Pronounce furniture like “furt-ture” and treasure like “tray-zur” and Brighton like “Breye-un.” I know your ancestors trekked across the plains and settled this land, but last I checked “Mormon General Authority” was not a sub-set of the English language.
Accuse me of passing along my hiccup gene to the baby. YOU CANNOT INHERIT THE HICCUPS.
Ask me if I have pooped today. It doesn’t matter! I pooped once last week.
Walk in the door after a playdate with your Goddess of Love, Emily, and give me a look that says, “You are not HER, and YOU’LL NEVER BE HER.” And then sulk into the basement for the rest of the day. I’ve got news for you, little buddy: I PAY YOUR BILLS.
Threaten to adorn yourself with a titanium codpiece, thus rendering me defenseless against any of your potential atrocities including but not limited to a tickle attack or farting on my foot.
Hide my keys in your toy box leaving me PANICKED for hours and hours and when I finally find them there amidst your half-gnawed books and bunnies who are missing their ears I notice that you have eaten my Albertson’s Preferred Savings Card. How are we going to shop now, huh? HOW ARE WE GOING [...]
Lick up the toothpaste I accidentally spill on the floor and then throw it up, thus causing the whole house to smell like cavity-protected, minty fresh dog puke.
Press your wet nose against my right leg THE ENTIRE TIME I AM BLOWING MY HAIR DRY, with an expression that says, “Are you gonna feed me? Are you gonna feed me? Are you gonna feed me?” P.S. STOP LICKING THE COUCH.
You know that scre-hee-heeeee-heeee-ming thing you do when I leave the room? Yeah? WELL, STOP IT.
Do something that annoys me, and then say, “I’ve been waiting to see that face all week long.” I’ll give you this face EVERY DAY, MOTHERFUCKER, as long as you continue to make noise when the baby is asleep.