Robert is obsessed with numbers now. He likes to ask me how old I was in the past, which isn't so bad, but I really hate when he tells me how old I'll be, oh say, twenty years from now. "Oh Mommy, you're going to be 60!" he crows.
Do you want cheese with that whine?
I didn't realize that, along with every contagious disease that comes down the pike, that I would also catch the dreaded scourge of whining. I was at the doctor's office yesterday, loaded down with sweet little baby, when the receptionist handed me a three page document to fill out. "Do I have to do it now?" I whined.
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