So we're lounging around the house today, Sophie and I, and by "lounging" I mean that I am laying on the sofa and reading and she is running in a loop, completely bare-ass nekkid through the kitchen, the living room and the hallway, shrieking at the top of her lungs "I pee on floor! I pee on couch! I pee in pants!" (none of which she has actually done), while the dog chases after her, absolutely manic from feeding on her insane energy.
Welcome to our post-bath household.
Bonus bare-ass nekkid info: I stopped taking baths with her when she started referring to my junk as a "hot dog." I figured that was probably a good time to just let the past go, man. On the hot dog front, however, today while we were at home I was wearing this flannel jammy pants thing that had a small hole torn about two inches down from my inseam. Not a big deal until I squatted down to pick up her socks off the floor and ripped the hole to about the size of a kiwi fruit. I cursed the goddamn jammies under my breath and promptly forgot about the entire thing until about an hour later, when we were both laying on opposite ends of the couch.
Sophie looked over at me and said, "Daddy?"
"Yes, honey?"
"I can see your hot dog butt."
"What?"
Oh. Testicles. She can see my testicles.
Aren't you glad to be reading this blog?
