My children will either grow up with a sarcastic, dark sense of humor or they’ll wind up a serial killer team. Either way, I’m excited that I won’t have to drive them to birthday parties.
So many things changing daily.
For example, now DTF stands for Don’t Touch my Face.
My plan for quarantine: only let one child in the house at a time.
You just know that years after all this is over, we’re all gonna be the batty grandparents chasing after our kids as they leave with our arms full of toilet paper like “TAKE THIS YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN YOU’LL NEED SOME AND THERE WON’T BE ANY.”
Me every day: You kids drive me insane. I need a break.
Me before a kid-free trip: I CAN’T LEAVE MY LITTLE SUGAR PLUMS
I’m at the point in my marriage where I can’t tell if my husband is reaching towards my face to caress it or to remove crumbs from the side of my mouth.
“Are You Hugging Me, Or Are You Trying to Wipe Snot on My Shirt?”
– A Novel About Living with Small Children
My husband: Put on something hot and do a sexy dance for me, baby.
Me: *puts on Snuggie and does the worm*
Me: Ugh…where am I?
Voice: Never mind that. I’ve missed you.
M: WHO’S THERE??
*steps into the light to reveal the DuoLingo owl*
DuoLingo Owl: “Who” indeed…You missed your last French lesson.
M: HEEEELP
D: IT LEARNS TO SAY “JE T’AIME BIEN” OR ELSE IT GETS THE HOSE AGAIN
Devil: Welcome to Hell. Do you know why you’re here?
Me: Um…
D: Seriously?
M: …
D: Arianna, you told your kids they couldn’t have brownie dough because it would give them salmonella and then you ate that shit with your hands after they left.
M: AND ID DO IT AGAIN
My 3 year old daughter lost screen time for misbehavior, and now she keeps trying to talk to me.
Well-played, kid. Well-played.