My Life as a Rock Star

Ben just saw the Potsy pictures in the last post and asked what I wrote about. At his request he sat by my side and I started reading it to him. I wasn't more than three words in and he was giggling. By the end of the second sentence he was force laughing so hard and so loud it was flat out ridiculous. I hadn't read anything funny yet. Or maybe I didn't realize how funny I was. So goes my life as a rock star. It is hard having an adoring crowd like that. They follow my every move incredibly closely (so close that they are always underfoot getting fingers or toes squished while I cook and do dishes, little bodies knocked over when I turn around or heads whacked with the baby carrier car seat while I try to find my keys at the front door). They are everywhere I am all day every day watching me like short little paparazzi with mental cameras shoved in my face recording all my stealth or stupid moves (I always have to hide to sneak a piece of chocolate from the pantry but I'm getting better at palming things like a magician which at the very least ought to make Brian proud). I just can't seem to escape my fans (they hear that darn pantry door open every time and come running as they yell, "What are you eating?" and they enjoy talking to me through the bathroom door while I'm "alone"). Their faces light up when I enter a room (especially the tiny guy when I come to release him from the prison bars more commonly known as a crib). Yeah, life as a rock star is harder than I thought it would be when I first signed this highly lucrative deal. Only one question. When is my first paycheck supposed to arrive? It's been five years and I'm getting a little worried it might have been lost in the mail.