9:54
AM: My son lets me know that he’s just spilled an entire bottle of
Gatorade in the back seat. “Don’t worry,” he hastens to add. “I cleaned
it up with your jacket.”
Then he gets out and slams the door
hard enough to knock my phone off the console and onto the floor, where
it disappears under my seat.
You’re killing me, Smalls. Killing me.