We’re still waiting on a date for the Home Study, but my luck would be them showing up today. Today when laundry isn’t yet put away, Today when I missed the trash truck yesterday and have trash bags littering the house, Today when I feel, generally, like shit and don’t want to fuck with it all. I just want to crawl back into bed and stay there.

But Stacey said I had to get up, so here I am. We all know I haven’t touched my blog for weeks, and that I should be cleaning. I could give you some profound, uplifting speech about how “I always start things and then never finish, and this blog will not be one of those things, and ….”

But we both would know that I’m full of shit, and don’t want to clean. I do, however, feel like blogging. So you, poor reader, are in for a treat another one of my crazed-over-dramatic stories about my life. Enjoy!

First of all, my kid is getting way too fucking smart. I think they’re injecting his cereal with something at school. He comes to me with his math homework and demands I help him. So I look at it, and am immediately confoosed. They’ve got these stars with numbers in each corner, and blank lines everywhere. I ask him what it is, and he tells me “Fact Families. You find the ones that fit.” What the hell kind of sick twisted first grade shit is this? No. I cannot help you with Fact Families, boy, go ask your daddy. And I’m pretty sure platypus isn’t a number. But I could be wrong.

So Daddy is looking at it, scratching his head. “What the hell kind of sick twisted first grade shit is this?” he ponders. “Fact Families. You find the ones that fit,” says the boy, smiling. So daddy and the boy sit down and 11 hours and seven Monsters later have the whole paper filled in, I’m assuming correctly, because the teacher didn’t call me screaming utter nonsense.

But then I got mad. If he knew what to do, and what it was, then that whole innocent “I need help with my homework!” thing was just a way to test just exactly how stupid we are. And of course, I have come up with a COMPLETELY logical theory about this.

You see, he’s been making his own breakfast and snacks, pouring his own milk… I don’t even have to watch him in the tub anymore. He washes his own hair and body, and even takes the stopper out of the drain without prodding. He brushes his teeth, goes to bed. Gets dressed, ties his shoes, zips up and then puts on his own jacket and backpack without help, and gets on the bus and goes off to terrorist training camp first grade like nothings happened. This can only mean one thing.

He’s plotting to overthrow us. No, wait! Think about it! It’s perfect in it’s simplicity! Just a normal kid, growing up, right? NO! That’s what he WANTS you to think. He’s after our power. Our iron-fist ruling! Our Little Debbie’s snack cakes! And he’ll stop at nothing. He won’t rest until he’s the one in charge. No more being grounded, no more 8:30pm bedtime, no more ‘Mamma and Daddy’ being the boss. He’ll have us hanged! Drawn and Quartered! Thrown into the lion-pit! What will we do!?!?

I think I have a solution, but it may not work. I’m going to smother him in motherly love, and make him hot chocolate with whipped cream and animal crackers. He won’t be able to resist! And brownies! It’s brilliant! I’ll show him that sure, he could off us at any given moment, but who will be around to tuck him in and give him hot chocolate at night? NO ONE, you say, boy? That’s right. And that chocolate is smelling mighty nice right about now, isn’t it?