My Two (Favorite) Dads

Well, two of my favorite dads at least.

This past Saturday night we had a little impromptu gathering at the house. It was potluck-style and there was wine. Lots of wine. I mean, some things don’t change no matter how much older you are, or how many kids you pop out. Plus, I love telling almost three-year-olds that I’m drinking “grown-up juice.” It makes both of us feel better about the situation.

I had been thinking I could probably save these pictures for Father’s Day but by then both of these boys will be like twice as big and three times as loud. So I couldn’t wait.

And by boys I mean the babies. Or do I??

Not technically a dad (look down, not up) – but still really, really cute:

And no, don’t say it. Don’t even think it either. No.

On another note, I can’t figure out why kids talking and playing with each other entertains us so much, but it does. And it did. The adults were all like “Hug each other! Give Scott a kiss! Play with the toy together! Put your arms around one another…”

And the whole time Isaac was like “I like this baby and all but I’m trying to get back in that crate over there*.” And Scott was like “Brainsssssssssss brainsssssssss let me eat your face!!”

Did you not know babies are like mini-zombies?

*Issac spent most of the evening sitting in Wash’s crate house and we have zero understanding as to why. I technically have pictures of it, but it kind of reminds me of a photo that would be in US Weekly of Angelina Jolie raising a hand to one of her 4,324 kids with the headline “Angie Gone Crazy! Hits Child!” in that it doesn’t tell the whole story. As in, I bet that kid was being a spoiled little shit and I don’t blame Angie for getting mad. I bet she wasn’t even about to hit anyone – she was probably just reaching in her pocket awkwardly for some cash to throw up in the air.

Isaac just really loved being locked in the dog crate.

But eventually Scott grew tired, as children with 84% of their body weight resting on their shoulders do… and decided to check out. I chastised him. Called him a sissy for quitting the party so early, but he didn’t care.

But you know what happens when you’re the first to fall asleep at a raging party, right??

You get messed with. Sorry, dude, those are the rules.

I don’t want to call him out or anything but he totally peed himself too. Some people just can’t hold their milk.

As I write this I’m thinking about how I get to see them all tomorrow night – again! I’m super excited, but I also have this nagging feeling Scott is going to try and “ice” me for talking all that smack.

I’ll be ready for him either way…

Mom, I know you are probably confused right now so here you go:

Icing, or getting iced “is a frat star drinking game. The rules are simple: If a person sees a Smirnoff Ice, he or she must get down on one knee and chug it, unless they happen to be carrying their own Smirnoff, in which case they can “ice block,” or refract the punishment back onto the attacker. In order to dupe people into stumbling across the beverage, participants have devised creative ways of presenting them with Ices, like strapping the bottles to the backs of dogs or burying them in vats of protein powder.”

I think the take-away here is that frat boys are often-time complete idiots.

See you soon, little buddies! If you don’t recognize me, I’ll be the one holding the grown-up juice!

Love, Aunt B -or for one short time, “Mimi”


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