Sacrifices

Mark left one week ago with a bed-head and an extravagant amount of goatee.
Mark is coming home tomorrow with close-cropped hair and a naked face.
In his own optimistic words: "I look like a twelve year old!"
Can you see it?
Do I want to see it?

So like I said sometime before, somewhere, to someone, I'm single-momming it for a bit, and growing a profound respect for those mommies who do it everyday. I am a whiny wimp, I bow before your motherdom.
Michelle this week hs been a frightful combination of insecure and overly familiar. Any parent or childcare enthusiast knows the distastefulness of that concoction.
Yesterday while I was taking down Mark's laundry (yes, I'm THAT behind...go ahead and cluck your tongue) she pointed to a T-shirt and observed that it was Daddy's. When I held it up to show her, she said "Hug?" I draped the shirt around her and she stood there for an impossibly long time with her nose buried in it and her eyes closed. Sheeeesh! Whatta Daddy's girl...
Here she is, for real, sleeping with his "Ahtashay".



I oughtta sell this one to Gatsby