Hugs smelling of sunscreen, tear-free shampoo, and strawberry-flavored fruit snacks.
The next time I leave I’m afraid I’ll return to a small pyramid fashioned out of giant dried turds.
I worry less about my children being around the stove when I’m cooking food.
There’s a similar picture of me at this exact age, at a park, blowing out candles, about to gobble down poison.
This is the extent of all the yoga that goes on in our house. Unfortunately it hasn’t cleared the mind of the one who practices it.
If only I had given birth to a kid who had more chutzpah.
Even five years later when I look at these photos I think, whoa. I gave birth to my father.
The pack leader who understands the sequence: exercise, discipline, affection, treats, snuggles, more treats, maybe even a massage.
Perfect light and setting interrupted only by the name of a dog being belted out by Her Majesty.
My ideas about short hair vs. long hair have changed so drastically that I’m watching styling tutorials. And recreating shampoo commercials in the mirror.