I’m a bouncer. That’s what I am. A large, 300 lb man that people call Big Bubba. The one everyone turns to when two belligerent boobs start brawling.

I didn’t ask for this.

Like I wanna hang out with wild, out of control people who one minute are just sitting there watching a little Peg + Cat, then all the sudden start running around the kitchen island, screaming. Taking off their clothes, streaking. Flushed cheeks from all that questionable dancing, bouncing around, clearing shelves, ripping pages out of books, trying to find really high places to leap from – “just cuz.”

Why? Why do they dump the entire 5000 count container of toys for no reason? THEY AREN’T EVEN PLAYING WITH IT!

By the time I arrive at the scene, I start barking out orders like the new Sheriff in town, only to discover they’re not even in the room anymore, they’re in the bathroom unrolling mountains of toilet paper.

But it’s not that kind of madness that gets to Big Bubba.

It’s the fighting.

Jesus, help me. Please. I wasn’t made for this.

One minute they’re playing like sweet angels. Then suddenly, as if the spirit of Satan had descended, they start screaming, hair pulling, arms flailing, then dramatic crying as they run towards my general direction – all while I’m chatting with someone at the gas company about a weird charge on my bill.

No one can tell me what happened. No one fesses up to the accusations. I’m kissing forearms that look white, fluffy and fresh. If we’re crying this hard, can I at least see a little rose color please?

I’m not here to crack the case of who had the Moana microphone first. It’s not my calling. It’s not who I am.

One child will be happily playing with a horse when in their peripheral they see the other playing with an empty can of LaCroix. GAME ON! The horse is thrown, next the punches.

“It’s my can of wa-wa!”

NO IT’S MY CAN OF WA WA AND WHO TOOK IT OUT OF THE TRASH?

Big Bubba bout to throw down, y’all. I’m about to clear this place out. Last call.

I guess when they said women can have it all, they were mostly talking about being short order cooks, yoga pant connoisseurs and bouncers.

Anyway, I have to go, the baby has her sister in a half-nelson.

Forever yours,
Anna