It is universally agreed upon that there are three things in life that are supremely difficult. The first is riding a bicycle across the Pacific Ocean. The second is training a cat to rotate your tires. The third, and perhaps most impossible, is parenting teenagers.
My boys have rhythm. I wish I did.
Tim has the best rhythm in the family. The kid is so naturally rhythmic, I swear he could tap his head, rub his stomach, do an Irish jig with his left foot and the moonwalk with his right foot, all while carrying on a conversation defending Breaking Bad as the greatest moment in TV history.
It started as a conspiracy; four members of my family plotting behind my back, devising their manipulative plan while I was at work. The plan hatched into the open one night at dinner, timed perfectly amidst my giant bite of spaghetti so I would be rendered helpless to respond without spewing food.
"We should get a dog," Karen said.