As one of the more common breeds of spineless parents I am a huge fan of giving in the demands of my two-year-old. She’s an F5 cyclone of a girl full of wildly fluctuating emotions and I’m the house made out of straw.
Dr. Eye, the pediatrician, says that they should not be drinking out of bottles ANYMORE.
Once upon a time, there was a brave mother and father who decided to maneuver three suitcases, one backpack, two car seats, one Pack ’n Play, and two young children—including a cranky toddler—all the way to Disneyland.
Two minutes. Are two minutes too much to ask? Two minutes to talk with a grownup without having to worry about you? But no. I take my eyes off you for two lousy minutes and next thing I know you’re huddled under the slide, sobbing like somebody stole your cupcake.
Transcript from a fun day with Dad . . .
We are driving home from dinner at a friend’s house one evening when our four-year-old, Sawyer*, who loves music, spontaneously breaks into song. “I gotta big butt, I gotta big butt . . .”
Breathing is difficult today. In the waiting room we sit, my sick four-year-old and I. For a w.hole nineteen minutes now the paper-white silence has been punctuated by the cold of the man a.cross from us.
We are in the South of France with our babies. Our babies cannot talk but find alternative ways to disrupt us.