To Tomicka Who Works the Night Shift at the Crowne Plaza

February 8, 2017 in Beth, But Seriously by Beth Woolsey


Dear Tomicka Who Works the Night Shift at the Crowne Plaza at the Seattle Airport,

I don’t know how many frantic phone calls you field every night. I don’t know how many of those come from mommies who are too far away from their kids to help them. I don’t know how many times you have to calm them the heck down and tell them not to worry because you’ve got this. I don’t know if this was old hat to you or a first. All I know is, you handled it like a rock star.

My kid was stranded the other night at the airport with a flight cancelled due to snow, which you already know because we talked about it on the phone while we became best friends. She’d flown to Seattle from Oregon on her way back to college in Hawaii, but, after waiting inside the airport 6 hours and another 3 hours sitting on the plane, the flight was cancelled, the passengers returned to the gate, and she was stuck. Tired from a long day of travel and delays, and stuck.

Now, yes. My kid is 18 and a half, so technically an adult. But she’s a BRAND NEW adult — a baby adult — and, perhaps more importantly, her mommy is new to having an adult, so we’re just learning the ropes around here. She could have handled herself. She would have done fine. But she was traveling alone for the first time, and it was snowing buckets outside, and the next flight wasn’t leaving ’til morning, so MOMMY TO THE RESCUE, right?? Except I couldn’t really rescue her. I could only try to find a place for her to sleep while she navigated the rest on her own.

I booked her a room at the Crowne Plaza.

We usually stay at a different hotel at the Seattle airport. One with crumbling asphalt in the parking lot and a very long, bent chain link fence. They serve horrible coffee with powdered creamer, and the carpets are stained, but the rooms are clean and cheap, and, frankly, that’s all we usually look for in a hotel.

But I booked her a room at the Crowne Plaza. The price was $50 more than we usually spend, but I wanted a place that made her feel safe. I wanted a place that made me feel safe. A clean room, not as cheap, but safe. I assume this is what people talk about when they say they have “standards.” Ours are usually lower than other people’s, but this time, no. Crowne Plaza it was.

I called you after I made the booking because I know hotels don’t usually allow 18-year-olds to book rooms, and I needed to make sure you’d let her check in. It was 11:00pm, dark with flurries furiously falling, and Abby was making her way to the hotel shuttles. She was texting me every minute to ask if she was in the right place. To ask if I was sure.

“This is the Crowne Plaza, Tomicka speaking. How may I help you?”

“Tomicka? My name is Beth. My daughter, Abby, just had her flight canceled so I booked her a room with you. She’s 18.”

“Well… our policy doesn’t allow 18-year-olds to stay alone here…”

I interrupted you. I was maybe a tiny bit frantic. “But my kid is STRANDED AT THE AIRPORT, Tomicka, and she’s ALONE, so WE NEED A SOLUTION. What is our solution here??”

“It’s OK,” you said. And “DO NOT PANIC.” Which sometimes I need to hear, even if I say back, “I AM NOT PANICKING, TOMICKA. I AM VERY CALM.”

“Let me finish,” you said, and I took a deep breath which was really just me preparing TO FIGHT YOU TO THE DEATH for a room for my child, but then you said these words to me, “Beth. Listen. I am a mommy. I will take care of your daughter. Although our policy doesn’t allow 18-year-olds to check in alone, I will call my manager right now to get an exception approved. I am on this. We can make this happen. I’ll call you back in 10 minutes.”

Listen, Tomicka. When my kid was tiny, we had one rule if she got lost. I drilled it into her over and over.

“If you get lost, what do you do?” I’d ask. “FIND A MOMMY,” she’d reply.

Find a mommy. That was our rule. Because I knew, if my little lost one wandered up to a mommy with a stroller, or a mommy handing out goldfish crackers at a park, or a mommy pushing a kid on a swing, and said “I am lost,” the mommy would protect her. The mommy would help her find her way back to me. Oh sure, the mommy’s reaction after that could go either way — she might be amazingly sympathetic and pat me on the back and say “there, there” while I cried out the adrenaline of losing my kid, or she might be mean and ask me what kind of a mother I am, anyway to lose my child like this? — but I knew she would keep my kids safe before that reaction. And that’s all I needed to know. One rule: Find a Mommy.

You called me back 10 minutes later, just like you said. And also like you said, you’d fixed everything. My kid could check in with the caveat that she couldn’t order room service because they serve alcohol, so delivery would be restricted on her account. “Don’t worry, though,” you said again, “Here’s a number to call if you want to order her a pizza or something. She’s probably hungry.” She was. She hadn’t eaten for 12 hours. She was tired and she was hungry. “BUT IF YOU ORDER,” you clarified, “make sure you have them deliver it here to the front desk. It’s probably fine to have them deliver to her room, but she’s 18 and traveling alone, so let’s just have them meet here where I am.”


“And listen,” you said, “ANYTHING she needs tonight — anything at all — you have her come find Tomicka, OK? I’m a mommy, too. That’s what we do.”

That’s when I said I love you and that you’re my best friend forever.

People ask me all the time, with all the terrible things happening around the world, why I stubbornly think people are good. Why I think there’s still hope. Why I insist that people I haven’t met in real life are, too, my very real friends and not virtual at all. You, Tomicka, proved my point. I keep thinking that way because people like you exist. People who look out for others. People who find common ground. A community of mommies. A community of momrades. Which is why, even if we never meet face-to-face, I still will always be,

Your best friend forever,




CORRECTION: An earlier version of this post misspelled Tomicka’s name as Tanika (as can still be seen in text photos).

A Dog Named Bullsh*t

February 8, 2015 in Family, Funny by Beth Woolsey

Once upon a time, my daughter was two.

Now that she’s 16, she looks like this:

photo 1 (69)

But when she was 2, she looked like this:

standing grin


And when she looked like that, with chubby cheeks and overalls, wispy hair and a funny run, she couldn’t talk.

I mean, she tried to talk, and she had all the usual words like “mama” and “birdie,” “look” and “MINE,” but she had a hard time with bigger words. 

Some kids talk and talk and talk and talk. From the womb, nearly, they put together complex sentences and until age 15, when they stop communicating in anything other than histrionics, they bless their parents with a running commentary on All of Life. The world. The weather. Their wants. Their will. The wild. The weird. The wonder. These are the people who, well, don’t quit until they become bloggers and impose their thoughts on others.

Then there are kids like Abby who are slower to speak. Quieter and, OK, calmer, Abby didn’t seem to have a huge need to use words. When she wanted food, she toddled to the refrigerator. When she wanted me to read a book, she brought me one. When she was frustrated with the other kids in the Sunday School nursery, she lifted the heaviest thing she could find and clocked the other kids over the head with it — THUD! They cried and quit bugging her, and – bonus – her mommy stopped leaving her there. She’s always been a problem solver, that kid.

But there comes a day, sooner or later, in all our lives when words are our only hope to communicate our heart’s desire. And so came such a day with Abby.

She was strapped into her highchair, busy eating Spaghetti-O’s – by which I mean merrily flinging those not already in her hair, down her shirt and glued to her face, onto the floor and to the walls and into the curtains. In other words, it was a veritable tornado of Spaghetti-O’s, and I, parent of one child at the time (psst… one kid is a lot of kids, too!), hadn’t yet learned to ban red sauce from my lunch repertoire. Attempting to distract her from redecorating the house, I said, “Let’s put on a video! You like to watch videos!”

And Abby, bless her heart, clapped her wet hands, spraying sauce in her face, smiled and enthusiastically said, “BULLSHIT!”

Kid you not.

Clear as a bell.

And then she reiterated. “Bullshit, Mama! Bullshit!” Grinning all the way.

Well, obviously she wasn’t saying bullshit. I mean, she was TWO and she wasn’t good with words so even though it was technically within the realm of possibility that I’d said it in front of her, the likelihood of her picking it up was low. 

I set about finding out what she really meant.

“Push it, Abby?” I inquired. “Do you want me to push the video in? Push it?”

“NO, Mama,” she replied. “BULLSHIT.”

Okaaay, then.

“Smoosh it, Abby? Are you smooshing your lunch?”

“NO, Mama. BULLSHIT.” Her smile was faltering a little. Clearly, I wasn’t getting it. She balled her fists and smacked them on her highchair tray. “BULLSHIT, Mama. BULLSHIT.” 

“Punch it, Abby?” I asked. “Are you punching your Spaghetti-O’s?”

“NO, Mama. BULLSHIT,” she cried. 

And I, in desperation and not with a little bit of dread, said, “Are you saying… bullshit, sweetheart?” Thinking, maybe she IS saying bullshit. Maybe I DID teach it to her. UGH.

She burst into tears of frustration, whimpering, “NO, Mama! Bullshit, Mama. Bullshit!

Which… THANK GOD, you know? I’m NOT the mommy who taught her baby girl to say bullshit! PHEW! and HOORAY! and WHAT A RELIEF! I mean, I eventually became the mommy who taught her kids to say, “you have got to be fucking kidding me,” but this was my FIRST TIME AS A MOMMY, guys; I wasn’t ready yet to abandon every standard, and the idea of teaching my baby to swear was GHASTLY. 

So, at a loss for how to continue, I stuck a video in the machine.

Abby calmed down.

I relaxed and chalked it up as one of those things, fairly certain it was a quirk of learning to speak and that was the end of it.

That was not the end of it.

Over the next several weeks, Abby continued to say bullshit, and at the oddest times.

While watching TV.

Before bed.

At the public library. 

And when we were alone, I continued to question her. Trying, trying, trying to figure out what she was saying.

Every time it was the same. 

I’d guess what she meant. She’d cry, “NO, Mama. BULLSHIT!” And eventually we’d both exhaust ourselves, and I’d quit and plug in a video or read a book.

Until the day we went to the mall.

Abby, me, and her stroller.

We went to the mall to kill time. To pine away at the cute Baby Gap clothes we couldn’t afford. To eat at the food court. To wander through the book store. To make it to the car by naptime. The usual distractions with a toddler to entertain.

This time, though, we arrived at the food cart and Abby went rigid in her stroller. All her muscles tensed at once, ’til she was standing on the foot rest and pushing her body back into her chair. Totally still. Totally attentive. Totally focused. Slowly, she raised her arm in front of her, pointed straight ahead, and, like an army commander ready to give the signal to FIRE — to CHARGE THE ENEMY — in the middle of the food cart full of mommies and babies and impressionable children, Abby bellowed, “BULLLLSHIIIIIIIT!”

She turned her head to be sure I was paying attention, then faced forward again with pointer finger aimed true, and yelled, “BULLLLSHIIIIIIIT, MAMA! BULLLLSHIIIIIIIT!” 

I, after weeks and weeks of my baby saying bullshit realized that maybe, just maybe, we might be able to CATCH this bullshit if we hurried. So I, like a properly prepared army cadet, ready to follow my commanding officer into battle and the hell beyond, yelled, “WHERE, ABBY? WHERE IS IT?” and started to drive that stroller like a tank with single-minded determination to PURSUE OUR TARGET wherever my officer led.

We ran through the whole food court. Abby with rapid fire BULLSHITs and me with staccato WHEREs on repeat and at high volume.





Until we arrived at our usual bookstore. 

The one flanking the food court.

The one with the big children’s section.

The one with giant cut-outs from beloved children’s books decorating the walls.

The one with Clifford the Big Red Dog smiling and waving at us, which is where we stopped. In front of Clifford, with my daughter pointing to his face, and cheerfully yelling, “BULLSHIT, Mama! See?? BULLSHIT!”

Clifford, honey?” I said.

And she sagged in relief. “Yes, Mama. Yes. Bullshit.”

Which makes no sense at all because Clifford sounds nothing like Bullshit, but it’s what she’d been trying to say all along. 

And that’s why, at our house, we call him Bullshit, the Big, Red Dog.


The Second Dresser Drawer: A Heartwarming Story of Childhood Terror

September 5, 2014 in Family, Funny by Beth Woolsey

“Fine,” said the younger daughter with great reluctance, “you can look in my room. As long as you don’t open the second dresser drawer.

She looked at us with her I’m Not Kidding face, and her Don’t Try Me Right Now lip-pursing, and the I’m a Preteen And I WILL Knife You in Your Sleep stare, and we knew she meant business.

It was nighttime, just before we put kids to bed, and we parents were busily searching the house to find the missing cord to an ancient white noise maker in another bid to help our anxious kid sleep better, but at our daughter’s emphatic direction, Greg and I looked at each other with that quick and silent conversation you perfect over the course of parenting; Do you know why she said that, we thought at each other, because I sure don’t, and WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN, ANYWAY, “don’t open the second dresser drawer?” 

It’s like a when small children get quiet in the other room. There’s an instant sense of foreboding. Nothing good came come of this, you think, and, given the number of times you’ve turned the corner to find a modern Sharpie art mural on the kitchen cabinets or a toddler playing blissfully in in the bin of flour she’s dumped upon the floor, you’re usually right.

“Hey, Aden?” I said. “What’s in that dresser drawer, honey?”

I tried my nicest, least panicky voice. I mean, the kid’s in middle school. It could be DRUGS. Or SEX, although I’m not sure how you’d put sex in a dresser drawer, but KIDS THESE DAYS; ANYTHING’S POSSIBLE. Or what if she’s the head of an Underground Candy- or Chips-Smuggling ring?? Like the mob boss of candy and chips! If so, I’ll have to confiscate all her merchandise and eat it to teach her a lesson. There’s no way I wasn’t finding out what was in that drawer.

“I don’t want to tell you,” she said, and put her head under her blanket to hide on her bed.

“But,” I replied, “I really feel like we need to know.”

And then Greg and I waited.

And she finally whispered, “It’s the doll.”

Except it wasn’t a sweet whisper.

It was a creepy whisper. 

Like something from Children of the Corn.

Or when that kid from the Sixth Sense says he sees dead people. 

“It’s the doll, Mom,” she whispered.

And I whispered back, because whispering seemed important, “What doll, baby?”

Tiffany“Tiffany,” she said.

And I’ve written about Tiffany before. A sweet story about my oldest daughter’s Last Doll. A story that always makes me cry because it’s about the magic of childhood and my baby growing up and passing her doll and the magic along to the littles. It’s all that’s aching and bittersweet about relinquishing childhood. And it’s all that’s beautiful about sisters and brothers who take good care of each other’s hearts.

“What about Tiffany, Aden?” I asked gently, thinking she must’ve cut Tiffany’s hair or colored on her face, and not blaming her, really, for not wanting to tell me. We don’t have a ton of heirloom type toys at our house; we’re hard on the house and the furniture and the toys, so we’re used to things breaking, but we’ve tried hard to keep Tiffany in good condition, and we all tend to treat her like she’s Real.

Aden peeked with one eye out of the blanket and whispered, “She comes alive at night, Mom, and if I open the drawer, even a crack, she comes and stares at me while I sleep. I never, ever open that drawer, Mom, not ever since Abby told me that.” 

“Since Abby told you that?” I clarified.

“Uh huh,” she confirmed.

“Abby, your big sister?” I said.


“And how long has Tiffany been in that drawer, Aden?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Mom,” she said. “A long time, I think.”

So I wandered down the stairs to find my eldest.

“AHEM,” I said.

And she said, “What?”

And I said, “Did you, by any chance, tell your little sister that Tiffany comes alive at night?” 

Abby started to grin.

“And did you, oh sweet DARLING girl, happen to mention that, if she left her dresser drawer open, Tiffany would crawl from the dresser and stare at her while she sleeps?”

Abby started to laugh.

“And did you, at any point, think to tell her none of that is true?” 

Abby, cackling, shook her head no.

“So, then. You WILL, I am SURE, march upstairs and tell your sister right now that you made it all up, yes?” 

And Abby, still giggling, said, “Yes.”

And then she said, “Mom?”

And I said, “What?”

And she said, “I told Aden that over a year ago.”

Over a year ago!

For a year – a YEAR – my daughter’s been sleeping with Chucky in her room.


And if that isn’t a sweet, precious, heartwarming story of childhood terror, I don’t know what is.

The End

P.S. Greg, Abby and I all told Aden that Tiffany doesn’t really come alive at night. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t believe us.

P.P.S. I don’t think I believe us, either. Send help.

Tiffany Photoshop Credit: my little brother, Jeff McDonough. He’s proof a younger sibling can withstand torture by an older sister and be marginally functional as an adult.

20 Emergencies When Your Teen MUST Text: A Case for Teens and Cell Phones

June 26, 2014 in Family, Funny by Beth Woolsey

So many articles about teenagers and entitlement and so little time, you know?

photo 3 (48)

Also, blah, blah, blah, because my teen is as entitled as I was 25 years ago, by which I mean she is kind, and funny, and smart, and totally self-absorbed, and deeply concerned about others, and constantly confused about why she can’t have all the things she wants when she wants them.

She’s a hard worker and just amazingly lazy. Frugal and extravagant. Charming and annoying. And learning – constantly learning – about life and the people around her and her place in it all. So she’s human, really. And the same as I am now, at age 40, if I’m going to be honest.

My teenager has a cell phone which she half earned and half was given, about which I feel fine. I use it as an apron string, one she seems happy to cling to, and I make her text me with every new destination, plan and time change. She uses it appropriately and inappropriately; again, like her mama, sometimes with good boundaries about screen time and sometimes without. She uses it to stare at when she’s in social situations that make her feel uncomfortable, like how I used her in her infancy at parties and groups as a distraction from feeling scared and lonely and not knowing what to say. She puts the phone away – all the way away and on silent – at doctor appointments and guidance counselor meetings and not always in class. She’s an expert at high-speed car chase games and she makes a mean virtual cupcake. 

And the rest of the time, she texts. She texts and texts and texts like it’s oxygen and salvation. But that’s OK because the main reason we let her have a phone was for emergencies. And that’s how she uses it. For EMERGENCIES. Lots and lots of emergencies. Like these:

  1. To say, “Mom.”
  2. When I haven’t responded in 3 seconds, to say, “MOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
  3. 3 seconds after that to say, “TEXT ME BACK!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
  4. 2 seconds after that to say, “!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
  5. To say, “fine”
  6. To say, “MOM! I CAN’T FIND THE THING!!!!!!”
  7. To say, “found it. bring me coffee on ur way home?”
  8. To say, “Coffee?????!!!”
  9. To say, “PLZ BRING ME COFFEE”
  10. To say, “Can u get coffee??”
  11. When I say, “Not planning to,” to say, “:( but can you? I’ll help w the kids. And manage there jobs! ;)”
  12. To say, “?”
  13. To say, “I NEED COFFEE PLZ I’ll do anything”
  14. When I write back, “Can’t right now,” to say, “Ugggghh kay. :(“
  15. To say, “But why????”
  16. When I write back, “Working,” to say, “:( alright…………………:(“
  17. To say, “K”
  18. To say, “miss u”
  19. To say, “Come snuggle me soon”
  20. To say, “come home. luv u”

In conclusion, I wish we’d put away those silly cultural arguments that we overindulge our teens and they don’t really need phones. CLEARLY they do need them. And use them. For emergencies. It’s a safety issue, folks. Case closed.

P.S. My teen approved this message.

P.P.S. I don’t text anything irritating. I am awesome all the time, and Abby’s never, ever annoyed by me.

P.P.P.S. My teen did not approve the P.P.S.



Seeping Booty: The Bizarre But True Tale of Maleficent’s Real Magic

June 2, 2014 in Funny by Beth Woolsey

photo 1 (70)When Abby, my oldest, was a toddler, she couldn’t get enough Sleeping Beauty in her life and watched the Disney movie, the way toddlers do, over and over and over again – and over again – slamming her sippy cup on the TV when I failed to rewind the tape in the VHS player with a speed that met her expectations. Oh, Modern Mamas with your instantaneous DVD magic! May you never know the pain of prolonged rewinding.

Now, when Abby was 2, she couldn’t pronounce Sleeping Beauty, and so she called Aurora “Seeping Booty,” instead, which is, of course, a leaking butt and always made me think of the beautiful princess Aurora with a terrible, terrible case of diarrhea. Just horrible. The kind that leaves you chalky and pale and doubled over with pain and sure – sure – that you are about to DIE on the toilet, or, worse, pass out and soil yourself and have to live to face the person who finds you. There’s just… nothing beautiful about that. Nothing.

It changes the movie entirely once you consider it from the Seeping Booty perspective, to think of Aurora laid out on that bed, pale and lifeless from a dreadful case of the runs, the finger pricked on the spinning wheel a mere coincidence on which Maleficent capitalized in order to further her reputation as a wicked practitioner of the most nefarious magicks, instead of the truth, which is this: Maleficent is a just an accomplished food poisoner akin to the witch in Snow White who worked her spell on an apple.

And, really, let’s think of Maleficent for just one minute and how it might shape you to be born into a family of benevolent fairies only to discover your one magical gift is to cause people gastrointestinal discomfort. What would you do? Who would you become? Not so easy to casually dismiss Maleficent now, is it? And what if Maleficent’s gift applies not just to others, but also to herself? Wouldn’t a lifelong case of the craps explain the gauntness? The razor-blade cheekbones (even Angelina had to wear prosthetic cheekbones to play her)? The cruel disposition? The giant, fire-breathing dragon, which is obviously a metaphor for the trots, which drag on and drag on and drag-on… DRAG ON. Dragon. Right?

I don’t know. I don’t mean to be critical here, but I think Disney could’ve done a better historical job of making Maleficent a sympathetic character all along by simply divulging this information about her, rather than waiting for a 2-year-old to ferret it out. Of course, I haven’t seen the new Maleficent movie yet, so they probably corrected this gross oversight and I just spoiled the entire thing. 

photo 2 (76)P.S. This post is utterly pointless, FYI, and it occurs to me now I might’ve warned you of that at the beginning. Sorry about that. It’s just that Abby is recovering from foot surgery, which means she’s hopped up on narcotics, unlimited Disney movies, and a general but determined aura of patheticness, and she fell asleep watching Sleeping Beauty the other day which made me happy and maudlin at the same time to remember our Seeping Booty days, and now you’re stuck with this drivel. You’re welcome. It’s what I do.

Sleeping Beauty

P.P.S. Abby used to call Clifford the Big Red Dog, “Bullshit.” I thought you should know.

This Mama in the Morning

March 29, 2014 in Beth, Family, Funny by Beth Woolsey

Here’s a quick Saturday morning story for you. Because it’s morning! Hooray!

Ready? Here we go.

Once upon a time,
my daughter took a picture of my eyes.


So she could make me a pretty picture.


And then she texted it to me.


With commentary.


To which I responded.


Because she is RIGHT.

In conclusion, HAPPY SATURDAY MORNING, momrades!

Let’s eat some children for breakfast.


P.S. You can make pretty pictures for your family, too. Abby made this one using the Zoo Eyes app. God bless her. I shall add it to Mommy’s Wall of Terror with alacrity.

Parenting for the Win

October 26, 2013 in Beth, Family, Funny by Beth Woolsey

I’ve been parenting for the win a lot lately, and I just thought I’d share a couple things I’m doing exceptionally well so you can follow my example and better your parenting, too.

First, I accused my teenager of acting like a 5-year-old because she didn’t want to come out of her room for, you know, the whole weekend, so I was feeling rejected, hurt and powerless, and also the tiniest bit premenstrually enraged, and that’s always the best time to accuse others. That’s when she told me she was staying in her room because she was in a bad mood and didn’t want to take it out on others “since that’s what you say to do, Mom; if you can’t be kind, take some time alone until you can.”  

photo 2 (47)Ahhhh, crap.


This is also why I say to do what I say and not what I do. Because my ideas are WAY better than my execution, man.

So there was that for the parenting win.

And then my dad-in-law with his new bum shoulder needed some help moving boxes, and we happen to have a strapping 13 year old boy with excellent shoulders, a desperate need for activity and structure, and a frequently questionable work ethic. PERFECT. So Greg hollered down the stairs, “Hey, Ian?”

“What?” Ian hollered back, ’cause we’re one of those strict don’t-yell-in-the-house families.

“Grandpa’s gotta move some boxes toda…” and Greg didn’t even get through the sentence before that kid started yelling, “NOOOOOOOO! No! No! NOOOOOOOO!” And MAN that made me mad.

Spitting mad.

Minus the spitting because I’m not much of a spitter.

But brain-whirling mad, for sure.

I had so many thoughts in my brain, in fact, that they all backed up and I couldn’t figure out which one to yell first. Like, “Oh HELL no, kid. When someone in our family needs help, we do NOT start bellowing NO.” Or, “You get your little rear in gear right now, pal. And when you’re done helping Grandpa move boxes, I’ll give you some extra work so you can practice having a decent attitude about it.” Or, “GAH! WHY CAN’T YOU STOP BEING SUCH A TOTAL BUTT NUGGET?!”

You know, brain-whirling mad.

Which is when that same kid – the kid with expressive language disorder who takes some time to get his words out – finished his “NOOOOOOOO! No! No! NOOOOOOOO!” thought with, “NO! Grandpa should not do that! I’m strong. I go help him right now!”

Mm hm.

Misjudge your kids much, Beth?


In conclusion, I hate it when my children are more mature than me. It really bites, you know?



Please feel free to join me this fine weekend and share your Parenting Wins, as well. Misery loves company. I swear.


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