One of my kids pretends to be Calvin from “Calvin & Hobbes”.  He’s a grosser, more obnoxious Calvin than the real Calvin.

For instance, in the middle of one average day, I was typing happily away at the computer, minding my own business, when G came up next to me and sniffed my upper arm.

“Gerard?” I said.

“Yeah?”

“Did you just sniff my arm?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re weird.”

“Yeah.”  Then he grinned and walked away.

But seriously, having kids is no joke.  Anyone with a “real” job in the “real” world — you know, like, making money — will tell you how much crap they have to put up with on a daily basis, from the boss, the neurotic co-worker, the perfectionist client with a stick up his butt.  I, however, have to deal with literal crap every day.  Real crap.  Actual, physical crap.  Not the metaphysical kind.

I’m talking poopy diapers.

I have a cousin named Adam.  His parents named him thusly for the express purpose of being able to call his poopy diapers “Adam Bombs.”  No shit.

Some parents object to using real language where their kids are concerned: their toddlers don’t  fart; they “poot”.  They don’t use the toilet; they “go potty.”  They don’t crap in their pants; they “have an accident.”

Well I’m here to tell you my kids don’t “have accidents.”  They crap in their pants.  Hey, I’m a real parent!  None of this mushy-gushy lovey-dovey attachment parenting BS for me — my kids are pants-crapping, house-destroying, narcissistic little bastards, and I own it!

Well, they’re not really bastards.  I am married to SuperDad, so there I was just exaggerating.  The kids are monsters, but they are legitimate monsters.  The Geeklet Six ( aka The Mini-Avengers) are the products of a loving marriage — and how loving!  My husband and I, we love each other so much that we just can’t keep our hands off each other.  Which is why they’re The Geeklet Six and not The Geeklet Two-Point-Five or whatever the national average is.  I mean, it’s obvious to everyone how much SuperDad and I love eachother.  We can’t go into a grocery store as a family without at least one complete stranger stopping us and saying with a knowing leer, “Six kids?!?  Wow!  You know what causes that, right?”  At which point we reply, “Yeah . . . and we’re good at it.”

Ah, marital bliss.  We’ve had lots of practice at that.  But, back to poopy diapers.

( . . . to be continued . . . )

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