Sometimes I wonder how my children manage to survive under my watch.
Take today, for example.
My son ate a plate of (wet) cat food as I sipped a DDP and munched on my toast -- blissfully ignorant to the horror that was taking place three feet from my feet.
My two-year-old daughter was the one to make the discovery, and seeing that her mother was incapable, took matters into her own hands by grabbing her brother by the feet and dragging his flailing body away from the poison before him.
When I finally jumped in to scoop the foul atrocity from his mouth, he stared into my eyes with a look that could not be described as anything less than unadulterated betrayal.
It only got worse from there.
Not an hour later, I discovered the same boy sucking on a thumb tack.
A THUMB TACK.
The best part is, I tickled him for about five minutes before catching a glimpse of that menacing shade of neon pink.
Until that point, I was certain he was munching on a fishy cracker.
While I was busy breathing through the hysteria that threatened to consume me -- my son scooted into the cupboard, shut the door and pulled a broom on top of himself.
Hiding from his mother, no doubt.
Can't say I blame him.
I think Lola put it best when she looked me in the eye at that very moment and said, *"Mommy, you stink."
Days like today cause me to wonder how I managed to slip past the licensing portion of parenthood unnoticed.
Because I'm fairly certain I'm owning and operating my children illegally.
*In all fairness, I HAD just finished my workout. Let's just pretend she was referring to my general musk.