No, that's not ketchup or jam around his mouth, on his shirt or smeared across his fists, it's blood. No no no, don't be boo hooing or poor babying him, he's a terrorist. At ten and a half months he has had more split lips than both his older brothers have had in their combined 13 and a half years.
I don't even like baseball, but I love this commercial.
Part two of my surgery texts with my sister, the aftermath:
Sister: I'm alive.
Me: Yay! Thanks for reminding me to call you.
Me: Do you have a peg leg?
Sister: Yes rhet even lent me a parrot til I can afford my own!!!!
Sister: Not rhet they.
Me: Our health care is awesome!
Me: 'Not rhet they?' Are you still doped up?
Sister: I was correcting my spelling mistake... Smart ass.
What made you so cold and heartless... sniff sniff
Me: Whatever, dope head.
Connor: My tummy feels funny.
Supreme Leader: Do you have a tummy ache? What does it feel like?
Connor: It feels like moths mating, or like I ate three grains of rice.
Me: *inside voice* WTF?
Somebody turned six on Sunday. Six? No, SIX!
*I couldn't think of a title so I started up iTunes and took the first line out of the first song that came up.