Parents of the year.

I know it’s not normal to find your child’s tantrums entertaining. It may even be a bit cruel. But untitledhusband and I simply could not control ourselves.

The other night, an over-tired untitledson decided that he wanted to take his shirt off himself before hopping into the bathtub. I let him work on it for about 10 minutes (it was a tricky shirt) before I started helping. And oh my god, was THAT ever the wrong thing to do. I would’ve held back, but we were starting to cut into my “Project Runway” and “American Idol” time. And that simply cannot be tolerated, people.

My good intentions sent him tailspinning into a world of fury, body flails and donkey kicks unlike anything I’ve ever seen. He even busted out a move I had never seen him do before (wherein one lies on his side while propelling around in a circle, using only his feet). It seemed fairly reminiscent of Pete Townshend, and had I handed him his red plastic Wiggles guitar, I am convinced he would’ve ripped out a few chords of “Teenage Wasteland.” Oh, and did I mention that he was buck-ass naked at the time? Well, he was. And I’m here to report that his face isn’t the only thing that gets all red and shriveled when he’s mad. I’m thinking it’s a self-defense mechanism. “Retreat, boys. RETREAT!”

untitledhusband broke lose from the tethers of his freelance work long enough to come upstairs to see what all the ruckus was about. Once he appeared, we both started laughing uncontrollably at the site before us. Not wanting to throw a molatav cocktail into this barn burner, we closed ourselves into the bathroom. We commenced to laughing so forcefully, it made no sound at all, aside from a few snorts, gasps, and some involuntary glottal clicks usually only spoken by young Masai warriors.

Once untitledson realized that no one was witnessing his antics, he began battering the door with his little butterball foot. I would’ve let him in, but I was afraid I’d find him chucking crucifixes around like ninja throwing stars or something.

Eventually, I did open the door. But I’ll have you know that he screamed through his bubble bath. He screamed through putting on his jammies. He even screamed through “Olivia,” which he did not deserve to hear. But this seemed like an Olivia moment to me – untitledson throwing a hissy over an article of clothing. I can only imagine how he is going to react when I want to dress him in onesies when he is 16.

untitledeye: Just a good ol’ boy, never meanin’ no harm.

Here in untitledland, we’ve had quite the dumping of snow lately. The other day, untitledhusband was working from home when what does he hear but a high-pitched NEEEEEEEEEE NEEEEEEEEEE NEEEEEEEEEE coming from our normally quiet suburban street. Was his computer fan burning out? Was it a weed eater? A remote-controlled airplane? No. It was our POSTMAN — whippin’ shitties out in the street, just like a 16 year-old boy who’s stole the keys to his dad’s Miata.

Whippin' a Shitty 1

Tire Closeup

Whippin' a Shitty 2

As you can see in these pictures, he had a hard time coaxing his breadbox from house to house. He’d get within a few feet of his target when his rear end would fishtail out of control. Methinks life might easier for these guys if they outfitted the wheels with something other than pencil erasers. Unfortunately, untitledhusband did not get pictures of the other snow-related neighborhood fiasco — the girl next door who was struggling to pull her car into her parents’ driveway. He was too busy drawing all the shades and pretending not to be home. My hero.