It's a shit show.
Lately I've been struggling with writing about my boys. When I first started blogging they were young, a toddler and baby. Now they are older, boys with opinions and experiences all their own and those stories no longer belong to me -- they belong to them. I wonder if by writing those stories, I'm taking something I have no right to.
For the most part, I manage to get strawberry jam on my elbow at least five days of the week. Well, that's not entirely true
Surreptitious subterfuge is part and parcel of being a parent. Stealing candies from babies is just one of the many things that we parents do in our quest to equal the playing field and "get ours."
I think I must have been evil in a prior life. You know that song from The Sound of Music that goes, "Nothing comes from
At two, he's 87 per cent trained. He has the occasional accident, but who doesn't? (Blush.) The day is quickly approaching when I will no longer accidentally lick "chocolate" off my wrist, and I can buy more vodka and less diapers. Those friggers are 50 cents a poop, er, pop! I'm broke. And I'm not just talking about my vagina.