All that Go Kart fun doesn’t come without a price. Auggie’s over here, and guess what else he’s used to that Phartacus and Slappy aren’t? Constant parental attention. He’s been here 53 minutes and I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard him say, “Let’s go tell your mom!" Really, Auggie? You seem to be unclear on the concept of playdate, darling. I know you’re young yet and uncorrupted by teenage misanthropy and zits, but it’s never too soon to learn that you’re going to want to tell your mom as little as possible about your doings, unless eyeballs are bleeding or pipes are bursting or she specifically asks what happened to the basement rug while wearing an expression that suggests now is the time to pony up unless you want Bad Things to happen. It’s like this: If you’ve got a handful of caterpillars and you’re wondering if I want to see them, the answer is no. If your mom thinks it’s adorable when you repeatedly quote the DVD she bought you for doing your math homework and you feel like I might be equally enchanted, I won’t be. If you think I want to hear the detailed plans of the tree house your dad is going to have built for your Memorial Day Weekend present, you are so very wrong. That, my dear boy, is a conversation for The Mister. In fact, I might just keep you around as a welcome home present tonight for my husband, who’s had a hard week of hotel living and expensed white-napkin dinners while I kept his children alive. TGIF, Mister! I’ll be in the bathroom with gin.