Like Animal House without the togas

I was at the mailbox when the informer discovered I was home.  

Sassy burst out the door and, from the front porch, yelled, “I’m not even going to tell you what Bandit is eating in the family room.  And. He’s. Naked.”

I know you think Sassy doesn’t really talk like that, but she does.  She’s very dramatic and she really works the emphasis.  And italics.  And exclamation points.  You can almost see all those things floating above her head in bubbles while she’s talking.

I looked around to see if the entire neighborhood heard her.  There was one pedestrian who tried not to make eye contact with me, but I can see his shoulders shaking so I know he was laughing.

“Get in the house,” I told her.  I grabbed the mail and stomped up the walkway.  Sassy continued to blab away, tattling on her brother with vigor that would suit a district attorney nabbing a mob boss.  I tried to ignore her, but she was ruthless.  She managed to stay in front of me the entire way, walking backwards and clicking off her brother’s sins on her fingers.

I feinted to the left and, when she fell for it, I dodged to the right and sidled past her in the front door.  I dropped my

I fear this could be The Bandit in 20 years

 purse, the mail, my keys, sunglasses and kindle on the kitchen table and strolled over to the door way to the family room.  Sure enough, there he was: stark naked, face, chest and hands covered in chocolate, melting Easter bunny grasped in his grubby paw.  But here was the best part.  Hold on to your hat.  He was astride a rocking horse, bouncing away and watching cartoons.  Clothes littered the floor.

I have no idea when our house turned into a locker room, but it has.  There are always clothes everywhere.

And don’t think The Bandit has this concept cornered.

Sassy got the slightest sunburn on Monday at her grandmother’s pool.  We’re talking the palest burn ever.  There was no discoloration of her skin to speak of, but the way she moaned about it, you’d think her skin was falling off.  Anyway, she walked around the house with no shirt on for two days. 

If I could have an eclair for every time I hollered at one of my children, “For the love of God, put some clothes on!” I’d be five hundred pounds.

Why can’t my children wear clothes?  At what age does my eight year old daughter’s modesty kick in?  Will my little boy ever stop flashing his willy to the world?

Please call before you come over unless you want a shocking surprise.  I’ll need at least ten minutes to get the heathens dressed and clean up the frat house.