Or, if you are me. You come home to shrimp all over the floor (yes. Shrimp.) Spilled Sugar. A bowl of butter on the floor with a spoon in it. A jar of garlic in the living room. And bright red drops of kool aide on your white carpet.
All. The. Way. Down. The. Hall.
Obviously, something horrible has happened, so you call out hesitantly to your husband and son. "Colton??? Matai???"
You see your two year old come running out of your room, in his pajamas, with his hands full of cheese nips. He happily says "MA!!" drops his crackers, and reaches for you.
You take his hand and say "where is your dad?" And he leads you to an equally horrific mess in your bedroom.
He points to the bed, says "dad" proudly, and then says "EAT??" to you.
And right before you murder your husband, you feel his head, realize he has a fever, and the flu, ask him quietly "honey, where is Tai?" and he responds:
"He is right next to me in bed. He has been laying with me all day while I was sick. You probably should feed him."
And you don't tell him about the horrific mess outside. Instead, you give him some medicine, pour him some sprite, and take that little boy by the hand to feed him dinner. The whole time thinking, what an ordinary life I have. :)
(And then maybe you scold your husband for not CALLING you when he could no longer walk straight.)
And sometimes. After you have tucked that man child in bed. And tucked the baby in bed (4 times before he actually stays) you stay up till 2 am chatting with your girlfriends about horrible high school boyfriends and eating egg rolls.
I am blessed to have a family, good friends, and shrimp in the fridge. :)
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