I Birthed You, Boy.

I always start out with great intentions of being a fun mom.

And then the rascals do something that makes me crazy.

And then the rascals take away my "Fun Mom" card.

Like when I told them it would be fun to make tents in the living room. And they did. And then the tents were turned into stores. And then rocket ships. And then back into stores complete with hundreds and thousands of teensy tiny pieces of paper price tags. And then it was a restaurant which evidently sold nothing but crumbs served on a plate of carpet. And then back into a rocket ship that saved orphan alien babies. And this went on for 3 days. And it looked like this:

Until I couldn't take it any longer, and I stormed into the midst of the alien rescuers demanding that it be cleaned up and hauled back from whence it came. And then the rascals looked at me as if I shot their little alien babies, and then I heard, "But, it was your idea."

And that's when I said, "I birthed you, boy."

Insert removal of card here.

Then there was my ingenious plan to buy (okay, healthy blogeeps, brace yourself, cuz it ain't purty) kid/summer friendly food. Like Gogurt. And chips and dip. And these...

And then I bought this. Because it is a Fun Mom thing to do.

Until I find the nasty little pudding cups and their whipped creamy spoon friends laying all over my furniture. And I march in and announce that never again in the future of me being their mother will there be purchases of pudding and whipped cream.

To which I hear, "But you said that last time."

And that's when I said, "I birthed you, boy."

Card removal? Uh-huh.

Oh, those boys. I should feed them nothing but broccoli and asparagus for dinner tonight. But I won't.

Because I'm a Fun Mom. Ahem.