Yogurt not only makes a remarkably strong hair gel, it also smells nice if it’s peach flavored. For a little while anyway. Then it begins to smell like a peach puked up on my kid’s head.
Last month’s perfect fitting pants are the high waters of today.
Apparently my sock-feet are magically delicious. Or possibly just the perfect height for chomping when they are propped up on the ottoman.
If he wants something bad enough, he will find a way to get it. “Hiding” things on top of my four and a half foot high kitchen bar might delay him, but they don’t deter him.
Don’t be alarmed if you hear a beeping sound coming from my purse. It’s not a bomb, it’s just a rectal thermometer.
Since I seem to only remember all the things on my to-do list while I’m in the shower, I think Crayola Scribblers should be a part of mama’s bathtime, too.
Why is it that every door hinge in my house needs WD40 to stop the squeaks, but I never remember that little tidbit until naptime. Or when I’m in the shower.
Thomas the Tank Engine is laced with crack.
Dora and Diego have incredibly annoying voices, and therefore do not exist in my house. Who? What? I have no idea what you’re talking about.
What do you do with a boy that breaks your best Corningware dish then forces you to wear a coonskin cap on your head while you refill his glass of milk? You toss the dish in the trash, channel your inner Davy Crockett and make that kid some breakfast.
I bet you ten bucks Handy Manny and Kelly are friends with benefits.
There’s a reason we don’t remember anything during and before the toddler years. All the falling and head conking must black it out.
My kisses seem to have magical healing powers over owies and boo-boos. And it’s really cool wielding that kind of power.
I never knew I could be so bone achingly tired.
I never knew my heart could love someone this much. And that means you, G.