Well that's what I get for making fun of someones muffin top. Karma strikes.
If I give you this background information then everything will make more sense. Victoria HATES jeans, or any sort of pant with a waistband. Proceed.
Since Richie left to go out of town dinners have been a little crazy. We had nothing in the house when he left. I'd rather drive pencils into my eardrums then take them both to the store alone. Tonight was supposed to be me taking the kids to McDonald's. We were going to go to one with a play place. I even got online and found a McDonald's with a play place, and had the directions memorized. I was going to kill two birds with one stone: wear their butts out and feed them food that I wouldn't feed my dog.
Well, then Victoria stepped in dog poop. Outside you say? No. In our spare bedroom. I'll kill the dog later. Then I roll up her pant legs and stand her in the tub to wash her feet. With two slippery feet she windmills, falls on her butt, and soaks her pants. Not just her pants, the last clean pair of stretch pants. *gasp* Now there are only jeans left. *gasp again* Wailing, screaming, and general anarchy ensues. I then break the news to Tristan that although he was so good, McDonald's and the play place is out. It's too late. We have to pick dad up in an hour, it just won't work. Wailing, screaming, and general anarchy ensues. I finally pin Victoria down and put a pair of jeans on her. On the way out of her bedroom Tristan pulls too hard on the door knob, it comes off and falls on a china doll that I've had since I was a kid, and shatters its head. I hold back tears and try to sneak out of her room with what's left of the doll without her seeing. She sees. Wailing, screaming, and general anarchy ensues.
Now we're sitting here eating dinner rolls and dried cherries. We're all starving. Richie will be so happy to see us with tear streaked cheeks and in hypoglycemic shock.
I'll never make fun of someones muffin top again.