Signs My Wife Made

Sometimes when our matriarch grows weary of repeating herself, she makes a sign. That way, it’s impossible for us to misunderstand her intentions. Here are some of my favorites. Feel free to use them on your own husband, wife, lover, partner, child, dog, ferret, etc. #1 Despite many friendly requests for me to stop, I continue to use the wrong milk on my cereal. You see, sometimes we have multiple cartons in the refrigerator, and occasionally I ignore the one that’s

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Moving: It’s All About The Cats

I don’t remember the exact order, but I seem to recall that “moving” is right next to “spontaneous combustion of one’s hair” on the list of life’s most stressful events. At least when your hair is engulfed in flames, there’s a quick and easy fix, and even if you can’t find a bucket of water, heavy blanket, or construction helmet in time, the panic subsides rapidly, leaving you with no other choice but to wait until it grows back. It’s

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The Wrong Rock

Saturday morning was crisp. The skies were blue and the sun had already dried the dew from the grass where Arlo and I sat to watch Silas’ T-ball game. On our walk from the car to the field, Arlo had collected two small rocks, which, in case you didn’t know, are religious artifacts to three year-old boys. They’re worshipped, clutched and squeezed like a rosary in the hand of a dying Saint. But the toddler is also easily distracted by

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46 Reasons My Three Year Old Might be Freaking Out

Some of these are total guesses. Educated guesses, but guesses nonetheless. Seems like it’s hard being a kid. His sock is on wrong. His lip tastes salty. His shirt has a tag on it. The car seat is weird. He’s hungry, but can’t remember the word “hungry.” Someone touched his knee. He’s not allowed in the oven. I picked out the wrong pants. His brother looked at him. His brother didn’t look at him. His hair is heavy. We don’t

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BEWARE OF GLASS

Holy shit, DO NOT break a glass in my house. You’d get less of a reaction from my wife if you set yourself on fire. Yesterday, I dropped a small ceramic ramekin (I am not ashamed of knowing what a ramekin is) which broke into a few pieces on the kitchen counter. Lindsay dashed into the room as if she’d heard  a pregnant woman was trying to move a chair, or my father was poised to drop an orange peel into the garbage disposal. It’s

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