Hooray for Sunday, day of rest. The end of the weekend, when you can lie in bed until sheer embarrassment finally drives you from your sheets, and the coffeepot stays warm all day long as you dawdle over the paper. What to do with the long, lazy hours stretching before you? Maybe make some french toast out of croissant bread, maybe take a little stroll around the neighborhood, maybe curl up on the couch and plow through a good book from beginning to end?

Go ahead and open your eyes from THAT pleasant little dream, dipshit, because you’ve got CHILDREN now. Hop to, because just like Lionel Ritchie those diapers have been partying all night long. Perhaps you should have spent more of your pre-parenthood Sundays reveling in the fact that your mornings never included pre-dawn scrotal fold poop-shrapnel mining duty, but NO, you were too busy ramming croissants in your french-hole to appreciate your sweet, sweet, feces-free freedom.

Ah well. Hindsight, 20/20, etc.