Time to be afraid again, Easter Peeps. At the bottom of this annual Easter reblog is possibly the single creepiest photo …
The first time we did the Mouse, Donald Duck waddled up to us. He was reaching out to Child #2 when she hauled off and planted him a solid one straight to his – duckness. As I hustled the kids out of there, I noticed Daisy Duck was trying to help him up despite quacking up herself.
I have nothing to write about because this is day nine in which I have done ab.so.lute.ly nothing. Unless you count the moaning, of course. When sick, I am a world-class moaner. Back when my children were little, it was understood: mothers don’t get sick. They may have triple-digit temperatures, cough like the death scene in La bohème, and pop ibuprofen like M&Ms, but as our neighbors in Virginia said, mamas don’t take to the bed.
This inability to accept adult realities goes a long way toward explaining such phenomena as Cubs fans, ‘lite’ cheesecake, and Republican presidential candidates.
From my easter crime to pulling on Santa’s balls.
There are actually LOTS more reasons not to have kids. As a serial kid-producer, I offer a revised list:
The art of medicine consists in amusing the patient while Nature affects the cure.–Voltaire I have nothing to write about …