My blog is 3 years old. It doesn’t know what it wants to be when it grows up, but that’s cool. It can live here until it’s 32 as long as it pays rent.
My precious little papoose still makes all kinds of delightful toddler mistakes that make me giggle and generally happy it exists. It improves all the time, getting stronger, more capable. But it still has this tendency to fall smack down on it’s cute little face when its thoughts go too fast too quickly that it can’t catch up to its own mouth.
Also when it’s messy or rude or whiny, as all good littl’uns can be, it is cringeworthy. Downright exasperating. When it knows what it wants to say, but can’t, because it gets distracted like a mole on ritalin…
I guess you could say it’s a small child you don’t mind visiting, but you might be really happy isn’t yours.
Only it is mine. And I’m absolutely certain I’m not parenting it correctly. Not because I don’t want to, but because I just don’t have the skills. So you know what this mamma’s gonna do? She’s going to do the equivalent of following the Dr. Spock manual word for word.
She’s going back to school.