How is putting a bathing suit on a cat similar to brushing my daughter’s teeth?

It’s not. But at least the cat has some chance of cooperating.

Last night my 14 month old emerged from her 7 year old brother’s room proudly carrying his prized whoopie cushion. She proceeded to thrust it at me with a giant grin followed by blowing a spit flinging raspberry.
The fountain of knowledge little sisters drink from is clearly tainted.

Josie is skeptical of her furry collar. Bobby suggested she may just be concerned that it’s a squirrel.

Josie is skeptical of her furry collar. Bobby suggested she may just be concerned that it’s a squirrel.

"Kier, you’re going to need another layer this morning. Grab your vest. It’s cold out."

"No it’s not. I’m fine."

"You haven’t even been outside. Trust me."

"It’s not cold. I’m the weather man in a kid suit. I know."

This girl is going places.

This girl is going places.

On house hunting.

Today we went to look at a house I saw posted on Craigslist. Going into the walkthrough, I immediately knew that while those seven strategically shot photos told part of the story, they didn’t come close to telling the WHOLE story.
Sure, there was the fireplace I had seen, opposite the wall that had been out of frame. The wall which in my fantasy version didn’t exist as the palatial sunny living room expanded clear across the length of the house.
The finished basement with wood stove was present as well. But instead of a glorious freshly carpeted, softly lit cozy “get these kids out of my face” den of awesomeness, we found a choppy set of linoleum tiled rooms which to my disappointment smelled not like cookies and freedom but more like, well, basement.
But that’s fine. Those were my issues. I had built it up in my mind and left myself room for not much except a healthy dose of disappointment. What I didn’t plan for, what NO ONE could have planned for was the northeast corner of the master bedroom. The same corner which was so keenly left out of the photo. Why? BECAUSE THE JACUZZI TUB AND TOILET WERE RIGHT THERE. As part of the room. No walls. No door. No curtain.
Kiernan, who had been instructed to lay it on thick about how much he loved the place (listen, I have no shame about calling upon my children’s charm and good looks to edge out the handful of other prospective tenants) does so in the driveway with gusto. Application in hand, we walk back to the car. As he closes his door Bobby gives his one word summary: “Interesting.”
As we drive down the road, both still somewhat in disbelief of the thought of a toilet just hanging out in our bedroom, Kiernan burst into tears. “But why are you not going to get that house! I love it. It has a HOT TUB! I really want to live in that house! Please!”
“Kier, there will be other houses. I promise. We will keep looking. When it’s the right one, we’ll know. That wasn’t it.”
Crying all the way home, our capacity for compassion expired, Bobby and I turn toward the only other method of meltdown intervention we know: being completely ridiculous.
“Kier, what if you had a friend over and came into my room and I was just sitting there taking a mess?”
“Yeah, Kier. I really don’t want to sit up to greet the day and the first thing I lay eyes on is a toilet.”
Not yet ready to give up, Kier responds, “You’ll get used to it! It will feel normal!”
Eventually after a snack and some time to unwind, he lightens up. “When they said there was a bathroom in the bedroom, I didn’t think they really meant IN THE BEDROOM.”, he muses.
So the search continues. I’m going to try and keep my expectations low from here forward. But the laughs that lonely bedroom toilet are going to provide me for a good long time were totally worth it. Starting with my text asking Bobby if we needed anything from the store. His reply? “Toilet cleaner for our bedroom.”

Stepping out of the bathroom just in time to see Kier lifting Josie by one arm, attempting to extract her from his room, I screech, “Kiernan! What are you doing!”
I grab his arm and lift it over his head saying, “Do you think it’s a good idea to lift a body this way?”
Realizing his mistake he responds straight faced, “I’m sorry, mom. No. It’s not.”
And as he dashes out of the room he adds, “unless it’s a dead one!”

No, mom! You tell the story. You’re a better teller. You use words I never even heard before.

My son who knows just how to butter me up.

Don’t shoot the messenger, but they won’t give us an inspection sticker for the car. Something about the rear bearings. I swear, if we have to fix one more thing on this car, we’re trading it in. FOR A HORSE.

"Daddy, can you put some lavender bath salts in my bath?"

"uh, sure. Would you also like for me to put on some Enya? Or Kenny G?"