I loved him then. I love him now. I’ll love him in 30 years.
I loved him then. I love him now. I’ll love him in 30 years.
He’s outgrowing my friggin’ shirts.
Tell that story to a room full of people, get sympathetic stares.
It’s like mixing baking soda and vinegar in a sealed container.
Teens don’t care about Pogs, Z Cavariccis, or Beverly Hills 90210.
Verbal or not, they have expectations.
One day, she’ll be 50 and still my baby girl.
My kid is financially crushing it.
I don’t impose. I don’t assume. I ask if I don’t know.
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