Our New Year’s Eve is so jam-packed, I barely have the time necessary to get a post up on this blog.
We have donned our jammies.
We have ordered a pizza.
We have flopped on the sofa and watched Nanny 911.
We have rejoiced over our own parenting problems, because land sakes, people! My parenting problems are nothing! Simply nothing! I love it when a reality television program can put it all into perspective for me. Thank you, Nanny 911.
Hubs has growled and snarled at the Colorado/Detroit hockey game and announced that the Red Wings have just ruined his on-coming new year. (Hubs is a little dramatic like that. Facing a refrigerator without any Coke cans in it can ruin Hubs’ week; one hockey game can ruin his entire year.)
The boy is working as an underpaid construction foreman, as he builds the Death Star’s laser and laments the fact that he didn’t save any of his fireworks from July to ignite tonight. If there’s one thing the boy likes other than Legos, it’s explosives. Small explosions disguised as legalized fireworks is one of the boy’s love languages.
If things don’t settle down over here, the cops are going to end up knocking on our door.
Honestly? It feels good to be at home, with my people, even if one of them is grumbling over a hockey game, and the other one has asked, “Why don’t we have black powder at our house? Why can’t we just make our own firecrackers?”
Happy New Year’s, people!