Things I fantasize about doing to my children when they are grown men:
Come to Ezra's house at 6 a.m. on Sunday morning, wake him up, stick an iPad in his face and ask what the password is.
Drive to Maxon's house every evening and, on ten minute intervals, ring the doorbell and ask if I can hang out and read while he watches T.V. with his girlfriend.
Go through their folded laundry piles and make a huge mess looking for a pair of socks.
Spill beverages and stare at the puddles of liquid.
Eat all the cereal.
Wedge some chewed gum between their sofa cushions.
Leave some chewed gum on the counter, three steps from the trash can.
Hide half-eaten granola bars in their side table drawers.
Snatch their phones out of their hands to play Temple Run.
Sing "boom snap clap ba-boom snap clap snap boom snap clap ba-boom snap clap snap boom snap clap ba-boom snap clap snap" every time they drive me somewhere.
Scowl at the meal Maxon cooks for me and look to the heavens for celestial rescue. Then fork it like it's roadkill and ask how many bites I have to eat.
Leave half-full glasses of water on every surface.
Call them every time I lose something and ask where it is.
Go to Ezra's house, take off my jacket and handbag and let them plunk to the floor. Then step over them and walk inside.
Text them with 370 emojis.
Use their bathroom and forget to flush.
Finish the crackers and leave the empty box in the pantry.
Finish the milk and leave the empty carton in the refrigerator.
Finish the orange juice and leave the empty jug in the refrigerator.
Chew loudly in their ears.
Ask them 37 questions while they are on an important phone call.
Cover their hardwood floors with damp towels.
The good news is, I won’t have to do any of these things. Their children will most likely take care of it for me. I'm counting on you, future grandchildren. Make me proud.