When something is weird with a toddler, which is every day, you have to make that call. Not a phone call; I make a judgment call. Because in my house we don’t call the fancy Vancouver MD every time a string of green slime snots out onto her upper lip like a fancy skinned caterpillar.
Sorry. I wrote for another site.
Before you burn my clothes and take an unsheathed golf club to my BMW (because I have both), know that it was for an amazing site.
Victoria Mom is a passion project of my lovely friend Amber. She crafted a website out of hard goddamn work, time and endless reams of energy, in and around singing and raising a terribly energetic nearly 3 year old.
I loved writing it and I hope you like reading it.
Maybe I’m feeling way low slung in a funk because if a writer is a writer then they write and guess what: I’m not writing. I’m not blogging. I’m backed up with word constipation and shit is about to get real messy.
Two years. Two years old. Two years ago today.
Thank you for being a total science dolt like me. Your frustration and utter lack of common sense with the mechanics of stacking blocks relieves me – I will never be called down to the cop shop at 2 am after you’ve been caught as the leader of a 1950s girl gang who steals cars in saddle shoes.
Good times. The best times. The-last-scene-from-Dazed-and-Confused-as-they’re-driving-in-the-car-with-the-windows-down-while-the-sun-comes-up times. For me - 1993. Or maybe 1994.