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If FEMA wasn’t so busy, I’d have them come take a look at our own disaster area

You may not know this so I’m going to tell you. Seven-year-old boys are… loud, pesky, expensive, filthy. Pick a pesky adjective and I’m certain it’ll fit. If you already have or had a seven-year-old-boy then I’m certain you’ll agree with me.

The one who lives in my house, The Bandit, frequently leaves his father and I speechless. I don’t know why is father is speechless. I highly suspect that he was an equally challenging kid. His mother always has a story about his exploits. I think my very own brother was difficult, but I can’t really remember because when he was seven I was eleven. If you don’t remember, eleven-year-old girls have very little to do with their seven-year-old brothers by design.

My friend who has twin boys who’ve made it to seventeen remembers their seventh year as the “kill, crush, destroy” years. I think that’s pretty apt, don’t you?

The Bandit has chipped a front tooth. “Dude,” I said when I was informed of this, “you’ve only had that thing like a year. Is that how you take care of your stuff?” He did not look at all cowed. He just grinned at me with this chippy toothedness. “You’re going to have those teeth for like ninety more years. I suggest you take better care.”

His father has forbidden him to remove his shoes in the house. Why? Well, really I blame the schools and helicopter parents. Schools and

Inside the shoe you’ll see at least another 1/2 pound of chips

playgrounds now have their entire play areas covered with wood chips in case your little darling should fall down. Apparently, the wood chips are better at cushioning the kids falls. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I do see an increase in splinters. Anyway, every day when The Bandit comes home we get twenty-eight pounds of wood chips in our living room.

I ask you, how in the hell can he walk around all day with this much wood in his shoes? Where does he keep his feet? Wouldn’t you think this would be excruciatingly uncomfortable? Keep in mind that often he doesn’t bother to wear socks. That amps the uncomfortable factor up several more notches, wouldn’t you think?

I don’t know. I don’t understand him at all.

If I ever lose him though, we can just follow the mess trail.

 

 

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