A Post That is Not About Puppies, Beavers, or Drunks.

WARNING: This post mentions bodily functions. For once, it is not my bodily functions. Don't say I never do anything for you.

I have come to the conclusion that my kids are like eccentric homeless people. The way they mistreat our things and mess up the house, it's like they literally wandered in off the street one day and decided to declare Squatter's Rights.

We're potty training the Princess these days, and she is doing really well (it's true what they say about girls). We're not having too many accidents anymore, but for a couple of days there I was finding puddles of pee all over the floor. You know what I realized? That's what bums do. They pee wherever they want, and they don't clean it up. (Puppies also leave pee everywhere, but we're not talking about puppies today.)

Every single time I leave my Hurricane alone in the living room for even five minutes, I walk back in to see all of the couch pillows and cushions in a pile on the floor, and my kid laying on or underneath. God forbid he finds a big enough cardboard box to play in! He'll stay in for hours, coming out only to steal food. Who piles a bunch of shit in a bad spot and calls it a house? Shifty-looking ne'er-do-wells, that's who. (And beavers, but we're not talking about beavers today.)

My Little Dude had a bottle right before bedtime the other night and when I sat him up to burp, he simultaneously burped and hiccuped at the same time. Which caused him to throw up all over the couch, my face, my neck, my shirt, and some even soaked through my shirt and dripped down to the waistband of my jeans and underwear. Because the velocity of the projectile matter was so fast, some of it bounced back on to him. He cried his big fat raindrop tears while I tried to wipe him up a bit. Can you possibly think of anything more hobo-like? Barf so hard you nail everyone and everything in a 4 foot radius and then complain about the mess. (Drunks also do this, but we're not talking about drunks today.)

Nobody seems to have a job, and there's not a lick of money between the three of them, except what the oldest can nick from my truck's console. They all like to travel, especially if the trip is less than 30 minutes. The two biggest kids take turns dumpster diving at the kitchen garbage, and the little one is content to eat whatever he finds on the floor. I can't read the newspaper without the three of them hanging off of me to either read the paper/shred the paper/shred and eat the paper. Why should I be surprised? Vagrants love newspapers.

And the way they eat. They are all eating us out of house and home. All three of them just shovel the food in, because you never know when one of the other tramps might try to take it away. Also, rubbies need to keep their strength up, just in case all the La-Z Boys at the oil-drum fire are taken and they are forced to stand.

They all need to get jobs, in order to offset the cost of keeping them around. I am just about ready to drop them off downtown, each with a coffee cup and a little sign that says, "I'm a Baby and I'm Hungry," or, "Will Look Cute For Food." I'm willing to spend a little more for quality squeegees and name-brand dish soap, but I draw the line at dreadlocks and pricey crocheted marijuana pouches.