Call me a sensitive softy.

And he then proceeded to tell me stories about *parts* of his family that made me rethink my whole *sensitive* side.

So here goes, Dad.

My dad has 3 brothers. And he is the youngest. Some might argue that that would make him the favorite. Instead I would say he’s lucky he got out alive. And somewhat normal (whatever that means).

His oldest brother is named Darrell.

And Darrell is what you might call…hmm….what’s the word…………..um…………..interesting.

You know how when you’re joking with someone and he/she might say something strange or act bizarre and you ask if he/she was dropped on his/her head when he/she was a baby? And you’re serious but he/she laughs and thinks you’re joking?

But you’re not?

Well, my uncle Darrell thinks you’re talking about blue pancakes.

Like. For serious.

I imagine the conversation my grandparents had with the doctor when he was younger. They take him to see a specialist because he’s “different” and the doctor sits them down in his office and points to the x-ray and says, “You see this black space where the other half of his brain should be?” and they’re all, “OHHHHH. Well, that explains a lot.”

Yeah. That’s Darrell.

And I only tell you this because I feel it’s important that you know where I come from. You know, for those days you don’t quite “get” where I’m coming from. Yes. I’m looking for someone to blame.

So I totally blame Uncle Darrell.

In fact, when I was growing up my step mom would tease us and say, “Well at least I don’t have DGs (Darrell’s Genes). I would be so offended and horrified that I would start crying. Because there was no denying it. I’ve totally got the DGs.

A few years ago my Uncle Darrell was in a car accident. And crazily enough, it wasn’t his fault. He was hurt and received a somewhat large settlement. And because he is “interesting” my family was afraid for him to have access to that kind of money, so they asked my dad to be in charge of it.

Lucky him.

Uncle Darrell has lived with my grandparents for most of his life. Except for those times he’d meet a woman at the bowling alley and marry her after only knowing her for 30 minutes (I think he’s been married 7 times). During his *marriages* he’d move in with the lucky gal, giving my grandparents a much needed mini vacation. And then just as soon as they would get used to Life Without Darrell, he’d find his way on their doorstep again, claiming the woman was a nutjob. My grandparents would sigh heavily and unbolt the door.

It’s not like Uncle Darrell is retarded or anything. No. That would be an insult to retarded people. He’s just bizarrely unaware of reality beyond preschool. I mean, the man still eats crayons. But only the brown ones. And I *may* or *may not* be exaggerating. But dammit, everything tastes better with Tabasco.

So. After the car accident/settlement he was given a monthly allowance. And was told that any money given after that would be on an “emergency” basis. Needless to say there have been a lot of “emergencies.” Emergency bowling ball. Emergency overalls. Emergency pen that writes upside down. Once, he called my dad and when he answered, yelled out, “I need to get to my money!” Dad, taken aback asked, “What’s wrong? What do you need money for?” And Uncle Darrell said, “I need hair transplants!!!” My dad, trying not to laugh, said, “Darrell, you can’t have your money unless it’s an emergency.” To which Darrell replied, “THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!! I’M LOSING MY HAIR!!!” And so that is how the first ever “Emergency Hair Transplant” legislation hit the senate floor.

You should all thank Uncle Darrell.

I am progressive that way.

But sometimes, I feel a little guilty for not being that traditional kind of mom. But not guilty enough to change. That’s my tragedy. Or the part that makes me a genius.

So, because sometimes the guilt gets the better of me, this afternoon I laid out chicken breasts, broccolini, and stuff to make a salad. Very June Cleaverish if I do say so myself.

But then Tommy had a few errands to run and took the kids with him. Minutes later, he called to say he had accidentally driven by a McDonald’s and that the kids wanted that for dinner. Did I mind?

Did I mind?

Um….was this a trick question?

I ran to the kitchen, threw all the stupid healthy home cooked ingredients back in the fridge and said, “Heck yeah that’s fine! I’ll take a filet-o-fish.”

Because really? Nothing says American Family like Mickey D’s.

Fifteen minutes later, in walked the members of said American Family with bags of yummy smelling food—which included but was not limited to french fries and chocolate shakes.

And it was goooooood.

Note to self: Tomorrow when you’re standing in front of the mirror in your birthday suit weeping about your current physique, remember this moment. The moment where you looked at that fish sandwich in all its tartar saucy squareness and said, “Come to Mama.” And then proceeded to inhale it. Remember this.

So after the high of the french fries wore off, I went to the bathroom to wash off the day. Ethan knocked on the door a minute later, announcing he had to go potty. I opened the door to find him standing there, scratching his penis with his chicken nugget. I *wish* I could make this shit up.

My first thought was Holy Shit, This Is Awesome Gross.

And then I tweeted it (Because that’s what really disturbed people do—don’t judge me)

And then? I let him eat it.

So it turns out I’m not *that* mom, but THAT mom.

But don’t forget that I totally get credit for my original plan to cook dinner–pre McDonald’s. So… basically, it’s a wash, right?

Right?

Hey! I’m also at Aiming Low today. Click here to read about how Hanna Montana tried to kill me.

Anyway, I went over all the important steps. The gas is on the right. Check. Brake on the left. Check. R means reverse. Check. D means drive. Check. N means Not Going Anywhere But If You’re On A Hill You Will Roll Down It. Check.

I fastened my seat beat and said, “All right. Here we go.”

Harley buckled herself in tight to her car seat and we were off.

Hey. Whatdoyaknow. I could still do it.

And I was happy.

I noticed Harley was quietly staring out the window so I turned down the radio and asked, “So, anything you want to talk about?”

The sound of my voice must have broken the spell she was under because she answered, “Yes. I have a question.”

I smiled. “Great! What is it?”

“Do you shave your legs anymore?”

OK. Not exactly a question I was expecting, but whatever. “Yes. I still shave my legs.” Instinctively I reached down and felt the stubble on my right calf. It’s been at *least* a week since I’d shaved.

I looked at her through the rearview mirror. She seemed to be puzzled by my answer. “Why do you ask?”

“Well. Gran says she doesn’t have to shave anymore. That when you’re older the hair stops growing.”

What the hell?

Gasping. Gasping. Gasping.

I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. “Harley. Gran is in her 60′s. She’s *a lot* older than me. I’ve GOT hairy legs. I can STILL grow hair. In fact I can grow hair like nobody’s business. You wanna feel? Feel my legs. They’re super hairy. Go on. FEEL MY LEGS!”

I *may* have overreacted just a smidge.

I went on.

“AND…I’m not OLD. I’m in my 30′s and…”

Before I could say anymore she chimed in with, “BUT YOU’RE ALMOST 40. IN LIKE 4 MONTHS AND 10 DAYS YOU’LL BE 40.”

“Wait. Are you counting down to my birthday, Harley?”

She made a face. It was the face that says You Are The Dumbest Person I’ve Ever Met. “Duh, Mommy. I’m marking off the days on my calendar.”

“But why?”

God. How long does it take to drive to her fucking school? Can’t we BE THERE YET?

“Because my birthday is right after yours. And I’m gonna be 8. You know what that means don’t you?”

Wait. So this is not really about me after all? I find this a little disappointing.

“No. What does it mean?”

“It means I get to have a birthday party sleepover. Remember? You promised.”

I was now bored with this conversation. I liked it a lot better when we were talking about me being old and turning 40 and not being able to grow hair on my legs anymore.

We pulled up next to the school then.

“Yeah. Whatever,” I said, totally deflated.

“Awesome! See you later Mommy. Glad you remembered how to drive.” She got out of the car, slammed the door shut and waved as she rolled her backpack down the sidewalk.

Kids. They’re so self involved. It’s always Me, Me, Me.

I wonder where she gets it from. Oh yeah. Tommy.

Hey: Also, check me out over at AimingLow today. There’s a new story posted.