Cute trumps concussion, right?

I’m a decent bridge player.

The rules of the game are simple enough, and the gameplay is such that things just work for me & the way I think. Of course, it’s been a couple of years since I’ve played regularly (which means that I’d start off overly conservative with my bidding before drinking a few beers and turning on my “I am convinced that I can take every trick” mode), but give me a week of regular playing & I’d be able to hold my own against most anyone.

But, I’m digressing – the whole reason I’m talking about bridge is because “To Trump,” in my vocabulary, is not to act like a douchebag with bad hair, but to win an otherwise unwinnable situation. In all honesty, it’s actually the Webster’s definition, too, but I like making fun of The Donald – although isn’t it freaky that his son acts smarmier than he does?

Where was I? Oh, yeah, thinking about boobs.

No, wait, I was talking about bridge in a half-hearted segue about my night last night.

I got home from work at about the regular time, just before 5. With two babies in the house, 5PM is a pivotal time. Either the kids are asleep (which makes for some pleasant moods but then horrendous bedtimes), they’re awake (which usually means cranky evenings and then horrendous bedtimes), or my coming in makes the dogs bark, waking the kids (meaning that the kids are then ultra-cranky and then have horrendous bedtimes). Last night, I got home and the kids were wide awake. Especially wide awake.

After talking to Duffy, it appears that the kids barely slept all day – naps usually amount to between 2 & 4 hours per kid, so this was troublesome. More troublesome was that Duffy was heading out for a Mom’s Club function at the local pub, so it was just me & the kids for the night.

Because I’m a firm believer that “anytime is bedtime” when the kids can’t tell time, we put on pajamas before Duffy even had a chance to close the door (well, both kids were emitting raspberry noises from their nether regions and damn if I was going to change diapers an extra time), which means that I pick up Leila (who can’t walk) and then help CJ climb up the steps.

After getting into the nursery and closing the door, I put Leila on the changing table as CJ wreaks havoc. His favorite is to find one of his sister’s especially pretty dresses, walk it over to the diaper genie, shove it in, and “make it disappear”. I, then, cross my fingers that none of the diapers in the bucket weren’t fully contained and retrieve the dress when he’s not looking.

Anyway, I have a screaming Leila on the changing table (because putting on PJ’s is nearly as bad a torture as placing her in her car seat) when CJ picks up a pair of his pajama bottoms. He looks at me, he smiles, he places the pajama bottoms over his head so that he can’t see, and then proceeds to run, full speed, into the wall.

Smack

Bounce

CJ then pulls pajama bottoms off of his head, and as I prepare to deal with two screaming babies, CJ proceeds to start laughing hysterically . . . and I breathed a sigh of relief. Because a potential concussion is totally trumped by a toddler being cute. Heck, even Leila stopped screaming.

Don’t get me wrong, though, those no-nap crankies stayed around for the rest of the night. Funny now being a decent bridge player doesn’t really equate to parenting skills.