In the morning, I heard a thunk as I got into my car. I looked over to see that a young boy in the space next to mine had slammed his car door into the side panel of my car. I sat there, mouth agape, waiting for the mother in the front seat to acknowledge what her offspring had done. When she didn’t respond to what had happened, I thought that maybe he was unaware of what had happened. But seeing as her door was still touching my car when she turned around, I realized that she was simply ignoring the situation
I backed out of my space enough to inspect the damage, while the mom continued to get her kids out of her car. There was a little nick in the paint on my car door where it had been hit, but seeing as it was near a dented fender, the result of a rare bad parking job by yours truly, and adjacent to the place where my car was keyed in the middle of the night by some unknown assailant—and because the caffeine had not yet kicked in—I decided to quietly let this one go.
In the evening, I arrived home to witness my exasperated wife struggling to get the stubborn Sprout to clean up her toys. I told her I’d take over and patted her on the shoulder, tapping in like it was Wrestlemania. She left to do whatever it is that she does with her free time and I was left to perform the bathing ritual. Approximately 3 minutes later, both kids had completely broken down and were screaming, crying and demanding their mother. The hysterics continued while I tried to get them to brush their teeth, bathe and get into their pajamas. By the end of the ordeal, both kids were yelling at me not to talk to them. The Bean had disinvited me to his birthday party and both kids refused to give me a hug or a kiss. Neither would say “goodnight” to me. They were so upset with me, WonderWife™ was forced to return to the scene in order to get them to bed.