I’m not letting him sludge his way through life. My boy looks good. I make sure of it.
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.
One tiny giggle kept these three alive for over a decade and counting.
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
Go ahead. Get your kids. I’ll wait.
I’m writing our life as a thriller in my brain, but it’s really more of a Disney Plus series.
We’re not incredibly smart. We’re moderately old.
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