I was all geared up (that sounds like a Sarah Palin verb) to write something super cynical about the super-smelly-fart-dog (I changed his name) who loves my boobs. I was going to say that I was no longer milk drunk, and that if he wanted an oral fixation, he should just take up cigarettes like a normal toddler and leave my boobs out of it.
I was going to tell you how he changed my name to boobies last night. Him: Hello, Boobies. Me: That's not my name. Him: I changed it. (Then I changed his name to the aforementioned super-smelly-fart-dog... maybe I should spell it dawg). I was going to tell you how I tried to get my shirt back on this morning, and he screamed, "I miss my best friend. I miss my best friend [the boob]" over and over until I was forced to wake up at the crack of 8:30 AM (who gets up that early.... not me). I was going to tell you how after three years of being the nicest sweetest boy in the world, he ruined it all this morning when he spilled sugar on the floor, painted the patio door with the juice of a summer sausage, and peed on my bedroom floor.
But, alas, I cannot tell you any of that because he helped me make chili, and taking lots of deep inhales, he told me how delicious it would be. Then, he crawled into my arms and fell asleep before it was even ready. And maybe when Super-Smelly-Fart-Dog fell asleep it seemed all the sweeter because when I went to check on my other little tow heads who were listening to Harry Potter on CD, I found that one of them had drifted to sleep too.
Sleeping babies kill my inner cynic (as well as did a boy who asked his girlfriend to prom with a little limerick at the poetry slam on Friday night, and my face leaked one totally embarrassed, non-cynical tear, it was so damn sweet). However, if they wake up which they will eventually do, it will be back. Don't you worry.