Stay With Me – Ignoring That Pile of Dishes In My Sink

Last week I felt like I was constantly rushing. Rushing downstairs when I woke up to make the coffee and get myself ready. Rushing to rouse the girls and help them get dressed and brush their hair. Rushing out the door and heading to daycare drop-off – making sure I pulled into the parking lot precisely at 7:15. I knew I had a one minute buffer but if I arrived at 7:17 I would pull out of the neighborhood later than I should and I would get stuck behind the bus  – which would make me panic throughout the rest of my drive about being late to work. After work, I rushed to get a quick workout in and then rushed to pick up the girls. I headed home to tidy the house a bit and make dinner and before I knew it the whole process started again. It wasn’t very pretty.

Thankfully, there were moments when my children reminded me I needed to slow down.

“Mama!” she called from upstairs.

I was unloading the dishwasher so I could load it again with the dirty dishes that were overflowing in the sink and I hadn’t yet started prepping dinner.

“Come down, babe!” I yelled up the steps. If she came down, I could talk to her while I got some work done.

She didn’t come down.

“Sweetie, come down!” I yelled again.

She still didn’t emerge.

Annoyed at being disrupted from my list of chores I wanted to check off my list, I went upstairs and saw her sitting on her blanket, leaning her head against a pillow in her “fort” (which is really her closet). She looked up at me and let out a muffled sigh.

I took a deep breath and ducked down beneath her hanging dresses and sat next to her. She leaned into me.

“What’s up, kiddo?” I asked.

“Sister doesn’t want to play with me.” she replied.

I put my arm around her little shoulders. “Sometimes sister wants to do other things. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t like you, it just means she wants to do her own thing right now.”

“I’m sad,” she said.

“I’m sorry you’re sad.” I sat with her for a couple of minutes and then kissed her on the head and started to get up to head back downstairs.To where my work was.

She put her hand on my shoulder. “Stay with me.” she insisted.

I looked at her small shoulders hunched over and the downturned corners of her mouth and I took a deep breath and sat back down. To where my work really was. We sat next to each other in silence. I tried not to count in my head how many minutes we were sitting, and how many dishes I could put away in that same timeframe. I reminded myself that I enjoyed sitting next to my child.and feeling her warmth and her weight pressed against me. I reminded myself that sometimes the dishes really can wait. I leaned my head against hers and rubbed her back.

After a few minutes of silence, she said, “Thanks for helping me. I feel better now,” and she popped up and walked out of the “fort” ready to head back downstairs.

The anxiety I had felt about taking the time to head upstairs had been totally unfounded. In reality, it had taken only five to seven minutes of total time, starting from when I yelled up the steps from the kitchen. Five to seven minutes to help my daughter to feel loved and secure and able to regroup. Five to seven minutes are so important when you think about it that way.

The pile of overflowing dishes will get done, eventually. They won’t sit there forever.  My kids won’t need me for that long.

Advertisements

Here’s Why You Need to Apologize to Your Kids

The other day I lost it.

My daughter refused to walk down the stairs, to sit on the toilet, to wear pants, to put on her shoes.  She complained about not being allowed to eat a donut for lunch, about having to wash her hands after using the toilet, and about having wet hair (after her long tresses dipped into the toilet water as she leaned in to watch her poop swirl into the abyss).  When I tried to help her put on her shoes, she bucked and thrashed and managed to headbutt me in the face.  I’m in that stage of parenting where it seems like I’m always getting headbutted in the face.

I remember reading somewhere that the supraorbital ridge, that bone beneath your eyebrows, evolved to counter the load put on the facial bones during chewing, and that eyebrows, located above that bone, evolved to stop sweat from pouring into the eyes, directing it down the sides of the face instead.  While I imagine both would be useful for our hunter-gatherer ancestors, I propose a counter-hypothesis, that perhaps both structures evolved because children often headbutt us parents, and without the protruding bony bit they would punch out our eyes with their thick skulls, and without the thick brows, blood would pour into our eyes, preventing us from seeing the next blow coming.  It’s plausible.

I might have been okay if it had ended with the headbutting, but then there was her refusal to stay in her bed, or even in her bedroom for that matter, during nap time.  There was more, but my brain blocked it out to save my own sanity.

I snapped.  I yelled.  LOUDLY.  I was exhausted and hormonal and at my wits’ end.  It was a very ugly sight and it left both of us in tears.  I was a bad mama that day.

So, I apologized.

While it might seem silly for a grown woman to confess to a two-year-old, that’s exactly what I did.  After all was said and done, we ended the day with books, cuddles and kisses, and while I was glad we had smoothed everything over, I was still a bit gutted with guilt, playing over her words in my mind, “It’s okay, Mama.  It was an accident”.  Because it wasn’t an accident.  I should have had more control. There are zero reasons to be a jerk to a two-year-old.

I’m a firm believer that if you have a lapse in judgement you acknowledge the mistake and do your best to prevent it from happening again.  While it’s hard to apologize to anyone, and counter-intuitive to some to apologize to a small child, here’s why I think it’s important to do so:

Sometimes we screw up.  And that’s okay, we’re only human. Learning the hard way that something doesn’t work is generally a precursor to eventually figuring out what does.  Like when I used to look down at my phone every once in a while when my kids were running around the living room like wild bulls.  I quickly learned to check my social media some other time, to keep my head up and my eyes on my little toros,  so I would not get caught looking down as they charged towards me and CRASH! split open my brow.  Again. Live and learn and Ole!

As parents, we strive to become better teachers, better negotiators, and better role models, but that doesn’t mean we achieve perfection on every attempt.   If we acknowledge that we that we make mistakes, we show our children that it is okay for them to make them, too.  Eliminating the myth that people are supposed to be perfect is probably good for all of us.

Providing structure and consequences doesn’t mean we need to resort to authoritarian (read: assholertarian) discipline.  There are many ways to get the attention of your child, to make them comprehend the messages you are trying to get across.  Some are founded upon the principle of routine, some are rooted in consistency, some are just plain old silly  (I know I cannot be the only parent that has a rap routine called “We Brush our Teeth”, complete with horrible beat boxing and “spinning the discs” hand motions). Shock value works too.  Sometimes, the only way we feel heard is if we yell. But there’s a definite distinction between needing to raise a voice every now and again and completely losing your cool. Trust me, even a two-year-old knows the difference.

Kids become who they are because of who we are.  If we want them to become self-aware individuals who take accountability for their actions then we sure as hell better model what that looks like.  Our children will only become bullish adults if we teach them to do so by example, leading only with our horns instead of also with our hearts.

Here's Why You Need to Apologize to Your Kids

Here’s Why You Need to Apologize to Your Kids

Today I Did Good.

There are a lot of days I screw up. But today was not one of them, even though it could have been.  After work I had a doctor appointment, and then I picked up the kids from daycare and we went straight to the grocery store.  I knew I was pushing it, but my kids are pretty good and I brought diapers and snacks.  I am ready, I thought.  Immediately upon entering the store my 2-year-old told me she had to go potty.  SHIT.  We’re just starting this whole potty business so we’re at the point that if she ASKS to go, we have to take her. Nevermind that the clock was ticking until meltdown mode for both her and Infant Grouch, or that the public restrooms are bacterial infected cesspools or that I’d be precariously holding both her and the infant, or that she probably wouldn’t go to the bathroom anyway until she was back in the cart (spoiler alert, she later shit in the cart).

So I took a deep breath.

I said, “Okay, let’s go” and we entered the bathroom and to my surprise, she peed!  So I wrangled her diaper back on and said, “Don’t touch anything!” a million times and we washed our hands and we hoped Infant Grouch wouldn’t start screaming (and she didn’t, whew).  Fifteen minutes after we arrived we finally started our grocery shopping.

Toddler Grouch was sitting in the big part of the cart and Infant Grouch was in the small upper seat.  Toddler Grouch kept standing up and grabbing things off of the shelves and shouting cliches like, “I want that!” while knocking over rows of shampoo.  I found myself repeatting, to her, “Sit down. Sit down. Sit down”, and, “Do you need a snack?” and to myself, “Take a deep breath. An ujayi breath.  Fuck it, ANY BREATH”.

I breathed.

The first item on my list was dry shampoo.  Because God forbid I have to wash my hair every day.  (Seriously, who has time for that?)  I was completely out so I needed it and I walked back and forth and back and forth, scouring the aisles.  I walked back and forth as many times as they say “back and forth” in Love You Forever.  Where the hell is it?  I was getting pissed.  The Meltdown Clock was ticking.   After the amount of time it could have taken me to write a graduate thesis, I finally found it.  Why the hell do they have to always change the packaging?  I resisted the urge to ask this question out loud, since little ears were within the listening range.

The next item on my list was saline rinse for the two stuffy little noses that alternate between mimicking spewing volcanoes and crusty manhole covers.  Our household is plagued with sinuses as delicate and narrow as human hairs, so none of us can survive without this stuff.  We were out, so it had to be found immediately. Where the fuck is it?  For the love of God, it’s been thirty-five minutes and so far all we’ve done is pee on a potty (but, Potty Dance!) and make it down one aisle.  The Meltdown Clock is ticking! I finally found it. “God damned fucking packaging changers!” I yelled.  In my head.  I actually held it in. And again….

I breathed.

While Toddler Grouch was screaming, “I wannnnt it” and, “Go away!” and “Poooooooopy Poop!” I could not be the mom who loses her shit because the saline drops now came in a purple package instead of a white one.  I didn’t even yell when Toddler Grouch started screaming in a sort of horribly mean tone, “Go away!”  or as she crushed groceries with her boots and kept stacking items up next to the infant carrier until they almost toppled over.

Instead, I breathed again and made myself smile at Infant Grouch, even though it may have been a bit too toothy, looking perhaps like the smile the Wolf gave to Little Red Riding Hood.

I bought four different types of dark chocolate and a bottle of Cabernet.  But I did not yell.

We got home and I had two tired and hungry kids to feed, and I opened the fridge to get the leftover chicken tenders and fries for Toddler Grouch…..and I realized Mr. Grouch had eaten them.  He was on a plane heading to an out of town business event so I could not give him an evil glare.  I threw together some leftover black beans and roasted vegetables and told Toddler Grouch she could watch a Little Einsteins episode if she ate her food. And after she tried to pull down the kitchen blinds, she did. Somehow after all that she ate beans and vegetables for dinner.  Score.

It was time for her to head to bed and she started complaining.  I started singing the Goodnight Song to her but improvised the words, changing, “It’s time to go to sleep” to, “It’s time brush your teeth” which she somehow found hilarious, so we laughed and laughed about that as we walked upstairs and she brushed her teeth.  Then when we were getting her pajamas on, she said she wanted to wear the coconut tree poop pajamas so I repeated back to her what she said and we laughed and laughed as we joked that, “A told B and B told C, I’ll beat you to the top of the coconut poop pajama tree!”  After we laughed about that we read I Love You, Stinky Face. On the page with the swamp monster on it I always blow a kiss and touch her face with my finger when the kiss lands on her cheek.  Tonight she giggled and told me she was wiping it off, so I gave a million or so kisses to my little slimy swamp monster and she laughed so loud she could hardly breathe as she wiped them off (even though she asked for more on every inhale) but my kisses were no match for her. Before we knew it, we had been laughing for over half an hour.

A day like this I consider a win, and worth recording.

And I still have dark chocolates and Cabernet to top it off.

Singing Off-Key (And Loving It): A Small Collection of Remixes For Parents of Toddlers

You know how when you sing, sometimes you can’t hear when you’re off-key? It seems like a lot of people tend to think they are better at singing than they actually are (especially after imbibing adult beverages) but, not me.  I can hear my off-key-ness LOUD and CLEAR and you know if YOU can hear it, it must be really bad.  Really really.

So, it was a surprise to me after Baby Grouch Numero Uno was born that I found myself singing to her, often.  As she has grown, she loves to sing, and we are constantly singing, all of the traditional nursery rhymes we hear on Pandora (Nursery Rhyme Radio) or YouTube (Have you checked out Super Simple Songs yet? If not, you MUST) or that she has learned at daycare, and of course the Michigan State Fight Song (gotta brainwash ’em early).  But more often than not we are making up lyrics on the spot, using the same beat to sing different versions of songs, or making up lyrics to describe what we are doing at the moment, or to just have fun and be silly.

Case in point:

Happy and Sad ABC’s

We always sing the ABC’s while washing hands. Somehow Toddler Grouch started singing bits of the song in a frenetic and goofy tone, “aybeceedee eeeeffGEE!” while smiling and bobbing her head and rubbing her hands back and forth vigorously, and singing other bits super slowly, with a mournful tone, slowly swaying from side to side, the corners of her mouth turned down, faking a sad version of the tune, “ayyyyy beee ceeeee deeee eeeee eeefff geeeeeeeeeee”. If I don’t make my fake-frown frowny enough, she stops me, “Mom, sing it with your mouth!”  It’s hilarious. We giggle.

Case in point 2:

Silly Word Pattern ABC’s

I have no idea why, but ever since Toddler Grouch could speak “tunu” meant ABC’s.  I have no explanation for this, and it took us a looooong time to figure out what she wanted when she said, “tunu” but we eventually figured out that this meant the ABC song.  Every now and again we sing the ABC’s like this:

A-b-c-d-e-f tunu,

h-i-j-k-l-m-n-o tunu,

q-r-s-t-u tunu,

w-x-y and tunu.

Now I know my a-b tunus,

next time won’t you tunu with me?

 

One of our favorite Super Simple songs is the Good Morning, Mr. Rooster song, which I realize might seem ridiculous coming from the Morning Grouch, but maybe I sing it just as much for me as for her.  It’s really cute.

Good Morning Mr. Rooster Lyrics – by Super Simple Songs

Good morning.  Good morning.  Good morning to you.

Good morning, Mr. Rooster,

Cock-a-doodle-doo.

 

Sometimes we sing the original version, but we often remix it up a bit:

The Good Morning Song

Good Morning.  Good morning. Good morning to you.

Good morning, Little Grouchy,

Mama loves you.

 

(Repeat as needed)

Remix for two kids:  Replace “mama loves you” with “and (insert kid’s name here) too!”

 

Sometimes we use the same beat to get her moving towards the bathroom:

The Potty Song

Good morning. Good morning.  Good morning to you.

Let’s go pee on the potty.

And, maybe poo.

 

*Remix: replace poo with toot.  Farts are always funny.

 


Songs just make everything easier.  And happier.

Here are a few that are sung to the tune of Mary Had A Little Lamb:

The Nap Song

Now it’s time to
take a nap, take a nap, take a nap,
Now it’s time to take a nap,
It’s time to lay in bed.

Lay your head on
the pillow, the pillow, the pillow,
Lay your head on the pillow
It’s time to get some rest

Do you want to
read a book, read a book, read a book?
Do you want to read a book
Read a book with me?

 

The Let’s Change Your Poopy Diaper Song

It’s time to change your

diaper now, diaper now, diaper now,

It’s time to change your diaper now,

let’s clean up your pooooooooop.

* The longer you draw out the word poop, the louder the giggle

** Can easily be modified to accommodate a strictly pee diaper

 

Toddler Grouch’s favorite rendition of Mary Had a Little Lamb is the one I bust out when she’s acting all toddler-like.  “No! No! I don’t wannnnnt to!” You know what I’m talking about. This helps lighten almost any mood:

 The No Song

Toddler Grouch says no no no,
No no no,
No no no,
Toddler Grouch says no no no,
No no no no no!

Trust me, sounds too simple, but goes over very well with the target demographic.

 

The Brush Our Teeth Rap  

This must be performed in rap version, swaying from side to side, bouncing the knees a bit up and down, with a sassy scowl on the face.  Bonus points if you can do this dressed in a hoodie, or with a rasta hat on.

*Every “Ch ch ch ch ch chhhh chhh chhhh chhhh!” is accompanied with a hand gesture, mimicking brushing teeth.

 

We brush our teeth.

Ch ch ch ch ch chhhh chhh chhhh chhhh!

We brush our teeth

Ch ch ch ch ch chhhh chhh chhhh chhhh!

 

We get the bottom.

We get the top.

We go in circles.

We do not stop.

 

Ch ch ch ch ch chhhh chhh chhhh chhhh!

Ch ch ch ch ch chhhh chhh chhhh chhhh!

 

We get the front.

We get the back.

We keep them healthy.

We do not slack.

 

Ch ch ch ch ch chhhh chhh chhhh chhhh!

(Sung in theatrical high pitch): Do you have to spit in the siiiiiiink?

Eeeeee eeee eee ee ee eee eeeeeeeeeeeeee (spin the discs – don’t forget the hand motions)

We brush our teeth.

We brush our teeth.

We’re almost done.  (remix version = let’s have some fun)

(Sung in theatrical high pitch): Do you want to brush your tongue?

 

Eeeeee eeee eee ee ee eee eeeeeeeeeeeeee (spin the discs – don’t forget the hand motions)

Repeat.

Pro tip: Stop singing when the kid stops brushing.  Tell them you need them to keep the beat.

Songs for toddlers. Toddlers love to sing!

Songs for toddlers. Toddlers love to sing!

What are your favorite songs to sing with your toddler? Please, let me siphon your ideas.

Once We Become Parents We Don’t Want To Hang Out With You Anymore (But Not For The Reasons You Think)

Before I became a parent, I had a few relatively close friends who began starting families, and after the birth of their little ones, I never really saw them again.  I tried calling periodically, and would offer up the same sort of date idea we used to do together, usually coffees or lunch dates.  Usually the offer was rejected and after a few attempts to stay connected, I got pissed and gave up.

I remember thinking, What assholes.  Don’t they give a shit about their friends anymore?  I mean, I understood they were busy, and of course family comes first, but  I hardly ever saw them again.  It seemed ridiculous.

A few years later, I had a child of my own, and while I make a concerted effort to schedule in time with friends, I’m sure there are some people out there who now think this about me.  Possibly even some of my own family.

So for the non-parents out there who think I’ve turned into an asshole, here are my excuses.

The kid’s schedule is more important than one would think.  Turns out kids need to eat, drink, move, sleep and poop.  Every damn day of the year.  And for the most part, it really DOES make a difference when and where these events occur.  No parent wants to deal with a kid who is dehydrated, has low blood sugar, is exhausted, or has shit his or her pants.  I’m quite sure none of our friends want to deal with these scenarios either.  This means that the noon lunch dates, or 4pm coffee dates or going out to dinner at any time is really, really hard to swing.  Yes, sometimes we can do it, but when we do, we are pushing it, so we tend to save up these moments for holidays, vacations or other special occasions.  Even if it works out okay, and we/our kid makes it look easy, it leaves us exhausted because it basically gives us a heart attack worrying about whether or not our selfish choice will result in us having to calm our child who is screaming bloody murder and/or having to clean urine or feces off of a public bench or the seats of our minivan.

Kids put their parents on a schedule of their own.  Parents usually blame schedules solely on their kids, but the truth is, we now have a schedule, too.  Before the kids get up, we get ourselves ready for the day, empty the dishwasher, pack the lunches and enjoy 15 minutes of alone time with our cup of coffee.  If we’re feeling overly ambitious, waking up somewhere in the 4 a.m. time slot, we might get a workout in or an hour of blog writing before waking up the kids and getting them ready. Before we get to work we’re already several hours into our day. When the kids nap, we clean the kitchen or the bathroom or fold the laundry.  Once the kids go to sleep, we may or may not get to any of the items on our to-do list, bills, home improvement projects, workouts, or any of the other things normal people do on a day-to-day basis (and are virtually impossible to do while the children are awake), before we basically collapse in a useless heap on the couch.  Yes, we know it’s only 8.30 p.m. And, yes, we’re TOAST. If we do see you outside of our typical schedule, particularly in the evening hours, take it as a huge compliment. We’re still getting up at the ungodly hour we always do the next morning, and are unable to make up that extra energy we are expending for the next 18 years or so.

We like hanging out with our kids.  And if we work outside the home, we feel like our time with them is very limited.  Going out to dinner could mean not seeing your kid all day, going away for the weekend could mean not seeing your child for 80% of the week (that we are not working and they are awake).  Seemingly boring activities, like stacking cups, singing the ABC’s, pushing a little one on a swing, or even simply eating a meal with the kids have turned into some of our favorite moments.  Even if you see our kid act like a total asshole, crying every five minutes, or bouncing off the walls like a human pinball, at home there are more instances than you can imagine that result in us smiling the biggest smiles, laughing the loudest laughs, or otherwise NOT being annoyed with our own offspring.  This can be hard to imagine, I know.

“Just bring the kids” is an option.  But it is one that sucks.  Even though we thoroughly enjoy our time at home, we want to see you, too. We really do.  Even so, we often decline invitations to your fun events, not because it doesn’t sound like a blast in general, but because we know, for us, it just won’t be fun. This is not because YOU aren’t fun.  You are a riot.  (Do you hear us?  We really do think this, even if we neglect to express this enough).  We just can’t focus on you very well when we have to simultaneously keep an eye on our kids making sure they don’t choke, drown in randomly placed vat of water or get a head injury bumping into the pointy corner of a table.  We spend a lot more time and energy worrying about keeping our brood alive than you might imagine.  A lot of times we host events you don’t get invited to.  Again, this isn’t because YOU aren’t fun, it’s because our events aren’t fun, at least not for most adults. They are loud, obnoxious, and strategically located where there are wide open spaces or playscapes that allow toddlers to run and bounce off padded surfaces, screaming like banshees, that allow us to leave the Xanax at home since we don’t have to fear death by pointy edge.

Seemingly benign household chores suddenly seem to consume our lives.  Things we used to think were nothing now seem to consume our lives. Washing, drying, scrubbing, cooking. I still haven’t figured out how one or two tiny little humans results in thirty-five times the number of dishes, loads of laundry, and crumbs on the floor, but it does. Chores that we used to be able to put off until we felt like doing them now Must. Be. Done. Immediately. If they wait, we fear our house might implode, much like a black hole, from the massive amount of grime and toys and dirty dishes concentrated in one place.  To top it off, feeding and housing small children results in such an exponential increase in clutter and dirt (which we care about more now, since our kids are rolling around on the carpet all the time) that it is now unacceptable for our own shit to add to the mess, so there’s the double whammy right there.  Not only are we responsible for cleaning up after our offspring, we now are being held responsible, if only by our own OCD, for cleaning up after ourselves.

Kids go to sleep pretty damn early.  Which means we have to leave events even earlier, or we miss attending them altogether.  It’s easy to look at our kids and say, “Oh, they don’t even look tired!” and you’d be right.  And that’s why we’re leaving NOW, before they have a total meltdown and lose their shit.  We can preemptively sense these things like some animals can sense earthquakes before they register on any seismograph.

Leisure time is so limited that we tend to spend it on ourselves (often by ourselves). Fitting in time to relax and engage in activities we enjoy can be so elusive that sometimes we think we are being assholes to ourselves, for not spending enough time with our own self.  I’m not making this up. Getting a manicure or a haircut or a taking a trip to the gym requires creative scheduling, and everything else in our life to go according to plan – our spouse’s engagements, our kid’s health, work obligations. A lot of our hobbies end up being things we can do at any hour of the day, on our own time, by ourselves: jogging, reading, writing or activities that can be done just as well at 3 a.m. or 3 p.m. The demands of the social calendar scare us.  If we’re going to fit in time to actually see another human being, it’s usually someone who can give us the most bang for our buck. A workout buddy or someone to chat with during a playdate, or, rarely, a meet up with a pal who can completely de-stress us, who is totally on board with our entire excursion being completed within a thirty to forty-five minute window. We do not have the time or energy for idle lingering.

Sometimes we just need to idly linger.  Okay, this might seem like I’m refuting my last point, but I’m really not.  We’re spending so much energy carrying, wiping, toting, cleaning, chasing after, listening to, reasoning with, teaching, and doing, that sometimes we need to just sit, in a quiet space, for ten or thirty or one-hundred-and-twenty minutes in a row, for our own sanity, and for the safety of those around us.  There is no sleeping in, or afternoon naps, or resting on the weekend, so these moments are critical to help our bodies and minds recover and recharge for the remainder of our day or week.  God help you if you infringe on our time we’ve allotted to revive ourselves.  My friends might notice that I played Words with Friends at ten p.m., but they shouldn’t take that as a sign of me being capable of sustaining vigorous nighttime conversations or activities. I’ve probably been in my pajamas for hours, expending almost zero energy, using this time to replenish my life stores, an act of sloth equivalent in importance to the hibernation of bears in the winter.

Keep in mind we’re not upset about these things, we are not complaining about our choice to raise our little ones. We are happy as clams, but we still do miss you and recognize we probably don’t tell you this enough.

Basically, when it comes to friendships, parents of young children are forced to hunker down and encase themselves in a protective cocoon in order to preserve their energy, like some spore that can withstand the harshest of elements.

Don’t give up on us, we’ll emerge and thrive again, once conditions are right. In the meantime, if you are not deterred, let us know if you want to come over at 7 a.m. for breakfast. That’s when we are at our peak.

once we become parents

Once we become parents, we don’t want to hang out with you anymore. But not for the reasons you think.