This child is not mine

Sometimes, I truly wonder if The Dictator is genetically mine.

I mean, sure, he looks exactly like me...well, a smaller, blonder, penis-carrying version of me, but still...we're pretty damn close.

I see him every day and I feel 100% sure that he's my child.

Most of the time.

Then, there's other times...like tonight, when I walked in the living room and saw this:

Can't tell what he's eating? Here's a bigger picture for you:

DO YOU SEE THOSE? Those horrid, green, foul-smelling farm belongings on my coffee table? Those are snap peas.

Snap peas.

BLEEEEEEEEEEEECH.

And my offspring is eating them. Not sweetened, not cooked, not rolled in powdered sugar and deep fried...raw. He's eating them raw.

Obviously, there was a mix-up in the uterus.

Dear IRS

Dear IRS,

Blow me.

Wishing you a lengthy and painful death,
Shannon H.

I should start saving

The Hormone King is a tattletale. A massive, hyper-sensitive, over-reacting, sissyboy tattletale.

In his defense, The Dictator is the master of all instigators, so it's usually justified. But since I can only hear so much whining and complaining before I pack up my shit and get the hell out of Dodge, the new rule is this:

If I don't see blood or bones, deal with it.

Magnificent parenting, I know.

So tonight, this was overheard in my house as I was ignoring my offspring and tending to Facebook:

HK: Moooooom, Owen just said boobies are awesome!

D: *giggle*

*sigh*

You know what's more expensive than counseling? Bail.

I'm so not cut out for this parenting thing.