I’ve spent an increased amount of time with Lucy(fer) and Damien since my bro-in-law had his heart attack a month ago. Sure there are some good times, and then there are the times I’ve wanted to cover their screaming little faces with a pillow and press down until the crying stops. I’ve resisted.
In the time I’ve spent with them, I’ve come to realize what the worst thing is. It’s not the 20 minute tantrums over the dog’s age. Nor is it the screaming when someone’s stupid little farm on their iPod touch has more diamonds than the other. It’s not waking up at ungodly hours, or dealing with fits when it’s time for bed at night time. It’s not even doing mass loads of laundry or cleaning up after them. For awhile I thought the worst possible thing was having to change the sheets on a bunk bed. That shit sucks. Of all it sucks.
On our trip to the Vineyard, I’ve finally discovered the worst part of watching children: wiping a 4 year old’s ass with single ply toilet paper.