I'd read the stories.
I'd envisioned the madness.
I cringed at the thought.
I sympathized with the victims.
I had the nightmares.
But it was not near as gruesome in my head as it was in real life.
No one ever thinks it will happen to them.
And then one day, you look over at your sweet babe.
And realize he is smearing his own poo all over your beloved wood floor.
So I can't just end a post with that. I'll give you an idea of a normal conversation with Kiddo.
~on the way to meet Hubby and the inlaws for lunch...
(while passing Hubby's office) read this as fast as you can for the full effect...
"Is that Daddy's office?"
"Did he go to work?"
"Did he drive the CRV?"
"Does he have a motorcycle too?"
"Does it get better gas mileage than the van?"
"Does it have a big engine?"
"Does it take him on big adventures?"
"Does it drive really fast?"
"I had Lucky Charms for BREAKFAST!!"
Okie dokie! lol!