Something Royal

This morning I am trying to make breakfast while McKay is rollerskating around my kitchen, occasionally crashing or running into me. It is driving me crazy.

"McKay, could you please not roller skate while I'm trying to make breakfast?"

"But, MOM, I'm practicing for Cinderella on Ice."

Before I have time to counter this statement, she turns to Deacon. "If you could be a little more royal, you could be the prince."

"Yes!" Deacon exclaims excitedly.

"First you have to wash the Cheetos off your face."

I assume the Cheetos and royalty problems were overcome, because soon I have McKay crashing into me on roller skates, and Deacon crashing into me in socks.

"Enough!" I shout. "You can practice after breakfast."

McKay turns to Deacon, "Next time we practice--try to be more royal."

Being Parker's Mom

The sun has mostly set, just a sliver of light remains in the sky. It's the time of day where people have turned on their lights, but not shut their blinds. I am spying on my neighbors, as I walk down the street, looking for my son.

Before I see him, I can hear him. "That's not fair! We were going to punt!"

Yep, that's my boy.

Before he sees me, his friend spies my approach. "Parker, your mom's coming."

Parker glances at me, and then urgently yells, "Hurry, guys! One more play!"

I wonder how they can see the flags in the dark, but it becomes apparent that the flags are really just a formality. In a rush of energy and testosterone, all four boys pile on one another. Somewhere at the bottom of the pile I'm sure there's a football.

Parker walks home beside me, the ear flap on his winter hat half torn off, giving me a play-by-play of the game. "I really need to work on my running game. I'm practicing every night, but there's only so much time..." Daylight savings time has been a real hardship on Parker.

We arrive at the house. "Here," he says, placing his moist mouth guard in my hand, "you really need to wash this. It tastes disgusting."

Yep, that's my boy.

Chris the Awesome

"Here," I said, tossing a dollar on the book Chris was reading, "I will pay you one American dollar if you will put the kids to bed."

He tosses the dollar back. "No deal. I'm going to sleep."

"Fine, then you have to help me put them to sleep. Do you want boys or girl?"

He takes the dollar back. "Boys."

"You don't get paid to help."

"Yes, I do."

Five minutes later we are getting into bed. "You were overpaid," I say.

"I don't know, I had to listen to Deacon tell me he hates me. At least I know where I stand with him."

"Don't worry. Tomorrow you will be 'the best dad ever.'"

"You may continue to tell me how I am sainted."

"You do put up with a lot," I say, "You're married to me, and I am super bossy. Plus, sometimes I can be a slight control freak. I like things done my way, you know?"

"No, I've never noticed. Continue on with my saintliness."

"You're the giver in this relationship. You give. I take."

"I'm the giver, huh?" Chris ponders this. "What do you give?"

"I give you happiness."

"So I give you everything just to have the opportunity to bask in your presence?"

I begin to giggle. "I didn't mean it that way."

"I think you did."

"No, I mean that without me you would be old and boring. I make you fun. And you would sit around the house moping and playing the martyr all the time. What would you be like if I wasn't constantly telling you to suck it up and get over yourself? You would be unhappy!"

"Alright, we're getting way off track here. We were talking about how wonderful I am."

"How about I blog about it? You're constantly begging me to blog about how wonderful you are."

"OK," he says, rolling over. He begins snoring almost instantly.

Let me tell you about that snoring. It was truly wonderful, amazing snoring, produced by a talented individual. It was, dare I say it, sainted snoring. Not every girl can be as lucky as me.