Kids.

So at dinner, the littlest kid is playing with his cars quietly, lining them up as if they are in a parking lot. His mother lets us know that this is how you know he is deficating.

Flash to this morning. I'm trying my best to not act like a total crank, sitting in a morning fog, no coffee to galvanize me against the chaos of bouncing, donut-filled chaos. And I hear a distinctive grunting, look over, and yep, he's lining up the cars as the morning is filled with a foul odor.

Reason number something-in-the-thousands why I will never be a mom:

I will never, ever get used to eating dinner while one of my guests takes a crap in the seat across from me.

Everything in my lovely vegan home has been touched with greasy chicken hands.

Or hands that spend the majority of their time holding their wangs through their pants (why?) or scratching their backsides with an enthusiasm rarely seen.

I'm trying to get the kid thing. I really am. It's hard to be a germaphobe and share your home with children, even really sweet ones. And they are. I melt when they speak in a tiny, high pitched tone to my nervous little dog, petting her nose so gently I could cry. I laugh when they go into long, semi-intelligable speeches about orange juice. Still, it's hard. I stand at the ready with bleach and scrubbies when the weekend's over.