My ninja daughter will silently hop and weave around her strewn toys, while I stagger blindly after her through the pitch black, arms reaching out like a zombie's, stumbling over sharp-pointed objects laying about willy-nilly. Upon rising from a deep sleep, my censors and appropriate language skills are not fully awake. With Herculean effort, I'm training myself in these situations to keep my mouth shut, or if I must utter an expletive, to say something benign like fudgsicle.
My muttering needs work. I tend to screech at the top of my phlegmy lungs, "FUDGESICLE! FUDGESICLE!" as I hop across the floor, impaling my foot with each uncoordinated step. What was that? A jack? A fork? SEWING NEEDLES? What kind of toys are my children playing with exactly? And why can't they learn to put their butcher knives away before bed? Holy fudgesicles.
Dinner last night: homemade cheeseburgers and fries
Exactly one year ago:
Exactly two years ago: