Being Dad is the greatest, scariest, happiest, lifetime of dread I could have ever signed up for.
I’m not letting him sludge his way through life. My boy looks good. I make sure of it.
The purée literally jumped four feet in the air and came splashing down on his head.
The best way I can describe days like this is that my hair hurts.
Frustrated and pleading, “Come on. You like Jeff Wiggle. Right? It’s a Jeff doll. Yay?” Nada.
Life lessons that served me no good will serve them no good. It’s my duty, as their father, to see that.
All I want to do is spoil him, but I have to do what’s best for him.
It’s the parental curse of eternal-youth vision
There was no way I was having a heart attack. Right? I didn’t have heart attacks. Other people did.
I’m writing our life as a thriller in my brain, but it’s really more of a Disney Plus series.