I'm proud to be a Dad. I have to repeat this phrase to myself as I wipe dirty butts, puncture the soles of both of my feet on rubber dinosaurs, and fetch water in yet another attempt to quench the Mojave Desert that sprung up in my son's parched throat.
Bedtime seems to bring all sorts of previously unknown necessities to the surface. Seriously, who needs to go potty 3 times in an hour? Besides the flash-flooded Mojave Desert, of course. Thank goodness for diapers! Double-edged sword, that one.
The giggles and laughter wafting down the hallway tells me it may not have been a good idea to bunk the girls together. I just checked in on their passed-out bodies, and they are both sleeping ON THE FLOOR. I'm not surprised, in fact I'm elated if they are ever found in their beds at all.
Budgie Boy was sound asleep and thoroughly enjoying the return of The Blankie after a harrowing separation in the laundry room. That kid!
I find myself telling stories about my kids to people at work, and the ones who are parents knowingly nod and tell their own stories. I must sound like a dork to the heirless, but I don't really care.