Dirty Rats

This morning the boys had cross country, which means they had to get into school an hour earlier. I woke them up, as always, got their breakfasts made and put into bags (they eat them after they run, rather than before), and made sure they were all packed up.

Then, as we were walking to the garage, my wife volunteered to drive them in. With them going in so early, she can do that and still get to work on time.

“Sure,” I said. “I’m fine with that.”

The kids were already in the minivan. “Hey guys,” I called. “Mind if Momma drives you in?”

“No,” my youngest shouted back. “That’s better. She doesn’t yell at us!”

Both he and his brother started laughing like maniacs.

“Yell at you?” I stood in the doorway to the garage, more than a little stunned. “I don’t yell at you.”

“You mean other than every day?” my oldest son shouted back.

“I’m gonna yell at you,” I said. “Really, really soon.”

It was too late, though. My wife was already backing out of the garage.

Sheesh.

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