They may look peaceful. Even cute.
But they are complete terrors.
Three and a half hours with them in a car and two tourist attractions later, I question why God allowed me to raise 4 children.
Because I don’t like them anymore.
If I hear one more interpretation of Fat Bastard, have to endure another burp contest in the car with my 85 year old grandmother, or listen to them yell “STOP IT THOMAS!” for the 249th time, someone might get hurt.
Why do I keep pretending that I like traveling with my children?
I always forget to remind myself. They kind of. Well. Suck.
There, I said it.
It doesn’t mean I don’t love them.
It just means I’m locked in my hotel room right now, venting, because its best for all of us.