I would be very confused by love of all of this, if only it wasn’t for one thing.
Slime-making is basically when you spend $30 on supplies to make a handful of sticky goo that you could buy for 50 cents in the vending machines as you leave the supermarket.
Long after other toys, clothes, and jewelry fade into flea market fodder, they’ll still be the presents that remain in places of prominence.
Snap at a friend and they dismiss it. Do the same to your kid, they’ll bring it up at Thanksgiving when you’re 60.
We spend our lifetimes beating ourselves up with false memories tailored to make things seem worse.
There are very few good parenting moments that allow us to put our feet up in another room, but this is one of them. It’s like finding a vegetable that tastes like ice cream cake.
The bizarre humor that rushes through my head is decades below my own age group and doesn’t even need an audience to spring up.
Every family has their own language. It’s made up of words or phrases that no one else would understand. Every person contributes. Every person speaks it.
“What time do you guys fight Santa?”
I want her to believe that she’s the best artist on Earth. Why? Because she is.