So when they are rotten adolescents and inevitably accuse me of not loving them, I will say “but girls, what about that time back in ’11 when I took you trick-or-treating in forty degree pouring rain?” If this doesnt qualify as love I don’t know what does.
My two year old is telling me over and over, “That’s pretty hairy, mommy. That’s pretty hairy.” I am trying to figure out if I forgot to shave or if the cat took a nap on my sweater. “Extraterrestrial” is on the radio. Eventually it dawns on me that she is (of all things) identifying the song’s artist. A few minutes later, I am taking off her shoes and she cries out “Don’t feed them to the squirrels!”
What on earth, child…
Tiny daughters: despite your irresistable cuteness and the fact that I love you both so much I think my heart might one day actually burst, you are both petri dishes. My immune system is no match you contagious little carrier monkeys.
Stop. Getting. Me. Sick
Today I innocently asked Stumpy what she was playing with and received the response “a bandaid I found stuck to my shoe after school”. Someone may need to adopt her. I can’t unlearn this.
I moved the baby to her own room tonight. Caught off guard by how depressed I am looking at this empty bassinet in my room. May actually start crying?? Does anyone have some Prozac I can borrow until my heart can accept the inevitable reality of my children growing up?