my poor children

Last night I went snowboarding for my second time, and my tailbone is not happy about it. So unhappy, in fact, that I'm actually tempted to buy that $60 pair of biker shorts with padding sown into the rear. Genius. But that isn't what this post is about.

On our way out after returning our rentals, there was a little boy throwing a tantrum: screaming, crying, and kicking the door with his menacing although tiny ski boots. I actually started to laugh and then it was all I could do to contain myself. I know that laughing at a child in that situation can only lead to a downward spiral of anger on his part and hysterical laughter on my part, but I can't help it. I think tantrums are about the funniest thing in the world.

I can only imagine what kind of psychological damage this will cause my kids, should I ever have any. Add to this the childish joy I get from handing someone something and then pulling it away just as they try to grab it, my tendency to say 'no' to any question, even when I mean 'yes', and my fondness of nicknames that, on the surface, sound offensive but actually convey great love, and my kids don't stand a chance.