Posted on | April 22, 2013 | 3 Comments
I still remember the day after we were married. We cruised down I-95 on our way to Florida. My barefeet tapped the dash, windows were rolled down, sunroof was open. We sang and laughed as passerbys honked after reading our “JUST MARRIED!!!” sign painted on the back of the 4Runner. Tan, drunk on excitement and new love, and desperately happy. We were free. We were wild. We had only each other to be responsible to, and the idea of “forever” was something that flashed between us with reckless smiles and sudden kisses. We spent that week drinking in the afternoons, under the covers most of the day, and taking short swims in the blue of the Bahamian ocean to cool off when things got too hot.
The next year wasn’t quite as carefree. We fought passionately. We loved passionately. We laughed and cried and yelled. We were pushed and pulled from all directions as we moved several times, took up new jobs, and felt the pressure and strains and beauty of a new marriage. We had never lived together. We had never spent more than a long weekend together. And suddenly, we were thrown into co-existence, shared bank accounts, and burned dinners.
And we loved every minute of it. It was hard. But we loved it.
This Sunday, I peeked out the little window of our kitchen (our kitchen, not one belonging to anyone but our little family), and I watched as the man of my dreams planted flowers with the two little boys our love created. He knelt on the ground, tilling up dirt and showing Sully and Arlo how to remove the flowers from their potted homes and plant them in the earth. The boys carefully covered up the flowers, ones Taylor had chosen just for me on a trip to Lowe’s the day before, and they laughed as their father flicked dirt in their faces and rushed up to toss them in the air.
I grabbed up my camera and ran outside to snap a few pictures of the moment…I know these moments are trivial, but they are so important to me.
See, there are some very important differences between our new marriage and our five-year-old marriage…we are stronger. We have created a life between us that is filled with love and responsibilities. We have bills to pay, two sweet mouths to feed, a dog to tend to, a house to up-keep, and a garden to grow. We have buried loved ones and held each as we have mourned. We have cradled newborn nephews and babies of our own. We’ve gotten up at 3:00AM together for a countless number of nights as we rocked screaming newborns. We have torn a house to pieces and built it back up with our own hands. We have driven thousands of miles. Written hundreds of letters and emails and texts. We have gone to bed angry and woken up in the middle of the night to seek each other’s embrace. We spend hours apart every day as he works a high-stress job, and I take care of our littlest ones. By the time the evening comes and we cook dinner, clean up the troubles of the day, bathe little boys, and finally tuck them into bed, we find ourselves exhausted and crashed out on the couch.
And you know what? There is no place else I’d rather be, and no one else I’d rather do all of this with. Despite the stresses and the exhaustion and the work, he is my best friend, my partner. My everything. Some argue that marriage loses it’s shine and it’s excitement as the years go on. I disagree. But you have to look for the love in difference places; in the look in your husband’s eye as he listens to you sing to your son. In the carefully placed bamboo floor that he put down to create a dream home. In the beauty of a flower planted just for you. In the comfort of his strong arms after a long day. In the ability to fight and know you’ll be okay. In the security of a man who loves you more every day.
There may be more responibilty and struggles, but there are also so many more blesses and beauty. I am so grateful.
Posted on | April 18, 2013 | 10 Comments
Parenting is both awesome and exhausting, and we all know this. But one thing that we don’t always realize when we choose to bring life into this world that the responsibilty of an entire other life, of a little being who depends on you be fed and cleaned and changed AND made into a decent human, is one that leaves us in a constant tug-of-war between feeling like you’re totally rocking it and feeling like you’ve failed your child and he is bound to turn into a heathen whom you will be visiting in jail ten years from now.
I find myself doing this parenting gig alone several times a month. And let me say, single parents? I bow at your feet. I honestly do. How you manage to parent alone, every day, all the time, is beyond me. How you manage to do it and not completely lose your mind is of superhero strength, and you have my utmost respect. Usually, I handle things relatively well. Yes, I generally fall into the couch once in they’re in bed and thank God for helping me keep them alive, but I manage. But today? Today is one of those days that I feel are filled with absolutely nothing but fail.
Sully woke up way too early this morning full of piss and three-year-old vinegar. This age is just so hard. It’s fun and hilarious, but it’s also akin to having a Wild Thing tearing through your house every minute of every day. Sully is really struggling with listening. As in, he doesn’t. And I’m struggling with picking and choosing my battles and trying to stay consistent with discipline. From the minute Arlo woke up, they ran around my parents’ house grabbing every breakable object, ripping things out of every available drawer, and terrorizing the dogs, all while screaming at each other and alternating between epic battles and being best of friends. By the time I loaded up all our stuff, all the babies, and the dog to head home, I could feel the ends of my nerves frayed.
On the drive home, Sully refused to nap and Arlo screamed for about two hours. Sully wet his pants after going to the potty just thirty minutes before and with no warning to me. He then blamed it on me and cried because he was embarrassed. When we arrived home, the dog ran inside and peed in the house (why?!), I had to strip both boys naked and wash all their clothes between the accident and the sweat Arlo had built up from his screaming. And they haven’t stopped asking me for stuff ever since…drinks, snacks, to read to them, and so on. I feel like I’ve spent the whole day say “no!”, raising my voice, putting boys in time out, and trying not to cry. While writing this post, I have gotten up ten separate times to try to avert a crisis. All I want is to relax for just five minutes. To breathe and regroup and try to get my patience back because I feel like I am just one. big. fail right now. I feel like I, honestly, could not parent worse than I am today, and that is a really crappy feeling.
I still have to hit up the grocery store because there are a few things that we have to have for tonight, and Sully just ran over my foot with a massive truck, and I’m just doing the best I can and it isn’t good enough.
And I’m sorry for this downer of a post but sometimes, you just gotta let it out before you can get over it.
So now? I’m putting on my big girl panties, pulling some babies onto my lap for some book reading, and praying for a little more patience.
Posted on | April 15, 2013 | 7 Comments
I grew up in a household where a spring and summer garden was always a given. As soon as he could, my dad would plow up his patch of land and tend to tiny seedlings. Fresh veggies were a staple in our summer meals, and there were many nights when we would forgo meat for sauteed squash, fresh green beans, and sliced tomatoes. When I was little, my dad would have my sister and I head down to the garden with him to weed and pick vegtables as they ripened. I always hated the work (not much of a dirt and bugs girl), but I loved the time with my family and the results of an afternoon outside.
This year, Taylor and I looked out into our back yard at the little garden bed the previous owners had left to us, and decided that this would be our spring to try our hands at gardening. We headed to Lowe’s with a purpose and came home with sqaush, zuccinni, green beans, onion, carrot, and sunflower seeds. We gathered up our boys, and began to till and clean out old bricks (what?!) and roots from the neglected bed. A couple hours later, and we have our starter garden.
We have no idea if we did everything right, since it’s our first attempt. But I guess we’ll see in a couple weeks what manages to survive and what is a bust. I found the gardening aspect surprisingly cathartic. I enjoyed the planting process, and I’m looking forward to tending to it. The boys seemed to really love it too because they were able to pick up bugs and throw dirt. What’s not to love? This time of year is just so healing for me. The flowers, the green grass, the loads of Vitamin D from sunshine, and the fresh air. I feel revived and back to “normal.” Our little yard is filled with blooming Azalas, Dogwoods, Jasmine, and a million other beautiful plants.
I’m reminded why I loved this house in the first place, and I can feel myself falling in love all over again.
Any green-thumbers among you? I’m typically the kind of person to manages to kill just about every plant that crosses my path, so I’m hoping for better luck in this adventure. Any tips for first-time gardeners?
Posted on | April 10, 2013 | 9 Comments
There are a bunch of articles floating around this week that proclaim how smug and annoying non-parents are and how obnoxious and self-involved parents are (I can’t link because I’m still typing on my Kindle, which is major suck fest, but just Google it). I’m not sure when the “Mommy Wars” expanded into “All Adults Wars,” but instead of fighting about it, I’m over here like, “Dudes, where’s the wine?”
See, here’s the thing, y’all…people are rude. People don’t understand what they aren’t experiencing because we are too selfish to look outside our own little bubbles and try to understand someone else. We are easily offended and quick to offend. We say before we think, and then we are just SHOCKED when someone gives us the side-eye or calls us out on our bitchiness. Or worse, no one calls us out, and we are all quietly resentful of each other. With the influx of social media, the obsessive Facebook culture, and the fact that everyone fancies themselves a blogger with an opinion that matters (I include myself in this group, for the record), we are now inundated with points of view that differ from ours every minute of every day.
From parenting a tribe of babies to parenting puppies instead. From vaccinating to refusing all medical interventions. From organic to vegan to paleo to McDonald’s. From natural birth to epidurals to planned c-sections. Everyone thinks they are right and no one can understand why everyone else doesn’t feel the exact same way.
Haven’t they done their research?! Don’t they know the consequences of such and such?
So here’s the bottom line: if you haven’t had a child, you don’t understand. You can’t understand everything that parents go through. Yeah, we can be annoying with our adoration of our children. Yes, there are really shitty parents among us. But please, try to understand that if we miss your birthday party because our baby has a 102 degree fever, and we refuse to leave him with a sitter, that our absence isn’t about you. It’s not that we don’t care about you if we have to cancel coffee because we didn’t sleep the night before or the night before that. Our children aren’t the ONLY thing we care about,but they are damn near the top of the list. I’m sorry, but they pretty much win in the game of who gets our time. Every time. And if we decide we need a dinner date with our husbands instead of going to see “Magic Mike” with you, you have to remember that he is our partner in this crazy mess, and though we miss you, we miss him more. We try in other ways; phone calls, emails, rushed lunch dates. But we feel pulled in a million directions, and we as always pray you will understand. Parenthood doesn’t excuse people from becoming bad friends or self-absorbed, but we do need a little more leniency and patience from you.
And if you are a parent, you don’t get your childless friends, either. No really. Hear me out. I know you think you’ve been there, but even if your baby was just born yesterday, you are in a very different place in your life. You can’t recognize why your childless friends aren’t fawning over your bundle of joy. It’s not that they don’t care, honestly, it’s just that your new baby looks a lot like every other baby they’ve ever seen. She’s not much fun, and she cries and poops too much. Plus, breastfeeding makes them feel awkward. You’re confused as to why they go out so much and still party. But they can. That’s why. And you hate hearing, “My dog is my kid,” but what if they can’t or don’t want to have kids? What if they are quietly struggling with infertility? Even if you’ve been there before, even if you can relate, you can’t feel their personal battles. They can’t understand why when they do finally get a few hours of your time, you’re unable to be fully present. Why you keep checking your phone and fretting over the fact that your husband had to forcibly restrain your son as he cried for you to stay. Why your topics seem to range from diapers to sleep training and back again. again And they have a point, parents. Your little one will be okay without you for the evening. You’ll both survive. Try to relax and soak up that adult time because you’ll be knee-deep in diapers again by 7:00 tomorrow morning.
How about a compromise, my friends? Don’t judge me when I post yet another picture of my boys on Facebook, and I won’t judge you when you post another picture of you and your friends throwing it back at a club. Fair?
Posted on | April 3, 2013 | 16 Comments
We arrived at Easter Mass ten minutes late (which means, we were actually ten minutes early, but there was absolutely no seating). After having driven three hours to spend Easter with my Nana AFTER been puked on a mere eight hours prior by a meat ball-filled Arlo, I wasn’t expecting much from the boys.
I looked at their sweet faces and messy manes and smiled. We demand good behavior from our babies. We enforce “yes ma’ams” and “thank yous.” We expect them to answer questions when asked, to refrain from interrupting, and to keep their hands to themselves. Tantrums are met with removal from their environment, time outs are common, and we aren’t afraid to pop a bums or a hand if the situation warrants a particularly strong response from us.
But, they are still little boys. They speak to loudly. They fight like puppies. They sometimes break things. They have attitudes of teenagers. They are dirty and rough and wonderful. And we recognize that they may not always meet certain expectations, and that’s okay. Each day is a learning process, and we pick and choose our battles.
Unfortunately, the rest of the world isn’t always so accommodating.
As my little ones sat on the marble floors in the foyer of the cathedral, I handed down Matchbox cars and fruit snacks to entertain them. They played quietly, glancing at me occasionally to ensure they were within their boundaries. When they got a little loud, I would lean down and hush in their ears, and they hushed. When Arlo gave into ‘ll Ithe fight of being good, Tay scooped him up and headed outside while Sully spread out some more to take full advantage of the grouted “highways” in his imagination. His quiet play filled me with pride, and I gave myself a pat on the back for raising such a good boy.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a man staring at Sully. I turned to see a hardened face and a look of disapproval as he glared at my three-year-old playing on the floor. I heard Sully make a whispered “vrooom” sound, and the man spit out a harsh “Shhh!” Sully looked at him in confusion and glanced at me for reassurance. I smiled at him, and gave the man a look I’m sure wasn’t appropriate for the religious celebration at hand.
His reaction was not uncommon. In school, at the gym, on the playground, I see adults expecting far too much of my strong-willed son. His spirit is often seen as a challenge to their authority, and he spends a great deal of time being asked to apologize for silly mistakes and boyish nature. I cannot even recall the number of days I’ve arrived to pick him up from school only to find he has been in trouble for typical boy behavior.
“Sully got up from the table to play with cars during snack time, so he went to time out.”
“He struggled to sit still for crafts today.”
“He wanted to play outside instead of read books.”
Each time, I silently scream in my head, “Of course!!! He’s three! And a boy!!!” And I find myself making quiet suggestions that, perhaps, thirty minutes is too long for craft time at this age? Or, did you give him a warning about the consequences of leaving the table during snack time? I’m always met with assurances that they will work with him, but I know this is the beginning of years of potential misunderstandings as Sully, and eventually Arlo, goes through school, sports, and hobbies.
And let me be clear; my children thrive on boundaries. Rules are good, and we don’t bend them. But we keep them short, few, and important. Endless rules and constraints only serve to discourage them and frustrate the adults who put the guidelines in place. We live in a world which is ever-increasingly labeling normal boy behavior as abnormal, delayed, or disordered. Do not misunderstand me, I know there are disorders and delays that are very real and should not be discounted. They respond to therapies and medications, and abilities of professionals and parents to help these children are admirable. And for this reason, I feel we are doing these children and their parents a disservice by attempting to diagnose and label every misstep a young boy takes.
Children, particularly boys, are being kicked out of preschools (PRESCHOOLS!) at alarming rates. Parents are being told their children are trouble children at the ripe age of two or three. We are not allowing boys normal developmental patterns and growth without stepping in to interfere every time a milestone comes a few months “late” or a behavior is slightly concerning. Early intervention is good and brilliant when necessary! But is it always necessary?
So here is my plea to mothers and fathers: trust your instincts. If something seems amiss to you, if you feel deep down your little one needs extra guidance, believe in yourself. You know best, and you are his best advocate.
But if you’re getting little slips of papers here and there from “concerned” adults referencing issues that are too trivial for intervention, be his advocate, too. If he’s kind and loving and maybe just a bit different from his peers, maybe all he needs is time to grow and mature.
After all, boys will be boys.
Posted on | March 28, 2013 | 7 Comments
Let me start by saying that I am not writing this piece with the intent of changing your mind. I recognize that gay rights, much like abortion and gun control, is a very hot topic that divides our country right now. It’s a discussion which can rarely be held calmly without name-calling and angry insults thrown from opposing parties and, quite frankly, I’m not interested in yelling.
But I thought maybe, if I could speak to gay rights rationally and calmly, my fellow conservatives could at least get a glimpse into the reasoning behind the gay rights movement without feeling defensive or as though they are bring attacked for their beliefs.
I understand what you’re saying, my conservative friends. I understand your concern of keeping the Biblical definition of marriage. I understand that your faith is very important to you. As a fellow clinger to my Bible and my guns, you aren’t alone. I understand your fear of the demise of the traditional family. I can see what you’re saying. Really.
But as a fellow conservative, I have a few issues with your stance. Yes, I am Christian…Catholic to be specific. I adore my Church and her teachings. But I don’t believe my Church has the right to impose her opinions on others, just as I don’t believe my government has the right to impose its laws on my Church. I’m well-aware that my Church may never recognize gay marriage (and almost certainly not in my lifetime), and that’s okay. That ability of each church to determine her own beliefs is one of the reasons this country was founded on hope and promise. I fear a large government. I fear a government in which we have to ask permission for basic rights like marriage and family. I stand firm in the ideals of every law-abiding citizen’s right to “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” I believe that the opinion of the majority cannot impose on the rights of the minority. And I believe if two consenting adults are in love and want to promise each other forever in the eyes of the law that they have the right to do so.
We live in a beautifully diverse country. We are surrounded by people different from us. People with different faith, sexual orientations, and backgrounds. And the beauty of our country is that we are supposed to embrace them all. We should be raising our children to be loving and tolerant. If you want to teach your children that your family does not believe in gay marriage, that is your right…just as it is your right to teach them to on my marry someone of the same race and religion. But please, teach them to love all regardless.
And remember, we aren’t just talking about the right to marriage. We are talking about the right to give a child who otherwise may not be adopted a loving home. We are talking about the right to visit a life-partner in the hospital as they lay on their death bed. We are talking about the right for a spouse to receive benefits from the military when their loved one is killed in action. We are talking about hundreds of rights that you and I take for granted every day because we happen to have loved someone of the opposite sex.
In a country where marriage is still a right to even the most offensive felons, the most horrendous sinners among us, I just can’t get past the idea that gay marriage is going to be the destruction of us. In a country where the divorce rate is fifty percent, where men and women of power “upgrade” to younger spouses and dispose of their previous loves as though they meant nothing, where infidelity is rampant, where the traditional family is already a rarity.
No, my friends, I will always believe in love…I believe in liberty and justice for ALL. And I stand behind my gay friends as they fight for the same happiness (and struggles) that we all have in marriage under law. Above all, I wish for my children to grow up in a world that embraces their love, no matter the sex of their partner.
Posted on | March 25, 2013 | 5 Comments
Mothering is hard.
Between the fights and the scuffles over Matchbox cars. Between the double time outs, the scrapped knees, the hurt feelings and bad dreams. Between the potty training and endless loads of laundry. In the midst of midnight fevers and hours quietly rocking a crying baby. The tantrums, the peanut butter smeared walls, the favorite vase smashed. The dirt and grime. In between the exhaustion and occasional loneliness. Those dark times when you realize you haven’t kissed your husband all day, and you’re both grasping at straws to connect. In those days when you’ve been holding tired, cranky children for hours without a minute of peace.
In between all the hard parts, all the mini-tragedies that make you feel like you’re failing at everything….there are those saving grace moments.
The soft touch of a toddler’s hand on your cheek. The smell of baby wash and little boys. A song sung in that high-pitched voice of a three-year-old. The image of your husband tossing babies in the air and the squeals of delight. A new word learned. A perfectly thrown baseball. In between the loudness and frenzy, are the seconds of a quiet story time and a good night kiss. A softly spoken prayer. A slobbery kiss and tiny arms giving a big hug. A call from a best friend, and a bottle of wine and a word of gentle encouragement from your soul mate. The wet nose of a dog and a paid off debt. Clean sheets and a family nap time. A new craft done at preschool just for you, and the pride on your son’s face as he shines with accomplishment. A perfectly cooked meal and brothers holding hands.
When you feel as though you’re faltering, flailing for solid land, or letting your loved ones down in some way, look for the “in betweens.” Look for those little moments of perfection. Take a deep breath. Hold onto those moments with every ounce of your being, and say a prayer. The in betweens will always see you through.
Posted on | March 20, 2013 | 6 Comments
We have all grown up in a world where softness is symbiotic with weakness. Our society sees soft people as meak, vulnerable, lazy even. We grew up with grandmothers who lived on coffee and cigarettes well into their eighties in order to keep their wedding day size. We have tried all the diets; grapefruit, juice fasts, Atkins, Weight Watchers. You name it, we have done it in an attempt to postpone the softness. Our TV shows are filled with beautiful, thin women married to funny fat guys. After all, it’s okay to carry extra weight as a guy…just not as a mother. Heavy actresses get stuck in one role, and that is of the funny girl lacking any self-esteem or ability to control her eating (I’m sure there are exceptions, but I’m making generalizations).
We loathe ourselves when we are softer than we think we should be. The rounder curves and fuller stomachs are reminders of our perceived weakness. We grimace in the mirror while pulling on our stomachs lined with road maps of stretch marks. That eternal and internal battle raging…we should be so proud of the life our bodies have given, yet we hate that they no longer fit the mold we have always required of them.
I look at my friends, many of whom are still young and childless. They are beautiful and firm and have breasts that are still exactly where they should be. Their skin is smooth and unstretched. Their eyes not burdened by endless sleepless nights. They have regular dates with the gym without worrying about sick babies or day care time limits. Their clothes are fashionable and new, their nails done, their hair trimmed. And while I love them for a million reasons, and while I could hate them for their gorgeous ease, I don’t. Because they are beautiful in ways that may be different from my beauty, but not in any way better or worse.
I am softer, but I am not weak. I have born life twice. I’ve spent eighteen months growing my children, and another eighteen nourishing them with my breasts. I have spent countless nights rocking them until daylight when sleeplessness plagued us all. I have loved my husband fiercely and supported him through many scary adventures. I have watched loved ones pass. I have helped build a home. My hands are calloused and showing wear, but they are soft enough to comfort my sick children or to reach for my husband in the quiet of the night. My arms are not sinewy and cut with muscles, but they have held babies throughout many years and have held our family together through tough times. My legs are not long and slender, but they are strong and steady and have carried me through the longest of days. The hints of crows feet are threatening the corners of my eyes, but they speak of years of love and laughter. My stomach is no longer flat and smooth, but it has grown with two children and is still muscular and feminine.
Yes, I may be softer than I was in years gone by, but I am full of love and strength. I may never fully accept this new body of mine. I will never abandon the gym as my hopes for continues health and betterment will always remain. I will care for it as it is my temple. Making sure to take the time to do the things it needs. To cleanse, feed, and polish. To trim and shine. I can’t say that I never resent the “flaws” that have developed through the years, and I can’t promise that I won’t try to change the things that truly bother me. But I appreciate my softness. I appreciate the life and experiences that have led me to this place.
Instead of harping on my worries and body acceptance issues, I will teach my sons love and appreciation for human spirit and power. I hope someday, when their wives are lamenting their post-baby bodies, that they will hold them closely and whisper in their ears sweet words of strength and beauty…just like their father has done for me. I hope we can instill in them that the softness of a woman’s body is something to respect and admire.
I am many things; child of God, wife, mother, daughter, grandchild, sister, writer, optimist, dreamer, runner, singer, believer.
But I am not weak.
Posted on | March 18, 2013 | 4 Comments
I think I get a slight case of seasonal affect depression every January to March. The cold winds, the endless rain, and the threatening snow leave me longing for warmth. The short days that bear just a brief amount of cool sun send me to my memories of hot breezes and sandy beaches. I look in the mirror and watch as my freckles fade and my skin turns pale, and I can’t help but miss the afternoons playing with the boys in the yard; I always strip them down to swim trunks and bare feet, and we spend hours outside when the weather is kind.
I dread these three months every year.
I wish I didn’t. Three months every year is a long time to wish away. I look for the good in them…Valentine’s Day. St. Patrick’s Day. The beauty of the stars on a cold night. Hot tea. Warm soup. Little boys in sweaters. There are always bits and pieces that help restore my sanity on the days I feel stir crazy from rain and cold winds.
But I see the end, and the Spring is drawing closer. We haven’t eaten supper before 7:00PM since Daylight Savings because we can’t bring ourselves to cut off the boys from outside playtime prematurely. Our grill is running several nights a week. I’ve felt that familiar dampening of my shirt while running on a particularly warm March day. I even got my first sunburn last weekend despite lots of sunscreen.
Sundress weather is coming soon, and it is just what I need to pull myself out of this winter funk. I need to throw open every window in the house, clean it top to bottom of all the dust and stuffiness that accumulates when the cold is too biting to open up the house. I need to make tall pitchers of lemon and cucumber water and constantly have a layer of sand on the floorboards of my car. I need my boys to have hair bleached by the sun and to see my tirelessly working husband be able to lounge in a towel with a good book and a cold beer. I want fresh seafood and frozen lemonade. The smell of rum and coconut.
It’s near…all so near. I can’t wait.
Posted on | March 13, 2013 | 3 Comments
Because I’m sick of me talking about sick babies. But such is life. Sully got the stomach bug on the way to the gym Friday. My sister was visiting. We chatted happily in the front seat until Sully declared, “My tummy hurts!!!!” Thinking it was just gas, I replied that we only has a minute or two until we were at the gym. He responded by ralphing all over the window.
Maddy and I disinfected the whole house. I thought we were Scott free until 1:40AM yesterday morning. There’s this weird mommy intuition that happens sometimes, and I just knew Arlo was sick. I jumped up and rushed to his room to find him puking and covered in shit.
My gag reflex has never worked so hard.
I bathed him while Tay changed sheets and set out new PJs.
We were both up early. Horrible. But we are surviving. This is life. Please just hang in there with me.« go back — keep looking »