The other day, I legit chased my toddler around my street with no pants. ZERO pants. He was running all over the street and I didn’t have time to think about whether or not neighbors could see my saggy white rear end peeking out from underneath my shirt. I had a toddler to catch. If you happened to look out of your window and you live on my street… you’re welcome.
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.
Me: The boys are annoying me so bad tonight… I wish we could just ship them off somewhere.
Dave: Like Amazon Prime… in reverse.
Dave: Maybe a drone could pick them up.
Me: Now you’re talking.