*Josh plops himself down at the table while I’m finishing dinner.*
Josh: Mom, I want food now.
Me: It’s not ready yet. While you’re waiting, why don’t you look around for ways you can help.
Josh: I don’t want to help.
Me: That’s refreshingly honest.
Me: I suddenly don’t want to make you dinner.
Honesty’s the best policy.
Guys. Josh just told me he didn’t want me to cheer for him at his baseball games. I mean, I’m honored. I thought I’d slowly work up to the “embarrassing parent” and start turning in my best performances around teenage years. But here I am, my oldest is four and I’m killing it.
We’re driving and Sam points outside:
“Mom, see that digger over there?
I want to pray to Jesus about that digger.”
Me to God: I don’t even know what to do with this.
God: Just go with it.
Holy Spirit: I got you, boo.
How’s my day going? Oh, my son’s over here smashing his orange on the table, “trying to crack it like an egg” he says. And I found craisins stuffed in my nail clippers earlier. Normalcy abounds.
*We just got finished watching the Dbacks beat up on the Dodgers.*
Me: Welp. I’m going upstairs to shave my legs.
Dave: That’s how you celebrate?
Me: Hold on… this was the first game in the series. Maybe I should wait to shave my legs until the final game.
Dave: Oh, like grow a beard on your legs?
Me: Whatever it takes, man.
Archie Bradley, I’m comin’ for ya.