1. When baby learns how to stuff his own binky back in his mouth.
2. The magic moment when baby stops wanting to plunge his hand wrist-deep into his own shit during a diaper change.
3. The blessed miracle of baby understanding that he can cover his own eyes with his own hands if the sun is shining on his face.
If you do not think, "oh, for fuck's sake," at least four times a day, then your children are not sufficiently challenging and you need to come hang out at my house.
Anytime you hear Fun's "Carry On," I want you to imagine me fist-pumping a Starbucks cup in the pasta aisle at Safeway.
I went shopping to buy a dress to wear for a fancy party
and I realized
and I realized
I don't look like
what I thought I looked like.
To whomever put a to-go container of salsa in the butter compartment in the door of the fridge,
Because what I really needed in my life was more fucking spatter.
No, really. I needed some more food, liquid food, dropped on the floor to produce a spatter, because if there's anything worse than murdering your family, it's having the CSI guys be, like, bored by your crime scene.
This salsa spatter... it's gonna stump em. At least until the lab gets those results back. And then McMurtry will be like, "I told you it was salsa, Rick-o. Someone probably put one of those to-go containers in the butter compartment in the door and it fell out. Right before the murdering started," and then Pantalonsky will be like, "Freddy, nobody is dumb enough to put salsa in the butter compartment. That shit will fall out for sure. Seriously, nobody would do that." And then McMurtry will put on his sunglasses and say, "Nobody alive, that's for sure."
I think it says a lot about your strength of character when you get dressed on a day that your kid is sick and you know for a fact that you will only be breathing air that smells like your own sloughed-off skin cells and viral plague for the next 24 hours.
Did you put on pants with a button? Honey! Good for you! You got on the board!
Did you put on a black or otherwise dark-colored shirt? You must like it dirty. And I mean dirty. Because by the end of the day you will know exactly where, on your body, your sick baby wiped his oozing face. And it will be EVERYWHERE. It will look like you were molested by a battalion of horny slugs. Or pelted with tiny snowballs made of Vaseline. But that's how you like it, right?
Me, every time I have to get my kids in the car: