I've decided I'm going to start writing all my post titles as headlines. To get back in touch with my newspaper roots.
You probably haven't noticed, but I've been somewhat scarce around these parts lately. It's not apathy or a general Giving Up On Blogging. Actually what it is, is a combination of being a stay-at-home parent and a full-time grad student in the final weeks of a semester.
Let me just say this: At 11 p.m., after you've had an ornery two-year-old virtually attached to your face for the last seven hours, the last thing you want to do is read 150 pages of literary theory. In fact, you just might fantasize about what you might say to that theorist if you ever met him or her in real life. Most of the scenarios end with the phrase, "Bend over and I'll show ya" (thanks Clark Griswold).
Yesterday I threw in the towel, parenting-wise. I knew it had happened when I found myself crouching in the verge in front of my parents house at the behest of a nude toddler who had just peed behind their trash bin, a dictatorial companion who was also making me assault the hedges alongside him with some miniature plastic golf clubs. "This is what it's come to," I thought.
Luckily my parents neighbors were either employed or indoors, so as far as I know nobody witnessed the ridiculousness. Although I don't think I would have cared much if they did.
Shortly thereafter when I insisted Ethan put on some clothes to play outside, and he stood firm on his Clothes Are For Chumps position, I might have thrown his t-shirt across the room. Word to the wise: Kids love when adults throw tantrums, and they'll often join in. We spent the better part of five minutes firing garments at each other and laughing.
But at 10:30 last night, before Noah was home from the baseball game he was working, Ethan had the last laugh. He was still awake, all elbows and knees tenderizing my soft parts (of which there are too many), sitting on the couch with me watching old episodes of The Office.
"Michael," he whispered, pointing at the TV before taking a bite of his cookie.
"Oh, Michael," I sighed.