A pool party, a slumber party and kid Jenga with her closest friends… and her “nemesister.”
The 8-year-old was tasked with creating a book in class, and this was her submission. In the past eight years, I have grown accustomed to the sawed-off Buddha who shares my home, the one who openly discussed death at 2, projects a stoic calm in moments of physical trauma, and has, from the beginning, regarded…
Or as Uncle Daron said of the 8-year-old, “She wanted BLACK Chucks? Uh oh, she’s gonna be that girl.”
Fellow hot sleeper and anti-pajama-ite, dreaming twixt Dad and fur.
Sundays at the skatepark. All that organic food and Montessori, just to end up with a pair of hardened street punks.
Apparently it’s ’70s Stache Day at school?
Is it humanly possibly to say no to this? It’s like Machiavelli disguised as a baby bunny, the manipulation is so pwecious and adowwabow!
Mama’s bed is the hot spot for wearing a cat as a hat.
Restaurant dining calls for nonviolent resistance.
Later this week, Michael and I will have our five-year anniversary, and a week after that, Eliot will turn four. (Yeah, go ahead and do the fucking math, Smugley. We were in love, that socially acceptable form of insanity.) So what that means is that after several years of catastrophic missteps, this year we have…