix the rest. 

Amputation and Marriage

I love the fall. Its my favorite time of year. I love the sweaters, the boots, the crisp air, the Halloween candy, and I really love all the new TV shows.

Grey's Anatomy debuted its 8th season last night in typical dramatic form. A sink hole swallowed people alive and the good doctors of Seatlle Grace Hospital cared for the wounded.

The episode featured a married couple who had fallen into the sinkhole. The wife's leg was pinned underneath a car, and in order to save his wife, the husband was forced to saw off the leg. The gory and unlikely scenrio prompted the following converstation.

ME: Justin, say we were in a sinkhole and a car was pinning my leg - would you cut it off to save my life?

JUSTIN: What in the world are you talking about?

ME: It was on Grey's Anatomy...

JUSTIN: Is that show still on?

ME: YES! And its fantastic - so would you? Would you cut off my leg?

JUSTIN: No. I would cut off your head to stop you from screaming.

Awesome McHubby. Just Awesome.

Mom, Interrupted.

I had reached my limit. I was done. I was crying on the steps too exhausted to take myself downstairs to the kitchen where the greasy pans, dirty plates, and a crunchy floor awaited me. 


How long could I get away with sitting in the stairwell? Could I stay forever? I wanted to. 


I didn't want to move. After the world's longest day with the world's whiniest children, I felt so overwhelmed that one more step was impossible.


Hadley had refused to take the required three bites of dinner and had made the entire meal insufferable. The meal that had taken me an hour to make was called disgusting, gross, and horrible. She also referred to it as vomit and snake slime - it was a Hamburger Helper type casserole. 


We salted it, re-heated it, tried to feed it to her, and it ended with her not taking a single bite. Her evening snack was revoked, and I knew this would come back later to haunt me.


I had to get to children's choir practice at church so a dinner mess was left behind. We made it out the door, but not before I fought with Justin and took a phone call that would require me to shuffle babysitting arrangements. 


The fighting, the mess, the sitter, the painful tugging by everyone in every direction - I realize that these could be the feelings of any mother, but on this particular evening, it was me and everything just felt heavy. I felt weighted down by responsibility, irritated by all the things left undone, and just plain overwhelmed by life. 


Later, as I predicted, a final melt-down occurred when Hadley did not receive her snack. Another shot at the casserole was met with more crying, so I just ended it all and put her to bed screaming that she hated me and she was starving.


I closed her door, sat on the stairs - then came my tears. Three children felt like too many. They needed too much. They had too many needs, and I felt like I was failing. 


Justin realized that he needed to dig deep and offer something helpful.  And he did. 


"Abbie," he said. "Tomorrow you just need to get out there and have fun with your kids."


He was right.


There is so much to be done, so many places to go that often times I forget to stop and simply enjoy these three fabulous little people that I love so much.


I eventually left the stairwell, and the next day I took the kids to the park. I pushed Jack in the swing, and I helped the girls find the highest point from which to drop their parachuted army man. 


We had a really great time, and I felt my spirits lift. Since school has started, we have been operating in "business mode," and with so much going on, I had forgotten to make time to relax and just enjoy my children. 


Just stop and play. Who knew it could be so simple? 


Things will remain chaotic, the house unclean and Hadley's dinner strikes are not likely to end anytime soon. But taking time to play reminds me what it's all for.


And it's so worth it.

Almost Perfect

First birthdays are a huge deal. Though it has been repeatedly pointed out to me that the baby won't remember his first birthday, I hardly see that as the point. 

This is the point (Justin pay attention):

The first year of a baby's life is incredible. They grow, change and learn so quickly. The pace is slightly heartbreaking. You barely have time to hold the baby before they are sitting up......crawling......walking. Time moves fast and your perfectly swaddled bundle is soon sitting in a high-chair covered in frosting. All the sleepless nights, all the feedings, all the diaper changes, the teething and the rest of it - you've survived - so has baby. This is cause to celebrate.

With Jack's first birthday looming, Justin offered this suggestion:

"Abbie, just make a cake from a box, call our parents to come over, we'll sing Happy Birthday and just be done with it."

Um, no.

Husband, you've obviously never pushed a living being through your body. If you had, you would realize that what you just said is quite possibly the stupidest thing you've ever spoken. Call me a birthday snob, but I believe that birthing an infant deserves more than a nod from Duncan Hines. 

Well, Sunday was Jack's first birthday party and boy, did I think I had pulled off something great. I had everything perfectly planned and it really turned out well. I was quite pleased with myself. It was a perfect first birthday party. I had done a good job. 

Almost.

The next day, I received this text while taking Hadley to soccer: 

To clarify, he meant oven - not stove. He meant to say "Holy f*cking Oven Fire." I suppose I'll cut him some slack seeing as that he was texting me while our house was filling with smoke and our children were suffocating. 

In a mad dash to tidy up before the party, I had placed a tupperware container full of cookies in the oven. I guess I forgot to take them out because as Justin was pre-heating the oven for a gourmet feast of Tyson chicken nuggets he was met by the smell of burnt plastic accompanied by some pretty impressive flames.

Damn. Now what? How do I clean melted plastic out of the oven? I'm afraid the oven might be ruined.

Now please don't worry. We won't starve without our oven. I'm not sure I even need an oven. What do I make in there anyways? Nuggets? Fish Sticks?

I'm pretty sure I can make those in the microwave. 

Well, Happy First Birthday Jack!  Subsequent birthdays will be celebrated with Duncan Hines cake batter. 

A Video

A reader shared this video with me, and I thought I'd share it with all of you. 

I love it when people see videos about poop and think of me. 

I suppose I brought this on myself.

Isn't it Romantic

Justin and I are pretty big Harry Potter fans. Loved the books. Loved the movies. We couldn't wait to see the final installment of the series but it was released when we were on vacation so we missed its debut. Fast-forward a few weeks later, and we finally booked a babysitter and made plans to go see the movie.


The movie was to start at 6:40. We arrived in enough time to buy tickets, popcorn and get to our seats. I was so stoked as Justin and I don't go to the movies often. After this date, I'm doubting we'll ever go again.


As we went to buy our tickets we were informed that they yanked the movie from the theater that morning, and it was no longer showing.


We were disappointed but decided we'd just see something else. Justin wanted to see Planet of the Apes, and I wanted to see Crazy Stupid Love. This is where it all goes wrong. 

I could not be persuaded to see a movie about monkeys taking over the world nor could Justin be persuaded to see anything with the word love in its title.


I thought my ace in the hole would be Steve Carrell (Justin loves The Office) who was starring in Crazy Stupid Love, but it wasn't enough. The guy wasn't budging - he was seeing the damn monkey movie.


"Fine," I told him. "I'll see the monkey movie, but I guess I'm just disappointed in you because I feel like a real gentleman would see the movie his wife wanted to see."


Boo-Yah. That did it. Two tickets for Crazy Stupid Love please.


We found our seats directly behind three elderly women whose age was made evident by their bouffant hair. 


Ten minutes into the movie and I'd had enough. Justin didn't say a word but his body language was deafening: There was the slumping, the sighing, the texting, the giving the finger to the screen....


"FINE!" I whispered harshly. "Go see the monkeys."


He didn't need to hear that twice. He was gone and the mother-f*cker took the popcorn with him.


If we were dating, I'm pretty sure this is when we'd break-up. 


But he put a ring on it years ago, so I guess its until death do us part or at least until we go to another movie.

Temporary Insanity

I was on my way to Wal-Mart  when, as if on cue, the baby pooped. 


I decided to change him on the drivers seat of the mini-van before we went inside. 


As I was changing him, my car door barely tapped a black sporty car parked next to me. As I moved to pick him up - it tapped it again. And it was a TAP - a teeny tiny TAP.


Not a dent or scratch was made, but before I could gather my items to go inside a twenty-something girl emerged from her car and screeched at me:


"YOU!!!" You need to stop banging into my car!" 


She looked like a wild animal that was spewing young stupid girl venom at me. The look in her eyes was half-crazed and there was nothing to do but apologize.


I said I was sorry, and I was. I hadn't intended to tap her car. 


"What-EVER!" she snapped at me and then, without even inspecting her car, she went inside.


I got fired up. 


What a b*tch! All high and mighty in her sporty black car....she has no idea that within a few years she'll have put on about 30lbs and be changing diapers in her own minivan - now that will give her something to be bitchy about.


Then something happened to me - Rage? PMS? Oh wait - this is what could possibly be classified as temporary insanity. 


I took the dirty diaper (before you think I've totally lost my mind, I'd like to clarify that the diaper was wrapped and the poop was contained)  and put it on her windshield. I then put Jack back in his carseat and sped away.


It was a total rush. I suppose this is what happens after staying at home with children for 6 years, you finally crack and start hurling poop at people - kind of like a monkey in a cage.


I called Justin to let him know what I had done.


JUSTIN: Is this the kind of stuff you're out doing while I'm at work?


ME: Well, not everyday.


JUSTIN: Well, what about getting groceries?


ME: Oh, um, yeah, I kind of forgot about that. Wanna go out for dinner tonight?


JUSTIN: Abbie, go pick up the diaper.


ME: Never! No Way!


Click.


ME: Hello???


Ok, was I proud of what I had done? No, not really. 


Was it the nice, right thing to do? Definitely not. 


Did it feel good? Absolutely. I think those poop-hurling monkeys are onto something.