I’m starting to think the universe has a personal vendetta against me.
Bishop woke us up at the ass-c***k of dawn on a weekend morning, then had a tantrum until I agreed to let him watch cartoons in the den. Around seven, the twins wouldn’t take the bottle, still refusing to eat anything that doesn’t come straight from my n****e. Then, around eight, I puked in the kitchen sink.
ThenJust your average Saturday morning, right?
I’m dozing on the couch when Owen comes back from his morning run. He usually takes a longer route, so I’m a little startled when he returns in under an hour.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, kicking off his shoes.
“You just surprised me. Is it supposed to rain or something?”
“No. I just couldn’t stop thinking. We should talk.”
Ah. The long-awaited later has
