Tastes Like Chicken

Extensive scientific observation, which is to say, mothering, has taught me that children are a lot like politicians.  Most are charming, persuasive and, typically, as is the case with my kids, pretty darn good lookin’, too.  The flip side is that they can be (and usually are) sneaky, underhanded and conniving.  Bill Clinton’s got nothing on my kids ’cause they can shade the crummy truth ’til the finished product resembles a Rembrandt painting, ya’ll.  If either of the Co-Defendants ever ran for public office, they’d win for sure.  Although unspoken, they’re philosophy is ‘What’s mine is mine and what’s yours is mine.’  See, what’d I tell you?  Politicians, for sure.

Things routinely go missing in our home, only to pop up in the oddest locations.  Scotch tape in the underwear drawer.  A mini-set of screwdrivers gettin’ down with the Legos.  Glue?  Scissors?  Nail clippers?  Check the kids’ rooms first…and get back to me when you find out where they’ve hidden my sanity.

So, yesterday afternoon, it should’ve come as no surprise that, when I needed one most, I couldn’t find a band-aid to save my life.  For the record, I don’t keep them in the bathroom where they belong.  No, no.  I hide them because the Co-Defendants consider them fashion accessories, not medical devices. 

I ranted, I raved; no one confessed.  Are you surprised? 

Two hours later, despite both kids’ rooms being ransacked, no band-aids,  but, you could see carpet…at least, I think it’s carpet, it’s been so long.  AND they learned something new…trashcans are for….TRASH!  Who knew all that crap wasn’t supposed to go UNDER THE BED?!

Exhausted and peeved, I sat while Dear Hubby made dinner.  If that’s part of what it’s like to be a man, sign me up ’cause I could sooo get used to someone else slingin’ the hash…that and the being able to pee standing up thing they do.  Fifteen minutes into my Post-Rant rant, I got one of those feelings that can be summed up thusly: Oh, sh*t!  Trudging to the nearest cabinet, I found, cleverly ensconced in a dry-goods canister, my stash of band-aids.

Sorry, Hubby, I’m not gonna be hungry ’cause I’m havin’ crow tonight….YUMMO!

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