My son accused me of writing wildly exaggerated accounts of their adventures in my blog. First of all, I rarely write about my monster children. Secondly, I don't have to exaggerate. My reality is WAY stranger than fiction. If I put their antics in a book, no one would believe me.
My son walks in the door and drops his shoes and trombone (yes, a huge honking horn) right where I'm sure to trip over them. Then he proceeds to shed his clothes as if he's auditioning for a male strip show--"Why," I scream, "are your pants on the living room floor? Why are there FOUR dirty tee shirts in the family room?" He gives me this wide-eyed innocent look and blames his sister, who is half his size and wouldn't be caught dead in his clothes. There are enough plates and spoons in his room to serve a dinner party for twelve--or the entire raccoon family living under his bed. (He's made friends with them. They stink the same.)
I love him but he makes me crazier than I already am.