|My next tattoo.|
You may or may not have heard this in my house last night:
Me: “I’m going to go in and read books to Lila. You are going to figure out where you can go to buy me a burrito.”
Me: “Yes. It’s Mexico. It can’t be that hard.”
Yes. He’s lucky. That’s inferred. I am a blessing.
I just recently bought ovaltine. I love it. I adore all things malted. Except whoppers. Those beasts are disgusting.
I like it when people pronounce “jogging” as “yogging.” And by “people”, I mean, I like it when Ron Burgundy pronounces “jogging” as “yogging.”
No one in my family likes papaya except me. Sad. It’s an incredible fruit. Look at this inappropriateness from wikipedia: “In Cuba, the papaya is called “fruta bomba” and the word papaya is a reference to female genitalia.”
I think chokers (necklaces) are horrendous and no matter how “on trend” they are I will forever hate them. They’re hideous.
Lila told Vivienne today at dinner, “You is my best friend. I lud you so much.”
Then she took her food off her tray.
Our new-ish dog, Millie, is a repeat offender in terms of chewing up the girls’ wooden toys.
Wooden toys aren’t cheap. She’s eaten at least 15.
She’s no Ferg. She.is.no.Ferg.
Today when I got home from work Lila had a whole “Happy Birthday party” set up for me complete with blocks, puzzle pieces, teacups, plastic cupcakes and plates. She then sang Happy Birthday in English and then sang Happy Birthday in Español.
My daughter is a choyera. And I love it.
I turn the ringers off on my cell phones from 11 p.m. to 6 a.m. because, really? I can’t help you if something happens during those hours.
Nor do I want to risk a myocardial infarction.