I’m being given a second chance at early-childhood psychology under the guidance of my son, Professor Watch-Me-Do-This.
Woe to me if I were to ever write a Mother’s Day commentary about the faults of mothers.
Sometimes he gives himself away by shaking his head before he’s done anything. He’s a terrible Poker player.
My mother has a photo of my step-father and me, underwear on our heads, pretending to be deep-sea divers hunting sharks.
As Kelly and I danced, painfully working our way through the ‘Electric Slide’, Ian was sprawled in my arms, dead to the world.
This time last year, Kelly, Ian and I were still recovering from the most tiring night of our lives.
…He doesn’t knock them off, or toss them over his shoulder. He carefully grasps them, lifts them into the air, and slams them to the carpet.
“…sometimes I wish he’d save a little something for me.”