I've been pretty hard on Rod Stewart in the past. I've made fun of his age, and of his succession of model/groupie-wives, and of how silly he looks with a Whoozit swinging above his crotch. But I take it all back. Dude is just like you and me - okay, me - in that he is, obviously, so totally his toddler's bitch.
Check the leash. He's got his kid on a leash - which, you know, I totally support - but that's not enough: he has to leash the kid just to carry the kid. Or maybe the leashed kid just decided, to hell with walking if you've leashed me up. Ride 'em, cowboy - this leash works two ways! Which is exactly how it works in my world: I try to strap my kid down or up or across or whatever and she just turns it on me like that. Somehow, before I know it, that leash is around my waist or neck and she's on my hip or shoulders and it's all sherpa THIS, beeyatch. And it's, like, totally inescapable, because she knows that I know that she can leap out of arms and into oncoming traffic in the time that it takes me to register that I've been kicked in the boob-undercarriage, never mind how long it would take me to work out the physics of the sideways-speedball-mid-air toddler jump and react. She knows it, and she knows that I know it, and that I know that she knows it, and the consequence is that there could be twenty leashes binding her to me and I'd still be her bitch.
But now I know that Rod is the bitch of a two-and-a-half foot tall tyrant, too. And I find that strangely comforting.
