Mainly because I'm a terrible mother who likes to complain about her inner ear problems instead of documenting life's most valuable milestones, this post is a day late and a dollar short. Or maybe a dollar-fifty. I'm not sure how a week translates monetarily.
Last week, the illustrious and world-renowned Butch and Sundance turned four.
High five to me for keeping you alive this long. Hive five to you two for putting up with me for this long. I had a roommate in college who could barely stand me for a semester, so you get what I mean.
Dear Butch and Sundance,
I'd ask how you are, but I already know one of you is pouring dish soap down the sink and the other is building a tree house in the closet. I'm doing well, but you know that because we just had our thirty-fifth conversation of the day, and it's only nine in the morning.
I think it's worth mentioning that, as far as raising two people the same age goes, you've pretty much driven me insane this year.
Yesterday, I saw a monogrammed straightjacket on Land's End's website and thought, "Wow, that would look great on me. I wonder if it comes in heather grey. And it did because it's Land's End and they make quality merchandise.
Butch, I must say you've grown so tall this year. I noticed this when I spied on you in your room last night. I watched while you drew picture after picture in your little Spider Man notebook. "This is you," you said as you handed it to me.
(And I have to admit, while my face looked remarkably like The Elephant Man, I took that tiny piece of paper and hid it where I wouldn't lose it.)
You're a wonderful little boy who loves Ninja Turtles but hates peanut butter. Even Reeses. How that happened, I'm not really sure. It has to be a recessive gene.
Seriously though, how did you get such a fantastic sense of humor but hate Reeses? I'm stunned.
For heaven's sake, Sundance, if you'd get off my shoulders for five seconds, I'd be able to write something about you too.
Child, you are one of the most frustrating individuals I've had the pleasure of knowing in my whole life. This is mainly because you're exactly like me. If you'd stop being like me, I wouldn't find you singing in the backyard in just your underwear or putting on extensive productions of plays no one's heard of and making the baby and I be your audience.
Truth be told, you wear a lot of sequins and change your outfit fifty times a day, but the story you made up three days ago was fabulous. (Granted, I would've added more of an arc to the plot, but I found the character of Metarch the Camel to be well-developed, and the conversation between him and the unicorn rivaled even the most gripping of Scorsese dialogues.)
Please keep making my life interesting. Not the interesting where things catch on fire, but the engrossing experience where I forget how boring and self-involved I am, and instead watch, fascinated, as you show the world to me in three dimensional layers where I once took for granted that it's flat and mundane.
After that, please please please stop trying to pour the milk yourselves, because that alone is making me certifiable.
Until Next Time, Readers!