"They usually put garlic in the dressing here, but they didn't tonight, and it's really good." Was this a conversation I overheard between two adult women having lunch al fresco at a sidewalk cafe? Why, no! I'm glad you asked. Actually, this was Paige's salad recommendation to a friend during dinner at our house.
Just when I decided this meant things have officially jumped the shark here at Chez Moi, I heard Isaac bellow out his 6:00 p.m. rallying cry from the bathroom down the hall: "READY FOR A WIIIIIIPE!" Isaac is turning four this month. He's been reliably crapping in a toilet for almost two years. I think it's high time he starts wiping his own ass, and I told him as much.
For obvious reasons, this evening generated another moment of silent self-persecution, as the full extent of my parenting fails was once again laid bare. I've been trying to divest my kids of the delusion that I exist to wait on them hand and foot. But that's hard to do when Paige thinks our house is her favorite local bistro under new management, and Isaac demands a disproportionate level of parental involvement in his toileting.
At the rate I'm going, I'll be lucky if these kids are out of our basement by the time they're 40. Until then, I'd better go sort some Legos and doll clothes. I mean, seriously people. The LAST thing I need right now is a bad review on Yelp or Trip Advisor.