This wasn’t home and no other parents were doing it. That’s what makes it “embarrassing.”
This wasn’t home and no other parents were doing it. That’s what makes it “embarrassing.”
I spent years in the babyhood trenches. I have the scars, words, and formula stains to prove it.
It’s everyone’s chance to remember, even if you don’t want to.
I don’t like that Justin Bieber.
We all rushed to get here. When we did, it was electric bills and frozen waffles.
I pictured her handing me paper stacks of glue and popsicle sticks until she was in her 50s.
One day, maybe he’ll be able to tell me, “Yo. Put me down.”
I pictured Ashton Kutcher running into her room and yelling, “We got you, Daddy! Ha! Your friend, God, set you up!”
I thought to myself, “Well, that was different. I guess that’s who I am now.”
A voice in my head whispered, “Why did you do that? What do you know about babies?”
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