In My Opinion...: Buyer Beware

I have 3 lovely children. 66.67% of those children are girls. 50% of the girls are psycho. 100% of the psycho girls are 7-years old. 100% of the 7-year olds that live in this house that are psycho are NOT bleeding. The above equation says to me that within the next 36-60 months are going to be totally.....awesome....as I wait for the hormones to accentuate the psychosis that is my 7-year old.

I really should have seen this coming. Since birth, she has had a complaint for everything. "The sun is uppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp!!!!" Or, "WHY IS THEIR FOOD ON MY PLAAATTTEEEEEEEEEE???" My favorite to this day remains, when asked why she is crying hysterically, "I DON'T KNOWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!" That lovely diddy came out of her mouth at 4. It was at the time that my once descended testicles went back home to the abdomen to rest.....forever. About the age of 5, while all her friends were wearing clothes from the Gap with matching accessories, she was wearing Walmart, garlic necklaces, a 18-pound crucifix and a Bible duct taped to her chest, in hopes that the demon within would be exorcised. It failed. As she has gotten older, her complaints, still without reason, are backed by her idea of reason and meaning, all of which are spoken 3 levels higher than the parental retort. In all reality, the trouble lies with Mom because the arguments are between her and Peyton. I should feel lucky that I am indirectly excluded from these episodes, but lately it has come to my attention that something needs to change or else she is gonna be at home longer than she needs to be come legal maturity.

I can see it now, at....let's say....15, she is going to want to get a tattoo. Jamie will say "HELL NO!" She will likely come to me. Of course, I will do the polite thing and say, "what did Mom say," knowing full well Mom said no because you can usually hear that from the next street over. I, however, will say "you bet, let's go!" My wife will inevitably freak out, attempt to stop us and I will tell her it will be fine and not to worry, not explaining how this will go down. Peyton and I will get in the car, her saying her friends have 3 or 4 but she only wants one and she can't BELIEVE she is going to be able to get a tattoo...wow....how cool she will be. We'll pull up to a tattoo parlor, and she will anxiously go find a tattoo book (I guess that's what happens) and check out butterflies, unicorns, Japanese symbols that, below the picture read "PEACE" or "STRENGTH" but actually mean "YOU ARE TOO DUMB TO KNOW THIS MEANS I HAVE A FAT ASS." Meanwhile, I will walk up to the counter and say that my 15-year old daughter wants to get a tattoo and since I was put on this Earth to be a "cool parent," I agreed and then am going to buy her wine coolers for her and her friends (never....ever....ever). The artist will say "great, what one does she want?" ike Christmas morning, she wil run over to the counter and throw the book down, stabbing her choice with her saber-like phalange and say "this one, Daddy. I want this one." I will look down and see a big, colorful Monarch butterfly carrying the genetic formula for the cure for cancer. "Honey that is SOOO pretty, but I have a better one. I have been dreaming for this day since you were 4-years old." I would then plop down the following picture, with the instructions that it can only be placed on the forehead.