Why We Take Our Kids to the Bar.

Recently I went to a sports bar/pizza place for a friend’s birthday. There was sawdust on the floor, peanuts, and initials carved into the table. I thought, you know who belongs here?

My kids.

I was right. A week later we brought them. We got a paper tray full of peanuts and my husband instructed everyone that their shells were to be thrown on the floor. I guard the carpet under our kitchen table like a prison warden, so my seven-year-old’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas. His shrill, villainous, laughter could be heard across the bar as he plowed through peanuts just so he could throw the shells to the ground. Graham busted out his pocket knife and my nine-year-old set to work on the table with the prowess of a young Michelangelo.

We are such good parents.

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Haters Gunna Hate. A story about decaf and pacifiers.

I remember back when I was a perfect parent. It was around the same time I thought that parachute pants were an excellent fashion choice. It was also when I was going to save the last dance with Sean Patrick Lewis and have his perfect babies.

Did I mention I was not yet a mother?

No one told me that you have to do all that “perfect” parenting at the same time as children are yelling, shrieking, and jumping naked on your couch cushions that you fluff up 5,000 times a day.

They are just so loud you guys.

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