Camp Alaska

In case you've had the misfortune of following my insanity for the year or so that I've been torturing the world with my thoughts, you may recall the saga of Camp Alaska. For those who are not familiar, you need to know two things. I'm crazy and few things make me crazier than the perceived danger about to envelop my offspring.

The Boy Scouts are a hardy lot. If you are a Scout, you will learn how to rip up your underpants to make fire starter and you'll wander around in the woods for two days to learn orienteering. As a Scout, you also have the opportunity to scare your dear Mom into a deep psychosis by camping outside in Ohio in January with no tent. You get to make your own shelter and try to survive on your wits and beef jerky for 24 hours. And if you do all this? You get a shiny patch. Yep, a patch and the satisfaction that your parents are capable of worrying for 24 hours straight.

Last year, Peter froze his toes together and it was of course, my fault. It was below zero and I had armed both A&P with a mountain of hand warmers. Why, would your toes freeze together if you have plenty of handwarmers to stash in your socks, and mittens and pockets? Because they're HAND WARMERS, not FOOT WARMERS. It says so right on the package. And, had I listened to the child prior to sending him out into the freezing cold, I would have known this. Seriously, my parental license should be revoked.

We have two weeks to prepare for this year's installment of "Am I Really Dumb Enough to Leave my Children Out in the Cold with Nothing But Tarps and Beef Jerky?" Yes, yes, I am.

Last year, I did not sleep. I was frozen in my bed under layers of down and fleece. The heat was cranked up to 78 degrees and I was still frosted right down to my fritzel. Tim spent the night watching the weather station out in Grand Rapids like it was a Red Wings hockey game. Unfortunately the prize was a reading of minus 1 F.

All I have to say is Here We Go Again People. It's going to get kind of crazy around here for a while.

Top Secret!

If you repeat any of this to anyone, I swear to you, I will find you. Not only will I find you, but I will place a clothes pin on your nose and I will fill your mouth with peppermint toothpaste. I will wrap you up in toilet paper and chain you to the bench on your front porch. Yes, I will. You will be an example to others.

Now that we have that straight, how are you today? I'm fine and thank you for asking.

I got home kind of late. This is not unusual and the evidence of my lateness (Wendy's burger wrappers) are throughout the kitchen. Wow, did you feel that guilt? Neither did I.

Anyway, in the midst of the wrappers, there was a tin. A Christmas Tin. How cute. I hate tins. What do you do with them? I digress.

The tin was filled with candy and gum. Hmmm. I flashed back to my call home earlier when Andrew excitedly told me that he was the recipient of 6 packs of gum at the candy exchange at school. That's a lot of gum that I'm sure hoping is sugarless.

(Hold on, I will digress again. You thought I was kidding on Monday when I said all they were doing at school was watching movies and eating candy. Hmmm, see why I was miffed?)

So I see the burgers wrappers and the tin full of candy. Suddenly, Andrew appears. Innocently I say, "Hey, what's with the tin?"

I'm sorry dear reader, but I have no idea how, in words to simulate a nearly 13 year old boy being incredibly defensive and goofy all at the same time. It's like a new born donkey on ice skates eating Twinkies while being filmed on PBS. A vision, is it not?

He freaked out and ran away. All I said was "Hey, what's with the tin?" Does that warrant freaking out? We sent his candy for his exchange person in a zip lock bag from Big Lots. We got back a tin-load of gum and candy, all fancy like with ribbons and stuff. I'm feeling guilty, so clearly I am vectoring this back on to my child. (Is vectoring a word?)

A GIRL GAVE HIM THAT TIN.

A girl. I don't know what to say. Girls are yicky. I'm a girl. How do I reconcile that?

Dear girl, that boy is a precious soul. He's not an old soul because he does dumb things, like leave his socks on the kitchen table, but he's still ours. If you mistreat him, I will find you and put a clothes pin on your nose and....

A Christmas Present

This is not the conversation I expected to have about Christmas. As a matter of fact, in my wildest dreams I never could have imagined this request or how hard it is to fill it... what a wish fulfilling failure I've turned out to be...

Me: What do you want for Christmas?
Kid: I don't really need anything.
Me: True, but there has to be something.
Kid: I need mittens.
Me: DONE!

Until, I can't find mittens. Why didn't I know this in July when I was cruising art and craft fairs? Why don't I have a neighbor that knits? Why don't I know anyone that knits? Come to think of it, I'd be happy to learn if it's possible to drink martinis and knit. So, who wants a scarf next year for Christmas, knitted by a drunken knitter? That's a sales pitch if I've ever heard one.

In desperation, I called my in-laws. Help me, I said. The kid wants mittens. You're old, you have to have an old friend that knits. I can't let a kid down on Christmas for lack of mittens! This is almost Little Timmy Cratchett awful. The kid has everything. No, he has two or three of everything known to man and all he wants are mittens! He'll freeze his digits waiting for the bus in January without a fuzzy pair of hand knit mittens.

Christmas 2009 is now the holiday that may go down in the book as the Christmas where all the kid wanted was a pair of knit mittens and his lousy, too busy mother can't figure that out. I can feed him sushi and take him to see a Jasper James exhibit, but I can't rouse up one pair of mittens! I'm a failure!

And, now, it's worse. The other kid wants them too. Two pairs of mittens. I've got 9 days.

This May Be the Last Time We Save your....

Read on and you'll understand why I have included the picture of the lowly donkey. It has another name that rhymes with Bass, but I'm trying very hard to keep bad language out of my blog. (Disclaimer. I think all that bad stuff all the time. My brain was hardwired to mirror that of any average longshoreman.)

This afternoon, I call home.

Me: Hey.
Kid: Hey.
Me: Anything interesting happen to you at school today?
Kid: Ummmm. Not sure.
Me: No special delivery for you today?
Kid: Oh ya, someone brought me an IPod.
Me: Really. Hmmm. An IPod.
Kid: Yes, actually an IPod Touch.
Me: OK, was it delivered by a gorilla playing a saxophone?
Kid: I'm not sure.
Me: What got delivered to you?
Kid: My violin.
Me: And?
Kid: What?
Me: (Hoping, Praying for a scintilla of dread on the Kid's part when he realized he forgot it.) And when did you realize you needed it?
Kid: Later.
Me: So, your Dad killed himself to drop it off and that's all you've got?
Kid: Do you want to talk to Andrew?

It was at this point, that I wasn't even sure who I was talking to. They sound exactly the same. I started to think it has been Andrew all along, yanking my chain.

Kid: What?
Me: Which one are you?
Kid: I don't want to talk on the phone.
Me: (Silent dog scream inserted here)

I can't tell them apart. Even if I could, the kid that got the violin dropped off seems to have cared more about, I don't know, toe lint, than the fact that we saved his, well, refer to the picture.

Good times, had by all. May tomorrow be another day that ends in Y.

A Contained Conspiracy

I have a cabinet.

I have 5000 plastic containers.

I have 4999 lids and never the lid I seek. Never. Dang.

Tonight, I whipped up some spaghetti with leftover beef. This, in and of itself, is almost miraculous. I never use leftovers. But, this was leftover Wagyu beef and I would have been struck down by the leftover gods had I let it go to waste.

Shortly after serving everyone up and scarfing it down, we surveyed the leftovers. By careful viewing of the approximate volume of food left in the pot, I found the perfect container- A beautiful little Rubbermaid #2. Hmmm, where's the lid?

No lid. Sheesh. I got down on my hands and knees. Then I sat Indian style on the floor and rooted around like one of those truffle seeking pigs in the Italian forest. No lid. Really.

Kid: I hide those in my room you know.

Me: WHAT?

Kid: I'm kidding.

I emptied the contents of the entire cabinet onto the kitchen floor. There was not a single Rubbermaid #2 lid. This is a conspiracy.

Kid: My friends come over and take the lids.

Me: Seriously. You're just rubbing this in.

I don't get it. The lids are like socks except I'm fairly certain I don't have container lids static clinging to my pants.

The Devil Made Me Do It

Meetings started before 7am this morning and I'm still going at 5:30 pm. I am starting to lose my mind.

I'm not sure I'm still effective because I am starting to want to hurt people with office supplies. (Dear employee, if I am looking at you strangely it's because I'm wondering how I could stuff wads of paper in ...) I think I'll leave that thought to my inside voice.

My assistant accuses me of sniffing white-out. That's got to be better than the rubber cement we spread all over our desks in 5th grade.

Back to the present, I managed to throw dinner in the oven although I was supposed to do it last night for the crock pot. Details!

I think all of this business and year end craziness beyond all normalcy and reason is causing me to lose touch with my children. Andrew told me last night that he wants to be a grape when he grows up. I can only hope he's talking about champagne grapes. Today he reassessed and informed me that he's back on for archeology. I'm glad, but I would have loved him even he was a grape- even a yellowed grocery store grape.

Now that's love, huh? Please excuse me while I undo this string of paperclips that I could probably use to....

Overactive Bladder? Underactive Colon?

Every time I ask one of the children to something, do you know where he goes? He goes to the bathroom. He spends hours in the bathroom. He is the only child who does this (Since there are only two of them, that means that 50% of my children torture me with this little game.) It makes me want to scream.

Can I tell you a secret? Sometimes I do scream. This bathroom lock up is so annoying, it makes me sweat and itch just to think about it. EVERY SINGLE TIME I ask him to do something that is not related to eating junk food or playing XBox, he disappears.

Either he has a serious problem with an internal back up, probably requiring the assistance of a skilled surgeon or Fiber One cereal (or both), or it is an evasion tactic. I'm leaning towards evasion. (I would pass out if this kid ever ate Fiber One anything, but I digress. Again.)

Here is how it works..

Me: Hey, it's time to practice your violin.

Kid: OK

Time passes....

Me: I don't hear anything. Where are you?

Kid: I had to go to the bathroom.

More time passes...

Me: Did you fall in?

Kid: Nope, really had to go.

Me: For 2 hours?

This evasion technique, as developed by Kid #2, is so effective it completely subverts or deflects many of the following activities..

• Room cleaning


• Dishwasher emptying


• Dinner table setting/clearing


• Lawn mowing/raking/snow removal


• Violin practice


• Book reading


• Homework completion


• Aeronautical design


• Rocketry

OK, those last two are things that he will probably miss because he's in the bathroom.

And, he's got me right where he wants me...if I yell at the kid in the bathroom I'll mess up his elimination activities forever. Yes, forever.

Is this melodramatic? Oh yes. Now if you would excuse me, I need to go pound on the bathroom door.

Please pass the cranberries...

Let us rise up and be thankful, for if we didn't learn a lot today, at least we learned a little, and if we didn't learn a little, at least we didn't get sick, and if we got sick, at least we didn't die; so, let us all be thankful. Buddha

Thank you for boys who leave their socks on the floor, candy wrappers on the couch and the front door wide open in January. JBA

I am thankful for laughter, except when milk comes out of my nose. Woody Allen

Thank you for Blackberries to keep me busy. JBA

It is another's fault if he be ungrateful, but it is mine if I do not give. To find one thankful man, I will oblige a great many that are not so. Lucius Annaeus Seneca

Thank you for cold nights and a husband who dials the thermostat back to 50 degrees. He is warm and cuddly. JBA

Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all the others. Cicerco

Thank you for grocery stores so I don't have to grow my own food because we'd probably starve. JBA

Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom. Marcel Proust

Thank you for books to read and argue about. JBA

There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle. Albert Einstein

Thank you for an occupation that allows me to exercise righteous indignation on a daily basis. JBA

If the only prayer you said in your whole life was, "thank you," that would suffice.
Meister Eckhart

Overheard Daily

As shouting: The bus is will leave without you in 5 minutes
Hollering: You have three minutes!
Pleading: Where are your shoes?
Incredulous: I will not bake 4 dozen cookies for your noon English class today.
Emphatically: You do not have time to make a Josef Stalin costume in the 3 minutes before the bus comes!
Hollering louder: Two minutes people!
Under breath: Don't argue with me about the time. I make this up as I go.
Screeching: Where are you Peter? Andrew I have no idea where your calculator is.
Shouting: Seriously! Are you going to school barefoot?
Pleading: Put on your shoes! How do you have holes in your socks?
Hysterically: 30 seconds! What do you mean you need pencils!? No I didn't buy more erasers.
Conversationally: Have a good day. I love you.

I'd like to go back to bed please.

Why are you limping?

(Door Slams. Kid lumbers into view.)
Kid: (Emphatically) I HAVE A BUNION.
Me: What?
Kid: My foot hurts and I know I have a BUNION.
Me: Unless you're 50 years old or have been sneaking around in high heels all your life, you most certainly do not have a bunion.
Kid: Well, this foot sure hurts. (takes off shoe and waves foot in front of me.) Look at the part sticking out.
Me: Look on the other foot. I think you have the same sticking out part. It's just rubbing your shoe.
Kid: Nope. I don't think so. (Pauses to think.) It's got to be a hernia.
Me: (stifling guffaw here) It's not a hernia. Seriously.
Kid: But I can't walk and it hurts all the time- whenever I'm awake.
Me: Go to sleep.
Kid: You're not very nice.
Me: You need a medical terminology class.

Avert Your Eyes

Do you see Mr. 92? That's Peter.

The season is over, but Peter LOVED his uniform. He didn't play much, but he LOVED the team. I am so proud of him.

Doesn't that line of boys look cute? I don't think I'm supposed to be looking at that.

Another One Bites the Dust

Kids are selfish when it comes to Easter candy, ice cream, pony rides and birthday presents. They are not particularly selfish when it comes to GERMS.

With germs, there's enough for everyone. Even if you're standing behind a door, wrapped in plastic, covered with a Haz-Mat suit and using a can of Lysol as a weapon, there's enough for everyone.

Kid Deux got sick today and called from school in a sheepish little voice for a pick-up. Before too long we were off to ambush the doctor with both kids despite only having an appointment for one of them. Kid Deux said "The doctor will be happy to see me because I have nicer hair." Must you be vain even when you're sick, I implored?

Two hours and two boxes of Tamiflu later, they were ensconced on the couch in blankets, surrounded by Kleenex and inhalers and within reach of a remote and glasses of Sprite.

"I have better hair even when I'm sick, " declared Kid Deux. Addressing his brother he said "You just have normal hair. My hair is Spectacular!"

Seriously, you're sick!

Told You So

One of the boys is sick. This is the one who was kind of sick a few weeks back. It was then that he learned that the normal temperature is 98.6, give or take, and not 95 like he's a snapping turtle or some kind of toad. Therefore, it was with much glee that he spiked a fever and took his temperature today. Aside from feeling too rotten to move off the couch, he seems to have had a pretty good day proving his point. Repeatedly. Every 30 minutes. All day long.

I decided he needed a bath. An entire day of holding the couch to the floor just in case gravity gives out, is rather hard work. So is being lippy while you're sick. This requires extra energy.

Me: You need a bath.
Kid: I'll take it if you fill it up for me and turn on the heater and the TV and get me some Sprite and a big fluffy towel.
Me: grumble grumble
Kid: (peakedly) thanks
Time passes...
Me: There's 6 inches in the tub, stick your wrist in it and make sure its ok.
Kid: Yep. It's fine.
Me: Get in it then. I won't watch.
Kid: I want to wait until it's all the way filled up.
Me: I'm not filling it up. I'll need a loan to pay for the water. And you might sink and drown. Or displace a twelve year old sized amount of water onto the bathroom floor. Just get in the tub.
Kid: I always do it this way. Besides, I have a fever.
Me: grumble grumble
Time passes...
Me: You're not in the tub.
Kid: Ya, it was too hot.
Me: You were supposed to test it so you could adjust the water temperature. You're sitting in a bay window with the lights on, naked, and it's dark outside.
Kid: Oh. Don't say it.
Me: What?
Kid: Just don't say it.
Me: TOLD YA SO! HA HA HA!

That was fun.

Until, he only spent 5 minutes in that giant tub of water.

Why We Bombed the Moon

What to Expect When You're Expecting has been on the paperback nonfiction best seller list for like 300 years. I read that book and it left me completely unprepared. Not unprepared for the baby thing, although I have admitted to letting my kid roll off the footstool once or twice. No, I was unprepared for all the stuff that comes WAY after the kid is old enough to tell you the ottoman is not a good perch for a roly poly infant or that they need to eat every few hours. Whatever, Lucky Charms comes in an easy open box for a reason.

Walking though a bookstore today, I felt underwhelmed, put-out and generally under-served by the book publishing industry (This means you Random House). I can go into a bookstore and learn how to make my own hominy (pass the lye, please) and then dry it in the sun and whack it with a rock to make my own grits. I can get a book to teach me how to raise sheep, weave my own cloth, dye it with onion peels and sew my own root vegetable clothes. I can learn how to read the Bible and speak Yiddish.

But there are no books called What to Expect When your Kid is about to turn 13. If this book existed it would need chapters like "I Hate You Means I Love You" or "Just Because I Throw Up in Your Car Doesn't Mean I Speed Ate 14 Hot Dogs at the Football Game After You Specifically Told Me Not to."

No one writes these books because what happens when you raise boys to be about 12 or 13 is supposed to happen in secret. No one wants to know how it happens at your house, they just want to see the finished product in the shiny, polite Eagle Scout. And, if someone did write this book and someone else who was considering procreation read the book, there might not be any more people. Come to think of it, I bet the CIA would come and take any manuscript away and fire it at the moon so that no one really knows what goes on in houses with 12 or 13 or 14 year olds.

And, I think I finally understand why we bombed our moon a week ago. Someone had the audacity to write a book about how to raise kids to be decent Eagle Scouts but included chapters about all the crap you have to go through to get there and the government took the book and shot it into a crater on the moon to save humanity. Good thing they did so that I can remain as clueless as ever for the next 7 years or so.

Headlines

I'd like to see a few of these...

Boy Picks Up Laundry, Cites Mom for Inspiration

Boy Does Homework Without Complaining! Mom Needs Immediate Resuscitation!

Boy Eats Leafy Greens- Says "Yummy!"

XBox Extinct!

DuPont Introduces Self Cleaning White Carpet!

Ten Martinis a Week Recommended by Physicians

Vodka Industry Needs Help- Perrysburg Mom Fills Glass

Self Correcting Cameras Shave 15 Pounds from anyone over 35

Boss Says "Yes, You May Dance at the Office on Fridays!"

Human Body Temperature Corrected! It's 96.7!

Levi's Declares All Adolescent Boys Get Free Jeans Until Age 18!

Sock Company Invents Impervious, Magnetic Pairing, Sock!

Blogger Requests No More Use of Exclamation Points!

Backyard Tomato Plants Sprout Cash!

Your Mom Was Wrong! Your Life WILL be EASY!

If You Have Checks Left, Bank says "You still have money!"

Television and Lucky Charms Will Make You Smart!

Perrysburg Mom Has Nickel for Every time Kid Says "You're Mean!" She's RICHER Than OPRAH!

Chef Boyardee Newest Iron Chef!

Mom Says "I Hope You Have One Just Like You!" and It Comes True, Twice!

Are you a fish?

Kid: I don't feel good. I have a cold.
Me: You've lounged around all weekend. Eat something. You're fine.
Kid: I'm not fine. I feel oogey.
Me: Tough. You don't have a fever. Eat something and go to school.
Kid: It's awful. I think I could be dying.
Me: Let's take your temperature
Two minutes pass....
Kid: Look it says I have a fever.
Me: Huh? Really? What does it say?
Kid: 97.5. I told you I was sick.
Me: You don't have a fever and you must have done it wrong. Either that or you're an amphibian.
Kid: No. Human temperature is 96 something.
Me: That would be 98.6- that is the normal human temperature.
Kid: Oh.
Me: Off you go!

How do you spell that?

I love spelling. I love spellcheck. I love everything about words. I love to use big words and freak people out. When I was a kid there was nothing I enjoyed more than telling another kid "Hey, your epidermis is showing." The kid would look around to see what was inadvertently hanging out while I laughed hysterically. I love reading business letters and emails with mistakes missed by spellcheck. I had an email last week where the writer was going to get back with me about my "corns." She meant concerns.

I'm still laughing about that.

As you are aware, this blog is about A&P and my inadequate, often faulty,misguided and all around shoddy parenting. A&P do not particularly like words. (Note: I did not say they don't have opinions.) They have no particular use for spelling words properly or using them in the correct order to construct a nice, complete sentence, perfect for diagramming with friends. No, they have little use for this or my love of words. My inner English major hollers out in silent pain every time they end a sentence in a preposition. "Were you born in a barn?" I scream.

What to do, you ask? How can you raise them to be straight talking, good grammar utilizing boys so that they don't go to dinner with Queen and say something pedestrian? Test them. Test their vocabulary and cram new words into their heads until they cry for mercy and the XBox. Test their spelling until every irregularly spelled French derived English word or commonly used Latin root is jammed into their heads. It's painful, but someone has to do it. It's not abuse so don't even think about turning me in.

At the beginning of every school year, I let out a fair amount of rope. This rope can be used to mess up spelling and vocabulary for about 4 weeks until such time as I lasso them back in. Last Thursday was "Lasso Day." I am now back in the spelling and vocabulary business at the dinner table. They holler and protest, but mysteriously their grades improve by about 30% within 24 hours.

I can hardly wait until they learn about dangling or misplaced modifiers. Good times.

Prodigal Clothing

Boys go to school. Boys take extra stuff to school. This extra stuff doesn't always make it home. Just like the money I give them. There has to be change. Really. But I digress...In two days, we were missing:

3 sweatshirts

1 jacket

1 pair of jeans

2 pairs of gym shorts

2 pairs of socks

2 t shirts

a violin

This makes me cranky. Given the size of the lost and found box- it's more like a dumpster- at the school, we're not the only ones sacrificing stuff to it. I bet the janitors take loads to the box every night like a Mayan priest approaching an ancient pyramid. "Hoo Ha Hoo Ha. Here's more stuff for your monster sized stomach. Hoo Ha Hoo Ha."

You think I'm crazy. I see torches, dancing the whole bit. Come on, we have no idea what happens in that school after dark. I bet all of Peter's lost 6th grade homework ended up as a sacrifice.

Whenever a boys wears a jacket to school for the first time every fall, I wonder, "will I ever see you again? You were such a nice buy and on sale too." It's cold in the morning so, they wear the jacket. By midday it's not cold and the jacket gets left in science class or on the bleachers or in the hallway or on the bus. I can't explain the jeans or the gym clothes or my change.

Snoopy is dancing because at least some of our prodigal clothing returned to us over the weekend- three sweatshirts and a jacket, some of the gym clothes and the jeans. The violin is not missing (hurrah!). It was left at school so someone could avoid practicing it.

So help me if the violin gets sacrificed. That gives me the willies just thinking about it. Instead I will celebrate the return of the stuff- even the stinky gym clothes- and their escape from the BOX.

Mama Hari, Super Spy

When I was growing up, I hated it when people came into my room. I had various mechanisms (er, behaviors) to keep anyone I was related to from ever coming for a visit. This mostly involved extreme bouts of crabbiness, threats of violence against myself or others, or sometimes blasting lousy 80's dance music. Come to think of it, I did this at the office today and no one came in. Imagine that.

Anyway...

A&P haven't discovered the sanctuary of their rooms yet. Other than the occasional "GET OUT OF MY ROOM" directed at the other brother, it's a fairly peaceful detente complete with a "cracked door policy." No one ever seems to mind that I've picked up the clothes in the middle of the floor (right at the edge of the basket force-field) or made the beds or whatever. I must admit, I take advantage of this and do my fair share of digging around in drawers and under the beds. The public service announcements on TV implore me to snoop. Who am I to question NBC?

Today, I really wished I was too dumb to dig around in their rooms. You never know what you'll find. Sometimes I find fistfuls of quarters or dirty socks from a baseball game last June. I can hardly tell you what I found. It's so ghastly. You will judge me. You will send me secret letters and comments judging me. I'm horrified, terrified and actually thinking about bringing in some help.

Do you want to know what I found? Is this killing you? Oh boy, here it is. I found...

A shirt that says "Perrysburg Class of 2015." What the Sam Hill is that? 2015 is like 40 years from now. Shouldn't we be living on the moon and flying around in hover cars? Shouldn't I have a robot rubbing my feet and injecting Botox in my crowsfeet while I type this?

2015? Shouldn't I be able to read people's minds by then? Won't we be growing food out of thin air and repairing ourselves with magic wands?

I can't stand it. It's going to be awhile before I snoop again- maybe Thursday.

Less is More

Whilst putting the finishing touches on a familially collaborative pair of science projects the following conversation occurred...

Me: Hey P we have a few extra things let's add them to the poster.
P: Why. I only have to have 8 and I already have 8.
A: (emphatically) I have 12!
Me: It never hurts to go beyond the minimum.
P: Who cares? My grade will be the same if I have 8 or 9 or whatever.
Me: Seriously? You're happy with doing the absolute, least amount of work that you can get away with?
P: Yup. Where's the glue?
A: Did I mention I have 12?
Me & P: YES!
Me: Maybe I could do the least amount possible.
P: What are you talking about?
Me: Under Ohio law, I am only required to get you to school, give you a place to live, some clothes (nothing flashy) and your food (also nothing fancy).
P: What? You're kidding.
Me: Nope. Not kidding. I could start doing only what the law requires starting right about...
P: MOM!
Me: What?
P: That wouldn't be very nice.
Me: So what.
P: How about 10 things on my poster?

My work here is done- for at least the next 10 minutes.