I was thinking today about my luck and how I actually have terrible luck. My first instinct is to blame my husband, because, well, that just seems like the obvious choice. But then I realized my luck is terrible because I have little kids. Little kids immediately quadruple your chances of getting any kind of stomach bug (I’ve had it twice in the last month; it’s summer btw), double your chances of getting fat (the only thing that can ease the pain of a day full of high pitched squealing and fighting is an enormous bowl of ice cream; it’s been scientifically proven), and they most certainly ensure that you will never get to do anything really and truly fun ever again. I might just be bitter after a night of soccer camps where two kids suddenly had a bout of diarrhea that sent me scrambling but still ended up throwing underwear away.
I was talking with my sister and we were discussing what we used to be like when we were kidless and still had personalities. Ahh… the good old days of personalities. I think I used to be sort of patient too, maybe even kind? I can’t be sure since it has been so long. Now I’m just sort of an angry lunatic now.