“Tears of Growth” by Monica Pollin
The September he started first grade, my son cried every morning.
The September he started first grade, my son cried every morning.
Granted, my three year old daughter looks adorable in Afro-Puffs.
You’re supposed to be the littlest. You were yesterday.
I have a five-year-old. She’s fierce and stubborn. She’s sweet and empathetic.
“Kids, it’s been awhile. Should we try to poop in the potty?!”
“NO!!!!!!”
Yawning, seven-year old Jackson woke up from his nap; smiling, stretching and luxuriating in his sick day.
It’s not there anymore. It was only a short walk from the Chelsea Hotel to Eleventh Avenue. I loved that old saloon . . .
In a moment of temporary insanity, Mommy took me shopping even though she had forgotten the entrapment device… er, I mean stroller… at home. My sister was at preschool. How hard could it be to run errands with one child?