As I walk in, the Bug uncorks herself from her before bed bottle and tosses her head back at me. "Don't you worry," says Damn Wifus. "You're going to your father in two shakes of a duck's ass."
I'm home late again, as the workday continues to sprawls out backwards; I get up earlier and earlier in an attempt to get ahead of things. Staying later is not an option with our schedule.
But still, by the time I get home, the kid -- her hair shoots straight out in 270 degrees of static electricity whether she's upside down or not -- is winding down. I read her a book and give her hug, because she can now squeeze my neck back. She also claws at my eyeball, so this whole ritual may be in fact be her nightly attempt to mangle me.
And then she has to get to bed. I basically have the same conundrum as the parents from D.A.R.Y.L., in that my kid is