I have a very expensive, very heavy, paper weight sitting in my driveway.

The father figure's car isn't working. Again. With the same problem that we spent a absurd amount of money fixing in the summer. I am not happy. I hate his car, for partially rational reasons. It's a Trans Am that his father gave him, I think with visions of them fixing it up. Instead, we have had others fix it. Repeatedly. If a boat is a hole that you pour money into, then this car is a boat with four tires.

To add insult to injury, the car only holds four people. It's an absurd vehicle for a family of seven to have. I have suggested, often, purchasing a new car. We both agree it should be done, sooner rather than later. Where the minds diverge is what to do for the father figure's transportation. I think he should inherit my van. He thinks he should have a sport car. However, in recent weeks, he's also discovered that sitting at home with more children than can fit in your car isn't very awesome. So, who knows what the future holds.

it ain't like this

So I must go pick him up from work. Sometime tonight. Yes, it is late, but he's paid by the hour and Christmas is coming. As is either an ugly car repair bill or a new car. So work away my good man. And I will continue to hold down the fort here. Which involves being the mother who says "No you can't wash your hands." X-Man is obsessed with washing his hands. Mostly he's obsessed with water. So I am holding out hand washing as a reward for using the potty.

It took two hours for this approach to backfire on me. X-Man decided to announced the existence of a dirty diaper by shoving his hands in it, pulling them out and coming to me saying "Mom. Yucky. Wash." He wins. Again. And I am reduced to publicly admitting that I am being out foxed by a two year old.

still farther ahead than we are