Two minutes. Are two minutes too much to ask? Two minutes to talk with a grownup without having to worry about you? But no. I take my eyes off you for two lousy minutes and next thing I know you’re huddled under the slide, sobbing like somebody stole your cupcake.
Transcript from a fun day with Dad . . .
We are driving home from dinner at a friend’s house one evening when our four-year-old, Sawyer*, who loves music, spontaneously breaks into song. “I gotta big butt, I gotta big butt . . .”
Saw Dr. Vaughn Romo yesterday. My second consult. We discussed the various options again. The consult was free this time, but not of arrogance . . .
Breathing is difficult today. In the waiting room we sit, my sick four-year-old and I. For a w.hole nineteen minutes now the paper-white silence has been punctuated by the cold of the man a.cross from us.
We are in the South of France with our babies. Our babies cannot talk but find alternative ways to disrupt us.
I have always tried to include three-year-old Gus in the decision-making. For example, we have discussed at length the pros and cons of wearing a snowsuit to bed.
Pepper, it’s you and me now. Haven’t we been happy long as we stayed close?