Family Pictures

and I need a drink.

Whew.

Once a year folks
we do it

Once.
A.
Year.

And now the morning after I am ever grateful I have a full 364 more days to recover.

Please.
Puh-leeese
someone tell me I'm not alone.

The washing
The combing
The wiping of faces
The re-washing of hair while the shower sprays me with water because he couldn't manage to get all the shampoo out.
The stealing away of 5 minutes to get myself ready (heaven forbid)

and then promptly being told halfway through that I look like Minnie Mouse.
Ahem.


And then there's this contraption:

of which I do not often operate.

Cuz ya know
that's what a few minutes in the dryer is for...
to prevent the need for actual ironing.
{Can I get a witness.}

The folding

The organizing.
The matching.
The smiling in the photographs when you really want to reach over and ask him if he would kindly stop acting like a total dork and just smile. 


The
keeping
of
all
7
of
them
clean
at.
the.
same.
time. 

After much thought and no research I have decided this:

Boys.
Don't.
Care.

They are not like us.
They couldn't care less if there was never a graven image of them on this earth.
They don't care that yesterday's breakfast is still on their face.
They don't care that their hair is so, so slimy they look like they belong as an extra on Grease.
The fact that I assure them their great-great grandchildren will one day want to know what they looked like means nothing to them.
Socks don't match?
Not a problem.
Toe nails long enough to warrant their own zipcode?
Super. 
They. Just. Don't. Care.

Ok. 
Well, mine don't care. 
Ya'll could all have normal children for all I know.

But alas, we survived.
And then we went out for ice cream.

And took up nearly the entire place.

364 more days people.

3
6
4.