The kids asked Greg and I if we could watch the show Cake Boss together as a family.

 
It seemed like a wholesome enough program showcasing sugary masterpieces while also making me feel like the worst baker—ever. It also extended everyone’s bedtime so I quickly realized the show was not the priority, it was the kitchen clock.

 
Our family room is set up as follows; one couch, two chairs, one window bench, one chair called a “Bunjo” that looks like a macramé project I made in grade four, five people.

 
One or two people (at most) get comfortable on the couch, two people each sit in a cozy chair, bunjo is waiting for the rightful heir to the throne (Batman), which leaves me on the window seat like the family cat.

 
The window seat while functional for a party of 25 people or more, or for pretending to read while secretly playing Scrabble on your ipad has no line of sight to the tv and a show like Cake Boss is one of the few that the closed captioning option doesn’t buy you anything because the proof is in the pudding-literally.

 
Chloe invites me to join her on one of the chairs. As I approach, she slides her body into the middle suggesting I have her permission to sit down, I just have to be able to Gumby myself around her perfectly centred, statue impersonation.

 
I slide in sideways, one arm behind my back, the other crossed above my shoulder while she sighs, flings my excess elbow skin off of her shoulder and spends the next five minutes rearranging my clothes, hair and overall shape until my existence is no longer a threat to her viewing pleasure.

 
I walk over to the couch where Hanna and Ellie are karate chopping the cushions to keep the other from crossing the invisible line that would ultimately rob the other of total and utter, zen-like comfort.

 
I ask if there is a place for me to sit but am shushed because, “Buddy had to fire his sister. She was running her mouth too much.”

 
This sounds like a lovely show. I’m glad we could enjoy it as a family.