You found your man-parts, Baby Boy. It’s going to be a long life, good luck with that.
Both of you added a new word to your vocabulary: Hot. You walk around all day like two three-foot Paris Hilton’s pointing at everything and saying with a hard “t” it’s hot.
And I sang, yes, sang, aloud in the Stop & Shop parking lot this morning while pushing you in our stroller-come-caravan, the bottom loaded with apples and milk gallons and long loaves of bread, sufficing as a shopping cart: (Cue Britney) “Oops, I did it again, I went to the wrong car, I’m losing my mind!” I’d just wheeled our gypsy wagon up to a black Lexus Rx again. Pointed and clicked at it with my key. Nothing. Point click, nothing. I looked around. Three seagulls and a Delux taxi cab driver standing outside of his car smoking a cigarette were staring at me. Oooooh, as I spied our banged up Mazda.
We are a funny little threesome.
I love us so much.