Toe the line

Dude can officially insert his foot into his mouth. Lord help us. I do it on a daily basis, so if he's inherited my gene for verbal diarrhea, he'd better learn to fight early. And dirty.

We're out on the East Coast visiting my famdamily. Yesterday was about a thousand degrees with a hundred and fifty percent humidity.

My stepmother had the dude in the kitchen while I was putting Perp down for the night. My brothers are brewing up a pretty tasty batch of beer (right now. This minute! And! we can't get into the kitchen to make our fucking dinner. We may have to sacrifice the baby to the cause.) and SM took dude out to investigate. First she handed him over to Bro#1, who isn't entirely sure about this method of (over)populating the planet. Babies, they unnerve him a bit. So dude was equally unnerved and looked over at SM like she'd just handed him to someone fresh out of the sewer. Bro#1 finally got the dude arranged properly and they both settled down and looked a little less like they were dancing naked in a snake pit

Then she handed my poor wee boy to Bro#2, who was sweating like a pig (why? pigs don't sweat.). Dude looked at her like, "Yes, I poop in my clothes but I have no choice. This? this you could have prevented."

Since we have yet to eat dinner (9 pm EDT), SM and I are merrily making our way through the remains of the vodka. Drinking this devotedly requires one sit down and enjoy the stupor. The dude, however, is an action junkie and doesn't like it when you sit still. Stand up, for fuck's sake, and bounce me! So it's been a merry game of musical couches, with SM taking a break to slup a glorious mess of peach nectar and vodka, then up and off again to pacify the little fucker dear tot. And the look! He shoots me a look when he wins. And he does win. 'Cause he plays dirty.

That's my boy.