Why is it that my kids ALWAYS come to me to answer questions, or help wipe their bums, or whatever? It's not that I don't want to help my kids. I do. But seriously? Rather than go to their dad to unravel the mysteries of the universe, like what two colors mix together to make magenta (okay, he probably COULDN'T answer that one for them), but perhaps green? purple? orange? I'm sure he could.
I mean. He was outside drawing with them on the driveway in chalk, and I was standing with my head in the kitchen sink, washing my hair, and Gavin ran in about 37 times to ask me what colors mixed together to make other colors. Finally I snapped, "ASK YOUR DAD!!! I can't hear you under the running water!!!" Then I immediately felt bad.
But I am not EVEN exaggerating when I tell you they will come find me on the toilet to ask me something. Like, Tom can be laying on the sofa in the room where they are watching TV, and they will come find me trying to drop a deuce in private (Private?! What's THAT???) to ask them to change the channel so they can watch Jake & The Neverland Pirates instead of Little Einsteins. Really people?
This is exactly why I lock myself in the bathroom to eat chocolate covered potato chips.
SOME things just aren't meant to be shared.
Camo jacket: Thrift
Plaid shirt: Target, men's
Tank: Wal Mart
Pants: hand-me-downs from my sis
Necklace: TJ Maxx
Earrings: Standard Style Boutique
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