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.
Dr. Eye, the pediatrician, says that they should not be drinking out of bottles ANYMORE.
Apparently my five year old daughter told her kindergarten teacher that if she ever gets married she’s going to walk down the aisle to AC/DC’s “Hells Bells.”
We are in the South of France with our babies. Our babies cannot talk but find alternative ways to disrupt us.
I have always tried to include three-year-old Gus in the decision-making. For example, we have discussed at length the pros and cons of wearing a snowsuit to bed.
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.
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.
For how many more years will you host the birthday pool party with the pizza and the cake from the grocery store . . .