It's 8 PM - do you know where your children are?

I know where mine are. They’re safely duct-taped to snuggled in their beds. And so now, and only now, can I even begin to mention anything remotely Love Thursday-ish.


Because while the wee Toddler was upright and conscious, he was driving me to the brink of madness and if it were not for that unlucky barista at Tim Horton’s who kept the steaming keg of coffee siphoned to my face, I almost wouldn’t have made it to bedtime with my hair not on fire.

Thanks for that…..friend.

Today was what I like to call a Naughty Day. A regular old day sprinkled with fits of pointless hysteria, perpetual WHY’S and NO’S followed by crinkled noses and air slapping and ovulation cramps (to his credit, he had nothing to do with my cramps but they were still exacerbated by the general unpleasantness of his attitude nonetheless).

But then we made brownies. And you cracked the eggs and smiled patiently as I picked tiny shards of eggshells out of the batter. You carefully poured the water and oil without spilling a drop, and turned your big browns up to me for approval. You pressed all the buttons on my mixer and mixed like you’ve never mixed before. You licked the beaters with squelchy gladness. Raw Eggs (!!!). I’m over it.

And we ate the warm, gooey brownies.

You were happy, I was happy, and on the seventh day, we drank cold milk.

A happy ending to an imperfect day? Meh, not so much. You should’ve heard the rash of shit he gave his Father when it was bedtime.