"Jesus, what happened in here?" I shout.
No, not one of my finer moments in parenting, but come on, the living room wall has a giant chip in the paint. A brand-new chip in the paint, that is, to match all the other recent chips in the paint.
I spot my 3-year-old, who's holding a plastic car and looking guilty.
"Dammit, did you hit the wall with that?" I say.
He nods, wide-eyed.
"I don' know!"
Later, I catch him sneaking up to my computer, one hand outstretched to poke the keys.
"Hey!" I say. "Didn't I tell you never to touch Mommy's computer?"
"What did I say?"
"You said for to not for to ever not touch Mommy's picyooter."
"Well, what were you doing then?"
"I don' know!"
Every night my children go insane, running from one end of the house to the other, hooting and banging and making pshew pshew pshew sounds until they collide with my husband, who gamely wrestles them to the floor, at which point they shriek with delight because they live for these wrestling matches, until precisely three minutes later when someone is holding their head and sobbing. The noise and chaos and occasional crying continue unabated until I finally storm into the room and scream, "I HAVE HAD ... ENOUGH OF THIS!" And then everyone looks surprised.
We're walking into Target, and I've prepped the kids ahead of time by reminding them they need to stick near me and not go running off. As soon as I grab a cart, they're gone in a puff of smoke, and I'm trundling after them hissing like a deranged woman.
"Come here. Come here. Here. Here. Here. Here. HERE. HERE. COME HERE. COME HERE. HERE. HERE!"
My 5-year-old sits next to his brother during Curious George and all is peaceful until the shoving starts. "Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. DYLAN WILL YOU STOP TOUCHING ME TOUCHING ME TOUCHING ME."
Both of my children live on air and simple carbohydrates, and last weekend when it was Dylan's birthday, I fed them chocolate cake on at least five different occasions, reasoning that at least I had made the cake myself and I could vouch for the ingredients: eggs, milk, butter. What the hell, it's got to be better than cheese crackers.
"Jesus Christ, Dylan!" I yell, picking mashed banana out of the carpet. "And dammit Riley, why are all your Legos all over the floor again?"
In unison: "I don' know!"
This is all to say, when it comes to parenting, nobody—and I mean NOBODY—has said it better than Bill Cosby. If you have kids and you've never listened to Bill Cosby's Himself, then you need to go, immediately, and buy the album or DVD. Then sit back and laugh yourself sick, because oh my god, PREACH IT, COS.