It’s 2-o-clock in the morning.
I “went to bed” at 10:30, but I’ve already gotten up twice to pee. And once to check that the oven is off. And once to make sure the front door is locked.
I’ve jussssssst started really sleeping…like rapid eye movement sleeping…like dreaming about Channing Tatum’s nether-regions sleeping…
When I hear it.
The blood-curdling scream of my toddler from the other room.
It was Sunday. Good Christians were exiting Fellowship Halls. Families were sitting down to supper. And heathen-women like me were entering make-shift strip clubs.
A male review disguised as a “movie theater.”
I’m gonna be honest. When my mother-in-law told me we were going to see Magic Mike, my first thought wasn’t about Channing Tatum’s loins.
It was that I could sit. For 2 hours. Without Colt calling my name 20 times a minute.