Mad Scientists

What in the name of Holy God runs through the minds of 4-year-old boys?
This is the eternal question.  This is what Mother Theresa pondered.  This is what all those cute little monk dudes in their cute little orange jumpsuit outfits must sit around and meditate about all day long every single day of their lives.  And I’ll tell you why.  Because there is no answer!  It’s like the age-old why-did-the-chicken-cross-the-road question.  Except it’s the what-in-the-holy-reign-of-ass-clowndom-were-they-EVEN-thinking question.  That question.
So here’s the thing.  I think I must be a little more chill than Jason when it comes to our evening down time.  I put the boys up in their room, and I fully expect/believe/hope/PRAY that all is right with the world and they will stay there and do what they are supposed to do.  Which is hang out in their little beds, watch their little cartoons for 45 minutes, then lay their sweet, innocent little heads on their little pillows and go the HELL to sleep.  Sleep tight, pumpkins, Mommy’s cranking open the Mike’s Hard Lemonade.  (Cue lullaby music.)
Situation totally under control, right?  Wrong…to the tenth degree.  So when Jason walked in the door, and I was chilling in the ginormous oversized chair watching the stunning and riveting finale of Biggest Loser with Marissa—the child who obviously GETS me and who was very quietly sitting by my side CHILLING with me—the boys were very quiet.  They were upstairs, and I assumed they were doing exactly what I put them upstairs to do.  All was calm.  All was bright.  And I was watching Trainer Bob kick some royal butt on the last workout.  Groovy.
And then Jason had to ruin it all by going upstairs.  He just HAD to “check” on things.  He just HAD to know that things were ok, couldn’t take my word for it.  Nope.  And damn if his intuition wasn’t right.  Crap.
So Mr. Responsible Dad-Man goes upstairs, and the next thing I know, there is some sort of while rumpus, which interrupted the finale and caused me to have to put on hold finding out who lost the most weight in a ridiculously short time frame.  Sigh.  Crap, there went my inspiration.  Now I’m probably going to eat the cookie dough that’s been staring at me from the refrigerator for two days.
I made the mistake of yelling up the stairs to find out the source of Jason’s frustration.  Big mistake.
“Well, the little demon-hell-monsters (he didn’t say that, but I know he was thinking it) have taken all their clothes out of the closet and off the hangers again, and now I’m hanging them up.”
I tried telling him I would do it later.  I just really, really wanted to watch the damn newly skinny people get on the big shiny scale to see who got all the money for not eating the cheesecake for 7 months.  Sheesh, is that too much to ask?
Silence.  Then another terrible rumpus.  Did I dare ask again?
Oh yes, I dared.  (Not smart, I know.)
“Now what?”
“Ohhh, well funny you should ask.  Would you like to know what’s in this tub?”  He came downstairs carrying a plastic tub filled with a foul-looking liquid.
Ummmm, not really.  I really want to watch the end of the show, but I don’t think that’s going to happen.  “Sure, Honey, tell me what’s in the tub.”
“Well the little cretin-Satan-devil-shits (again, he didn’t say this, but I could tell from his tone that he really wanted to say it) decided to sneak into their sister’s room and get an entire box of Nerds candy, dump it into the tub, then fill the tub with water.”
His tone also said, “Um, dumbass, where have you been all this time?”  But he was smart enough not to vocalize that.  Clearly, I had very important household issues to take care of.

Spoiler Alert:  John won the Biggest Loser.  I was cheering for him all season long

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