I bet if neurologists did even the most cursory study of my brain functionality—specifically my long- and short-term memory—they would find that I’m only slightly better off than Ozzy Osbourne.
Though, probably for different reasons.
I blame my dad’s genes for my awful memory. But I’m not so sure that Ozzy even remembers who or what he should blame for his.
Sadly, most of my childhood memories are lost to me now. They’re piled behind stupid movie quotes, annoying children’s songs and completely random facts that I never wanted to remember. Like the hierarchy of biological classification: kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus, species. Y’all, I didn’t even have to Google that. It pushed it’s way right up to the front of my memory. In that prime real-estate where my grocery list and social security number should be.
I know I’ve mentioned before that we party like rock stars on our weekly date night, but it never ceases to amaze me how relaxing a trip to Chipotle, Target, Barnes & Noble, or the proctologist can be when no children are FREAKING OUT in your ear because they ran out of milk.
(Did she just say proctologist?)
I post the following photos of our precious son with no apologies but with absolute certainty that someone will look at them and say, “I can’t believe she actually published those photos of her poor son!” And that person will probably be my mother. But that is because she’s long past dealing with daily tantrums – from her kids at least. Yes, that was a crack at you, dad.
I dedicate the following photos to my son who will, God willing, make it to adolescence. And he’ll no doubt get that surge of testosterone that seems to deprive the male brain of enough oxygen. And, I assume he will one day find himself in a serious relationship that causes him to feel like he wants to act on his urges. I’ll sit him down and speak to him about the beauty of marital sex and how abstinence is a temporary state, but it will absolutely bless his future wife. And THEN I’ll show him every tantrum photo and video I can find to help him understand the consequences of satisfying those urges prematurely. But I’ll leave out the part where even married people who wait until marriage have kids who throw tantrums. But why bog him down with details? It’s called shock therapy.
I don’t like to think that my husband and I are lazy parents, but we totally are. In some ways. I’m not exactly proud of it. But let’s just be real here. Take this scenario, for example:
It’s 10 p.m., and we realize we have NO MILK. If you know our two-year-old, you understand what a freak-out-and-call-the-coast-guard moment this is for us. But instead of either of us hopping in the car and driving approximately 13 seconds to the nearest store or gas station, Brian concocts a plan.