Gee, not since about 8:45 this morning, around the same time that I last saw my child.
Things we have argued about in the last 48 hours:
- How you spell "pretty"
- Milk: just white pee or reputedly nutritious fluid coming from quite another body part?
- Whether "LEGO" stands for "Let Everything Get Out"
- Whether it's necessary to make sure your "boy bits" are still hanging there by squeezing them every 25 seconds
- That fart song is hilarious: yes or no?
- Daddy is smarter than Mommy: yes or no?
- Nazi? Nasty? Indiana Jones says "Nasty." So Mommy is probably wrong.
- Whether there are two "r"s in "February"--or Febooary, depending on which side you take
At which point, the Baroness Schraeder appears like a silk-swaddled Great Gazoo and purrs:
"Darling, haven't you ever heard of a delightful little thing called boarding school?"
Indeed I have, Baroness, my pet. Indeed I have. Sometimes, at around 9.45pm, when Kid has finally lost his long and vocal battle with sleep, I lie quietly on the couch and chant: Ashbury, Shawnigan, St Andrews College, over and over again, whilst flipping the pages of the dog-eared brochures. That, and the gin fizz, sustains me.