Bedtime for Bozos

"COME ON GUYS! Get. Dressed!" I'm increasingly agitated. I can feel the clock heading past 8pm and they are fucking around. I know what J would think if he could see this nonsense. You're riling them up Nad, calm it down. They need to get to bed.

But Loogoo is in only a pull-up and shaking her booty and saying Gord-knows-what over and over. She recently cut her own hair into a mullet, which I've slowly cropped into a po-mo Dorothy Hamill in an attempt to even it out. N-dog is rolling on the floor in his holiday pajamas that should have been packed away after Armenian Christmas. He's holding his sides, missing teeth making him look older, but still quintessentially a kid. Peels of laughter reverberating from both of them, shaking the ground I stand on. And I give in to the moment. I laugh, because, heck, this isn't forever.