If idle hands are the devil's workshop, then my hands are bound for glory. I've been up since about 5:30, and besides the time it took to type this morning's blog and check a few random emails, I've been grinding.
I did some laundry, dealt with more wise beyond their years conversations with my little geniuses, completely cleaned my car and cleaned up around the crib. You would think that all that sweating would have resurrected my buckshots, but nooooooo. I'm still looking like Elvis around the bang area. Yes...I effing have BANGS! Some ole bullshit.
Speaking of Elvis, in addition to being a poet, Ladybug has developed a comic strip entitled "Evil Elvis." When I inquired about the premise, I was told, "He does all the things Elvis wouldn't do. You know...the singer." What the hell does she know about Elvis?! I'm TELLING you, this kid has been here before. I'm sure people don't believe half of what I tell them about my kids.
Finge plans on playing the saxophone. Let's recap: my son is tall, dark, handsome and intelligent. Am I sanctioning an activity that will certainly have him backstroking in women? Is it right for me to raise this generation's Shadow Henderson? I'm still trying to work through this.
I also, for the first time ever, sent my son in the store by himself. It was borne of necessity. I needed a can of soup, and after laundry and car washing in the blazing heat, not only did I reek, but the car wash detergent stained my paints. I was on pins and needles the entire time. However, as I recall, I was going in the store alone at his age as well.
Now, I'm sure my Uptown Ambassador may take exception for borrowing his moniker in today's theme music (because "every good superhero has his own theme music" and make no mistake, I AM a muthafuckin superhero), I'm sure he can't possibly begrudge my paying homage to the illustrious Dennis Coles.