Last night, my big boys and I played Apples to Apples. For the record, this is how I get them to play [non]electronics with me: I buy a couple quarts of ice cream and then deny my teenagers access. “You want a few scoops of ‘Cookies & Cream’?” I ask. “Then grab a game and meet me at the table.”
They’re 14- and 16-year-old boys, after all. They would rather be watching football.
So back to the game, which (as I’ve said) was Apples to Apples. The adjective was “Perfect” and I was the judge. “Huh,” I thought, looking at the “Martha Stewart” card in my hand. “She would have been ‘perfect’ for this one.”
Because, you know, she’s Martha.
The boys & their neighbor friend tossed down their cards and it took me all of one second to decide. “Babies!” I said, and their friend Mark whooped with joy. “Hands down,” I stated. “It’s ‘babies.’”
“Not ‘Dolly Parton?’” my son Jem protested. “You love Dolly Parton.”
It’s true, I do love Dolly’s music. But she’s nowhere near as perfect as my baby.
Though she’s got him beat when it comes to big hair and big…
Also yesterday, my baby boy turned 10 months old. He’s a perfect 10!
The little stink.
(I apologize about the quality of that last photo. I had to move fast before the kid went conk.)
He keeps me hopping, that’s for sure, but since he’s Number 7, I’ve got lots of help. This means having the luxury of a quick trip to Target to pick up, say, a pregnancy test. This, too, I did yesterday…and sighed when that extra little line was absent. A negative test is probably for the best, I know, given our financial situation.
It’s all about being crazy for babies. Am I right? I’m right! When you’re baby crazy, you can’t have too many. You know you’re tapped out but you still want more.
Only seven kids? Heck. Why not make it…ten.
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