I guess there is always room for improvement. In the case of bedtime stories, for instance, I must make sure that I read every page. Heeding the Fletch-monster’s request for me to read There’s a Wocket in My Pocket for the ninth time in a secret plot to extend bedtime, I suppose it’s imperative that I not skip pages of the novel during the tenth reading. God forbid he fall asleep without knowing that the narrator again found a ‘nink in the sink.’

From here on out, I must also make an unyielding effort to stop taking a bite out of their sandwiches when they are not looking. As for that dreaded sweet tooth of mine (which is apparently hereditary), I will also refrain from raiding the boys’ cache of ‘fruit snacks’ and lollypops. And when I take them out for milkshakes, I won’t sneak a slurp from their straws. Ice cream cones are another matter altogether. Every lick I take is a calculated one so that they don’t get melted goo all over their hands. It’s in their best interest that mommy doesn’t get chafed when they saturate the furniture with chocolaty goodness.

Those half eaten muffins and doughnuts? You will find them in the refrigerator the next morning, kids. Not just the soggy parts.

I will also (grimace) try not to ridicule religion in front of you. O-Dog, that time you walked by that bloodied up statuette of Jesus and asked, “Who’s that guy?� I guess patting you on the head and beaming proudly with a “That’s my boy,� wasn’t the best way to handle it. Maybe I should have given you the scholarly “That, son, is Jesus Christ. Some believe that he is the Son of God, who gave his life so that our sins may be forgiven. He will rise again and (zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz).� I'll also stop asking you to give the Satanic 'goat's horn's' rock salute in our very rare appearances in church.

The hellions can also say good-bye to the permanent five o’clock shadow that covers my face. I realize that the dozens or so kisses that I subject them to throughout the day itch like a mother f***er after a while. It’s not like they actually tell me that it does, but I can tell by the way they squirm and thrash in my arms as I start pecking away at their cheeks, chins and foreheads with abandon.

The toys? I will make sure they are regularly equipped with double-A batteries. I understand that the toy box looks like a bar after closing time. All the bright lights and sounds of good times are a faint memory. When I do replace the batteries, I promise I won’t hide all the annoying ones, like that f*cked up caterpillar that likes to ‘rap’ numbers.

Finally, I will make sure that when you fight, I will freak out like mommy, who doesn’t realize that you’ll be kicking the sh*t out of each other for many years to come. You and I know that you’ll eventually stop when the fight’s actually even. After all, what's more ghetto than two fully-grown siblings swinging haymakers at each other? Unless the family fortunes take a turn for the worse and we end up in Sunny Shores Trailer Park, where your Cain and Abel smack-downs will be telecast on Cops, I think you’ll be all right. Until then I’ll do like mommy and start screeching when you two go at it.

I will also stop trying to ‘even things up’ by holding down four-year-old O-Dog so that Fletch-monster can get some licks in with his clenched and angry two-year-old fists in retribution for having a wooden block hurled at his head.

Yeah, a few minor adjustments and this baby’s mine. “Prego - Father of the Year – 2007.� That sh*t sounds sweet. I hope Andy Taylor, Cliff Huxtable and that f*cker from My Three Sons bring their A-Game, because my sh*t is going to be dead-on. What? He’s dead? Awesome. That only ups my chances.