We were all in the car the other day, and we missed turning at a light because the guy in front of us took for freaking ever to check out the traffic situation before he left the line (it was good for the full 60 seconds it took him to make a decision). Hubby, who was driving, said something, or made some kind of noise.
K1: What, Daddy?
Daddy: Some people don't know how to drive.
K1: Why do some people don't know how to drive?
D: Because they didn't have Daddy to teach them.
K1: Oh. Did they only have Mommies to teach them?
Yep. Of course, this mommy taught daddy to drive, so, yeah.
I've become that person. The person who needs a cup (or two) of coffee in the morning, or she's a real meanie. It's half decaf, and half full-caf, which makes it like Half Ass, but since that's too expensive, I mix it myself.
I'm being micro-managed. By a close relative. I feel like I'm fourteen and I haven't done my chores, or something. Bad Spinny. But I'm not. Fourteen. I'm almost forty. Don't tell anyone. Does that mean that I'm being micromanaged because I'm being seen as a bad parent? Or housewife? Maybe I need to have a conversation.
I need to have a conversation with someone about my broken foot. It's getting pretty annoying. I might start using crutches again. Not at home, though. Too hard. You put one down on a Hot Wheel, and you might as well order up a wheelchair. Maybe I need something that I can strap to my knee, like a pirate peg-leg, and use that (with the rest of my leg still attached but hanging out behind) to hobble around on. Yo ho ho.
It's Father's Day today. I made waffles. That's usually Hubby's job. Oh, yeah, I still have to freeze the leftovers. His are better.
So, we're getting in the car to come home today, and K1 finds out that I'm driving.
K1: I want Daddy to drive.
K1: He's a better driver.
Me: Oh? How come?
K1: His waffles are better.
I can't really argue with that logic. I'm laughing too hard.