Mommy Wants Vodka

…Or A Mail-Order Bride

The Incredible, Oedipal Jay


It must have been December or maybe January as we inexplicably when I cradled my arms around my rolly-polly belly and said tearfully to The Daver words I would yearn to eat later.

“I just” *sniff, snort, hiccup* “I just want him to love me best.”

(there is, of course, a reason for this. Autistic kids, The Internet informed me, are sometimes like Siamese Cats. They choose a person and that is Their Person. Everyone else doesn’t matter. Ben chose several people, of whom I am not #1.)

(can you blame him?)

It was a prophetic choice of words, and it made me wish that maybe if I said things like, “I just want to poo off 60 pounds this morning” or “I just want to have an unlimited supply of Diet Coke,” it would magically come true. Suddenly I would awake one morning as a swim-suit model, chugging gallons of Diet Coke.

Sadly no, but do any of you remember the Monkey Paw story? Based on the blank looks I get when I reference it, I’ll give you a brief overview: this magical monkey paw was given to a couple who had recently lost their son, with it, they could make three wishes. But because I don’t read the fine print, all I can remember is the wife, wishing their son would come back to life.

He does, but as you might expect of someone who had just been sleeping the eternal sleep, he wasn’t who he was. The moral, of course, is “be careful what you wish for.” Maybe I should have heeded this advice. It might have spared the waning fragments of my sanity.

But I said it, and I got my wish in spades. I’m sure, of course, this was merely magical thinking, but it worked. And my son was born a Momma’s Boy ™. He nursed every hour for 12 months, spent the first 11 months of his life waking up overnight 3-5 times, and recoiled in horror when anyone else dared to try and touch him. Including, of course, his poor father.

While it might sound perfectly lovely to some, and it was for awhile, I couldn’t go to the bathroom without him having a fit. When I say fit, I don’t mean a mild tantrum, I mean that he would scream, and cry and scream and cry the moment I left his line of sight until I’d come back to soothe him. I often considered making a cardboard cut out of myself to stand as a dummy so that I could possibly wash my hands in peace.

Maybe I should have.


The older he’s gotten, the more likely it is that he will take a shining to someone else. He’s very close with his father. He adores his older brother and sister. He loves my mother, his “Gummy.” Other people he likes, but can often be slightly reserved in their presence. It’s turned from something that made life intolerable after awhile into a mere quirk of his personality.

Alexander (whom we often call Jay) is just a Momma’s Boy ™.

This, of course, has taken a hilarious new turn.

Now, while Alex is awake, I am not able to hug or cuddle with either of the other men in my house. Amelia, he’s okay with but should Dave dare to wrap his guns around me, Alex is the Holy Ghost times twenty (somewhere, my MIL is smiling and she knows not why).

He’ll quickly run up and try and ensconce himself between our legs. Once there, he will try to peel us apart as though we were a gooey pair of stickers, and should we hesitate in breaking our embrace, he shrieks. And Alex’s screams could double as a dog whistle an eardrum rupturer. He’s THAT shrill and loud.

At first, thinking that he just wanted in on the lovin’, I’d swoop him up and squash him in. He’d wrap a spindly arm around me and use the other to push his father (or brother) away, yelling “NO DADA!” or “NO EWE!” (he calls Ben Ew. Which I think is “you” because we’ve never called anything “ew” before. But we don’t call Ben “you” either. I guess the moral of THAT story is that kids are just weird.).

Oh no, Alex doesn’t want ANYONE but he or his sister to lay a finger on his precious mother.

Because I know this is only a phase he’s going through, we all find it pretty funny and charming. I remember being a wee one and being entirely convinced that I would grow up to marry my uncle. Any ladyfriend he brought around after I made my mind up, I was immediately An Enemy. Didn’t matter how many times I was told that I couldn’t marry an uncle, I wouldn’t listen.


Nobody better lay a finger on my mother.

I just feel sorry for his future wife. There’s no way this can go well for her.


Now I have some business to attend to, but don’t worry. It’s not crazy boring. Only KIND of boring.

See, over on that sidebar is a page called “Link-a-Licious.” As you might deduct from the name, o! brilliant Internet sleuths that you are, that page is my blog-roll. It’s insane. It’s unruly. And it needs a hair cut and dye job, desperately.

So this is where YOU come in. Do you have a blog? Do you comment here? Do I know you? Do I WANT to know you? (I probably want to know you) Does your link work properly or have I completely messed it up? Leave me your link.

Also: I am on Facebook if you are so inclined to want to read more of my pointless shit. My name is at the bottom of the blog.

ALSO at the bottom of my blog, hidden neatly away there so that no one can find it (hello pointless!) is an RSS button, should you want to subscribe. Do not ask me what that means. All that I know is that this is a really fracking stupid place to put a button *grumble, grumble* and I cannot wait for my new design.

I am on Twitter! Because who isn’t? My name is “mommywantsvodka*” and we should totally be BFF!!! Triple exclamation points for triple the fun!

And how cool is this? I didn’t even pay her to write this.

Lastly, I need some prayers sent for a friend of mine. The details aren’t mine to share, so I won’t, but please PLEASE keep my friend in your prayers.

*My name is NOT “mommy wants vodka.” It is Becky Sherrick Harks.

Someday We Will Look Back On These Days As The Happiest Of Our Lives



Happy Fourth of July, Internet. May all of your sausages be perfectly cooked.

Aunt Becky’s Encased Meats Emporium


We’re not really a fourth of July kind of family. Not a one of us cares for jello molds or bean dips–two of the things I highly associate with the holiday–and since Illinois put The Ban On Fun when the outlawed pretty much every single firework, even Sparklers are forbidden. SPARKLERS.

Yeah. I know. We impeach our crooked governors, run a toll road system I cannot understand to save myself, and outlaw fucking Sparklers.

(we were left, I should tell you, with those things you throw at the ground that make a satisfying ‘POP!’ Yeah. Pathetic, I know)

Sure, we’re close enough to Wisconsin that should we care to, we could easily pop up over the border for some contraband fireworks and a visit to the Best Thing In Wisconsin (besides House on the Rock and the jaunty “You Are Now Leaving Wisconsin” sign you see when you’re whizzing back into Illinois)

(Wisconsin and Illinois have a long standing feud, for those who wonder why I’m picking on an entire state. Wisconsinites hate we FIB’s–fucking Illinois Bastards–for driving too quickly and habitually wearing pants. Where we Illinoisans hate Wisconsinites for their love of both the Packers and The Brewers, both of which are seen as inferior to the Bears and the Cubs–or Sox–respectively).

The single Best Thing In Wisconsin besides leaving it is this:


That’s right, The Mars Cheese Castle. If you’re ever in the area, I suggest, nay INSIST that you stop by. It’s truly a place above the rest. For instance, while there, I noted a nice block of cheddar cheese, encased in wax and made to look like a can of Bud Light. It brings a tear to my eye when I think about it.

But this weekend, because we don’t want to be Annexed to Cuba or wherever it is they banish people these days (Wisconsin? I kid, I kid. I couldn’t resist. And besides the gentle ribbing, I do actually like Wisconsin. Half the plaques affixed to Dave’s arteries are thanks in no small part to the sausages and the cheese and the butter farmed right there. So it’s a part of the man I promised to love, honor and repay, that wily state), we’re hosting a party. A SAUSAGE party featuring a multitude of delicious encased meats.

Dave is taking the eldest sausage and heading out to buy as many encased meats as he can fit his grubby hands around. Hot dogs, brats, cheese brats, meat sticks, wee breakfast sausages, bacon, and (likely) cheese. It shall be a feast in which I pass out fistfuls of Lipitor with the buns and ketchup.


Since his (grumble, grumble, grouse) father has not called or picked him up in three weeks–lest you feel sorry for Ben, he’s pleased as punch by this, as are we–Ben will be there and likely covered in ketchup.


Alex will happily fling cupfuls of water at our guest while somehow managing to simultaneously bean them in the head with any number of large balls. All of which he calls “purple” as I think he is as color blind as I am.


Amelia will show off that she is no longer the embryo I’d thought she was by rolling around on the floor. She doubles as a lint brush! I’m sure our guests may choose to borrow her to remove the copious amounts of cat hair from their clothes.

(when did she get so old?)


Amelia may also voice her displeasure of learning precisely what being a member of our family involves. She is, no doubt, at the tender age of 5 months, plotting her escape to find her Real Family, as she, like me, was no doubt switched at birth.

(Also: I scream just as loudly when Dave gets into MY face)

Happy Third of July, Internet! If you’re local and care to join us for an encased meats extravaganza, drop me a line.

Father ‘Hood


Several months after The Daver and I started dating, he flew home from somewhere (boy were his arms tired!) and somehow, rather than allowing him to take the pee-stained EL home, Ben and I went to pick him up at the airport. It was the first time he’d met Ben in the flesh (as my boyfriend) and although he told me later that he was nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs (he totes didn’t use that phrase, but I wish he had because how awesome is that?), it didn’t show.

Ben was a strange kid who didn’t exactly attach himself easily to people so I was quaking in my Uggs. All for nothing. The two of them hit it off all he’s the cheese and I’m the macaroni style. I can honestly tell you that I’d never seen anything like it. They danced and grooved to Erasure (don’t judge my music, people), Ben allowed Dave to carry him across a busy road, and Dave began the first of many Making Sure Ben Drank His Milk With Dinner campaigns.

That was the night that Daver became a father. I’d say it was a choice, but it wasn’t really. Not anymore than one can choose whom they fall in love with. Had it not been over for Dave by then, it was then. He was done, cooked, a father and a partner.

The whole ride back home that night I heard nothing but this from my normally silent child: “Oh…BYE, Dave” in the most mournful tone you can imagine. He never said “Mommy” but “Dave” was the 5th or 6th word in his vocabulary.

It’s still probably his most used word to date.

Every single day when I hear my eldest beg to stay up to see Dave when he comes home, my middle son to say mournfully (again with the damn mournful!) “Dada…work.” If his words could have a frowny face, they would. Then my daughter, the light of my life, wiggles her whole body with utter happiness when she sees her beloved Daddy come into her line of sight.

I know how lucky we all are.

So Happy Father’s Day to you, The Daver, o! the Prime Minister of Poopy Diapers and the King of all Tickle Fests. We raise our glasses (and bottles of milk to you today).

It’s not a glamorous swinging life, this poo-stained, vomit-encrusted, stinky existence. Sure you traded living downtown for a house in the ‘burbs and the Integra for a mini-van. But it’s a nice house; it’s OUR house, and shit, the van really is fucking useful.

And you, like the rest of us, wouldn’t change it for anything. (Except maybe Prada. But it would have to be a REALLY nice Prada bag or something. But I digress.)

Okay, for that, I am totally putting up THIS picture rather than the super corny shit that I could have. Happy Father’s Day, love.


You see this ring? IT MEANS I OWN YOU.

If there are any other dudes out there who read my estrogen-laden blog, I wish you a happy, Happy Father’s Day as well. May your grills be grill-y and all of your sausages cooked. Except, you know, THOSE sausages.

Wow. THAT was awkward.

Tell Me It’s Just A Bad Case Of Lovin’ You.


Tuesday night found me gnashing my teeth, feeling overwhelmingly sorry for myself while sitting on the couch crying, “Oh noes!” Nothing was technically WRONG, but for some reason the first Early Intervention interview (for those who have been there: it’s the paperwork one) threw me through a loop.

That and the idiotic thing I did where I went back and gathered up all of the insurance/doctor notes/crap I’ve been sent since Amelia was born and threw it into a folder. Glancing down at it while I was doing it was as advisable as looking at an MRI of your child’s grey matter.

So there I was, prostrate with self-pity and overall stupidity, crying my ever-loving head off.

I went to bed a couple of hours later with my head pounding (I’ve been having a string of headaches. Which led, in part, to my Pity Party) only to be woken up at odd intervals by my son, who was flipping around in his crib in the next room.

I woke up The Daver to have him go in there and move Alex’s crib away from the wall and to check on the ickle dude. Why I sent Dave in there and not me, I don’t know.

He’d gotten a bug bite overnight on Sunday and woke up Monday with a small lump on his face. By Tuesday afternoon, it had begun to swell slightly. I’d pumped him full of Benedryl, Ibuprofen and Tylenol to pull down some of the swelling, and he’d gone into a deep sleep.

(aside: Thank you Benedryl for awesomely putting my kid to sleep)

We’re not alarmist sort of parents, we don’t take our kids to the ER for fevers of unknown origin unless they’re incredibly high (the fevers, not my kid. Because if my kid is high, he should be sharing), and I rarely call the doctor to schedule anything besides the well-child visits.

Dave shuffled in to Alex’s room where he found our son flopping about in his bed. After his record 3 hour nap that afternoon, it wasn’t terribly shocking that he was up at 1 AM. In a stroke of divine luck (not Divine Brown), Dave picked Alex up. The kid was burning up.

Well, fuck. The insect bite that we’d ignored was now making him sick as fcuk.

I heard Alex calling “Let’s go see Mommy. Let’s go see Mommy” so I knew he was up. As Dave changed his diaper, I went to give him a kiss. The sight before my eyes made me tear up with non-self-pitying tears. Alex now looked as though he’d been thoroughly beaten. His left eye was nearly swollen shut, bruised and pink and his cheek looked like he’d been smuggling marbles.

I sighed, went back upstairs to put pants on, wiping tears from my eyes (he looked THAT bad) and got dressed. Dave woke Amelia up. It was Hospital Time.

Choosing to go to the ER at the hospital that Mimi had her surgery because they boasted a pediatric ER, we headed off.

We got there, parked, and trundled in, looking as bedraggled as we’d ever been. We joked that they were going to call CPS on us after seeing Alex’s face. Alex was cheerful, though, more so than Dave or I, and Amelia just looked dazed. Pleased by my choice, we walked down a deserted hallway to get to the ER.

Score, I said to myself. It looks DEAD here. Perfect.

As we rounded the corner, we came to a line. Of people. Fuck. At the head of the line was a lumpy Jabba-The-Hut-I-Have-No-Angles type woman who was robotically taking names and entering them into a computer. Everywhere I looked, every chair, every available surface was covered by sick people.

We checked in eventually, where I confused the receptionist by asking if there was somewhere that I could sit that wasn’t full of contagious sick people. Alex had something, but it wasn’t spreading. She was unable to knock her remaining 2 synapses together and just stared vacantly at me.

Okay, then.

An hour went by, Amelia got reswaddled and fell back asleep while Alex continually grabbed my hand and yelled “let’s GO Mommy” every time we went back near the entrance. I tried to avoid touching any surfaces and breathing deeply. After that hour we still hadn’t been seen by triage, so I went back to the dazed receptionist to see what the wait was like.

When she said 3 hours, I nearly decked her. Information that might have been useful when I checked in.

At 2:30 in the morning, we were back on the road, headed to another hospital. The beauty of living where I do is that it’s not insanely populated. While there are people who assumably need ER’s, a wait like 3 hours is nearly unheard of.

We checked in to hospital #2 and were barely done putting the bracelet on Alex’s arm before we were whisked back to a room by a nurse. 10 minutes later, we saw the doctor. 5 minutes after that, we had a diagnosis and some antibiotics ordered from the pharmacy.

The longest part of the second hospital visit was waiting to make sure that Alex didn’t go into anaphylaxis from the antibiotic shot (he’s never been on antibiotics. Which, now that I think about it, explains the massive diarrhea today. Anyhow, moving on). For 20 minutes, we crawled the halls, looking into each room for Happy’s (the pain chart faces).

It was great until I realized how fucking heavy 30 pounds is and that one of the rooms we were peering into had a corpse in it. Then I felt kinda voyeuristic.

We left, sans anaphylaxis, with strict orders that should this not improve, Alex will be admitted for IV antibiotics. Which sounds like hell. Unless they sedate us both. Then I could totally get behind it.

He’s better today than yesterday. He’s a little less puffy and looks even more like he’s been in a wicked bar-fight (you should SEE the other guy! Yuk-yuk-yuk).


How are YOU today? Any good hospital (boner) stories for Aunt Becky today?

Damn You Staph Aureus!



We spent the night in the ER only to learn that Alex has cellulitis. Poor guy.

Now THAT Was Awkward


Dear Aunt Becky,

Is Dr. William Sears evil?

“The Baby Book” Makes Me Cry

Dear He Who Makes Me Giggle,

Now, dear reader, “evil” is a word that Aunt Becky uses sparingly and in reference to things like “butter,” and “dressing room lighting,” and even occasionally “Cosmo Magazine.” So I’m not certain if “evil” belongs in the same sentence as “Dr. Sears.”

That is, of course, unless you don’t co-sleep, don’t breastfeed your child until they’re 15, and consider using a pacifier on your beloved child. After all, YOUR nipple should be the pacifier. Then you might call him evil.

Because he is hyper-critical of mothers who don’t sleep in a family bed. Those who might use formula (his own wife breastfed their adopted kids! Get off YOUR ass and nurse yours!). Those who do not wear their babies. The un-crunchy (plastic?) set.

New parents, Fair Reader, need to be judged like they need another sleepless night.


Aunt Becky


Dear Aunt Becky,

I am considering constructing a room to hang sausage. As the Patron Saint of Sausages, what advice to you have for me?



Dear Encased Meat Lover,

First off, let me tell you how amazing it is to hear from a fellow lover of tube-shaped meat. There is nothing on the planet that makes me happier than a plate of grilled up hot-dogs or sausages, except, perhaps, a new Chanel Bag. But that’s neither here nor there.

I’m afraid, however, that I don’t have a whole lot of advice to give you.

You see, while I am an avid Queen of The Sausages, and my home may be known as The Sausage Factory, I don’t actually hang my encased meats in a room. I prefer, in fact, to allow the men-folk of my house use their beds rather than the rafters. I know, I know, Fellow Meat Lover, I am too kind.

My suggestion to you, my new friend, is that you go to Wisconsin. They’re known for their cheese and their weenies up yonder dere, and I’m imagining that they might actually know what a room full of sausages might look like. And not in the It’s Dinner Time At Aunt Becky’s House kind of way.


Aunt Becky


Auntie Becky,

Why does my cat (sic: put her) butt (sic: in) face?


Felis catus
Dear Cat Fancy,

I can only presume that your cat, like my own, has a camera implanted firmly up his (or her, let’s not be sexist here) butt-hole. Maybe it’s connected to the CIA database, maybe it’s your in-laws spying on you, or maybe it’s for a sexy adult video site, I just don’t know.

But when your cat sticks his (or her) puckered poo-hole into your face, what he (or she) is doing is saying to you, “SPEAK INTO MY MICROPHONE.” Alternately, “SMILE FOR THE CAMERA.”

Please, avid reader, PLEASE be careful what you tell your cat’s ass. You never know who is watching.


Just Because You’re Paranoid Doesn’t Mean They’re Not Out To Get You

Because The Best Thing About Humiliation Is Sharing It


When Ben was about 2 and a half–maybe a little closer to 3–Potty Training began in earnest. We lived with my then-boyfriend The Daver part time and we made sure that any time that we used the bathroom, Ben was dragged in with us. Just so he got the idea.

(perhaps, as an aside here, if I may–and I always may–this is why my children all flock to the bathroom the moment my pants are unzipped. It’s the hang out spot in my house)

We were especially vigilant to make sure that whenever the other member of our household with a penis (this would be The Daver) used the can, Ben was there. Because he also had a penis. And a weenis for a father. Nat was too wrapped up in his hatred of me to bother handling the potty training.

So Sausages UNITE! was the bathroom motto. We made sure that we answered any questions Ben had, made sure that we weren’t too prude about our bodies lest he get all squigged out by them, and allowed him to help with whatever function he could. Just so he got the idea. My parents ARE hippies after all.

This included, flushing, washing hands, and grabbing toilet paper when needed. With this kind of prep, I’m amazed that wiping his ass isn’t more of a thrill for him. But I digress.

One day, as Dave was peeing, Ben got the idea in his head that he wanted to help Daver aim it. So he asked nicely if he could. My poor flustered soon-to-be husband didn’t know what to do so he agreed. I was standing in the doorway watching this and I can tell you that I’ve not seen Dave so red-faced before. And he never allowed Ben to do it again.

A couple of weeks later, we took Ben out to dinner in Oak Park, near Dave’s apartment.

(Oak Park, for those not in the know, is a town filled with a weird yuppie/hippie hybrid. Often, these people engage in competitions to see who can be greener and shop and Whole Foods more often. While driving Escalades. It’s a strange mix of people.)

During dinner, The Daver had to use the bathroom, and per our arrangement, he took Ben in with him (I always took him in with me, too, but this isn’t really pertinent to the story save to assure you that I did my share of potty training work). I’d gotten the check as they were off having a Sausage Party and had thrown my card down to pay for it and relishing the relative silence.

Like a whirlwind, a red-faced Dave and an oblivious looking Ben flew out of the bathroom and Dave practically shrieked “We need to leave NOW!” Dave is easily the most even-tempered person I know and not prone to hysterics or teeth-gnashing, so I was taken aback. I immediately assumed that he’d plugged up the toilet and a mixture of poo-soup was now overtaking the bathroom.

I signed the check and bundled up, preparing to go out to the car.

As we hustled out, he told me what had happened in a panicked, rushed voice, looking over his shoulder every couple of seconds.

“I was peeing, right? And Ben was standing RIGHT THERE. And I was JUST PEEING. And all of a sudden, Ben goes, clear as day, ‘Dave, can I hold your penis?'”

I started laughing, the tears springing easily from my eyes. This was a typical Ben thing to want to do.

“Okay, well, okay.” I gasped, laughing harder than I could ever recall.

“THEN, I realized THAT WE WEREN’T ALONE IN THE BATHROOM! Some guy was in there LISTENING to my son CALL me DAVE and ASK TO HOLD MY PENIS.”

I rubbed my side where a cramp had formed from laughing so heartily and continued laughing. I had a perfect picture of what had happened.

“We had to leave before that dude called the police or something, looking for a child molester!”

The tears were freezing in the wind, but I couldn’t hold it in. The hilarity of the situation was just too much for me. I was thisclose to peeing my pants. The LAST person on the planet to molest a child is The Daver and the ONLY person who’d come up with such a weird thing to ask is Ben.

To his credit, though, Dave maintained his sanity. And as for me, I laughed until Ben spent a good 20 minutes in the Target bathroom with me, chronicling the descent of his poop to a bathroom audience.

Then I didn’t laugh so hard.


Tell me I’m not the only one to have such a thing happen to them. My kids are ALWAYS trying to outdo each other in terms of things they can embarrass me for.

Can’t Sleep, Kids’ll Eat Me



Hands are nom, nom, nom, nom.


Every time you masturbate, a Domo eats a cookie. Please, think of the cookies.


This was in my iPhoto archive. I did not take this picture. Uh. Yeah.


Someday, he might kill someone with those lashes.


How are YOU today? I’m full of exhausted thanks to a sweet Lil Miss who decided that sleep is for babies.

EVERY Day Is Mother’s Day!


Because I am not just stupid, but a masochist too, I get the Pottery Barn catalogue in the mail. And then because ‘Torture’ is Aunt Becky’s middle name (second only to ‘Danger’), I open up the pages and begin to drool.

I enviously covet the end tables with razor sharp edges, designed to shear the fingers of small children off to the bone. I’m enraptured by the very thought of being able to place things on coffee tables aside from Little People and laundry without having to guard them with my (ample) body. I wish desperately that my house had some sort of theme other than “This Is Disposable Furniture Designed To Be Tossed When The Kids Get Older.”

I want to obsess over paint colors and throw pillows and bamboo knick-knacks while sipping an ice cold mojito while sitting on a brilliantly unstained white couch; the perfect weight for my frame, my nails and hair impeccably styled into the latest cutting edge fashion. In my secret fantasy, I’m able to cook meals other than Mac-n-Cheese and pasta and enjoy them at the temperature and consistency that they were intended to be.

Then, as quickly as I began, I throw the stupid catalogue at my ugly green walls covered with fingerprints and pencil–Alex’s favorite mode of expression–and laugh. I laugh deeply.

Because I know that some day, my dinner will be hot when I eat it, my walls will be The Perfect Color, I’ll be able to fit in a size with a number versus a letter.

Someday I will have time to get my nails, my hair, my tummy tuck done. My clothes will be unstained by vomit and boogers. My television will play marathons of Whatever Deep Shit Is On Public Television rather than Wow-Wow-Wubzy and my dining room table won’t be home to towers of wooden blocks.

My windows won’t be covered with streaky hand-prints and finger-prints and my backyard will be a sanctuary rather than a repository for toys.

(To my neighbors: I’m sorry. Truly)

And I know I’ll look back, sitting alone in my big house, my perfect coiffed hair, my artfully arranged life and I will remember these as the happiest days of my life.

Because they are.

I am the luckiest person I know.

Happy Mother’s Day to all of you. Those with kids here on Earth, those with kids in Heaven, those who are trying to have kids. Happy Mother’s Day to each and every one of you.


Enough of that sappy shit, Mom. There’s hands to be nom, nom, nomed.


Further proof that Daver and I may be the Missing Links.

Also, I cannot wait until I can pick up my kids from Junior High looking JUST AS AWESOME. Because, bwahahahaha!


Caption me. No, really, caption me.

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