After two solid hours of playful yelling, door slamming, towel slapping, pillow fighting, bathroom wrestling, screeching, threats, argumentative debates and god-knows-what-else, Mr. Ashley walked into the house and declared it unacceptable within minutes of arriving.
I laughed. "This is my life. My. Whole. Life. I've been listening to it for hours now, I've tried to stop it several times, this is just how they are. These are our children. Welcome home."
Big Kid was indignant about this truth (that I didn't even mean insultingly). "You know, all people ever do is complain about kids, and then they wonder why I'm not going to have kids. I'm not. I won't. It seems to be a miserable situation."
He really does insist he's not having kids. I've told him I don't care either way, and I don't because it affords more time to care for me in my old age. Besides, little kid will probably have a clown car full of kids.
I rolled my eyes and sighed. "You are the joy of my life, my reason for being, the only motivation I have to continue to breathe some days, you are the beat of my heart, the only meaning in my universe. Doesn't mean you're not annoying as all get out sometimes."
He continued without pause, in a mocking tone. "Oh, why aren't you having kids, ask the same people who hate kids."
"Bro. You're being ridiculous. For real. You HAVE to have kids." little kid interrupted.
"No. Really. I don't. Apparently they're terrible people."
(He's 13. There's no middle ground at 13, in case you've forgotten.)
"No, listen. If you don't have kids, you have to do all the chores yourself. It's free slave labor, bro. Who would unload the dishwasher if she didn't have kids?"
He's right. I should have actually had more kids.