More Children Who Are Not Mine

I just recently stopped suffering from a pestilence that had me red-eyed and wheezy and most of all, bad tempered.  So naturally, during this pestilence - which obviously had seeped into my brain cavity, rendering me completely insane - I thought it would be a good idea to go to WalMart to get some supplies of a nasal nature.   This is a bad idea most of the time, but certainly it's doubly so when you're a touch under the weather.  Because WalMart is a breeding ground of ex-fetus related hilarity. Cherubic wunderkind of all descriptions, crapping into their onesies, bashing toys off my shins and shrieking like their hearts might burst in every aisle as they seem to follow me around the store like tiny, snotty, uncoordinated zombies.

Now I'm sure if these angel babes belong to you, you can find an adorability (it is a word, now) factor in all of this, but the thing is, none of them are my babies.  In fact, as a person who would rather birth a tractor tire than a fleshy entity that I'm going to have to feed and hide my beer from for 18 years, I'm somewhat distressed by the presence of cute, red, swollen-faced teary tykes and instead of comforting them, I am imagining shoving an Ambien-laced popsicle in their noise orifice.

I told you.  Bad-tempered.

Now my pestilence has eased and normal service has resumed.  Now I just want to lock all toddlers in the closet under the stairs until they are old enough to leave home, or do some serious cleaning.

Phew!  Lucky I don't have any.