“Oooh (sarcastically)…I’m sorry, doesn’t anyone knock around this stupid friggin’ house?” was the look on his face.
The reality is that this picture was only taken back in February while Charlie was 7 months old.
Do I have my hands full? Of course I do, but no more than he does (pun intended). Where did he learn these slick moves? Was it too many telenovela’s while I folded laundry? Am I to blame? He couldn’t have learned it from me. I’m half afraid to even be in the same room as his mom, for fear that she’ll somehow get pregnant again by osmosis.
And who is this plastic bimbo he’s with and how did he sneak her into the house? How old is she and when is her curfew? And is her father a gun-toting member of the NRA?
I thought I had a good fifteen or sixteen years before I was faced with these tough questions. Now I’m rethinking everything.
Before now, ‘No Means No’ was reserved for incessant whining about wanting more candy and my default defense mechanism for the kids repeating the same damn question over and over again from the backseat of the car. Now it’s about my son keepin’ his rattle in his diaper…
There’s NO way I’m letting him grow up this fast. And NO MEANS NO.