The selection of cheese at Wal-Mart is appalling.
Wal-Mart has apparently been accepted into more than just our vernacular as spell check just corrected me with hyphen placement.
We look like tyrannosaurus rex when we walk along the road texting with our little tiny arms.
My nearly four year-old is a yes-woman, flashing her smile at all the right times to attempt an early release from time-out.
My six year-old is perfecting well-aimed barbs in an attempt to make the world run her way.
My eight year-old is stuck between an attitudinous pre-teen limbo and a cuddly, sweet girl.
I’m taking the life of my already tenuous midsection into my own hands when I dare lie in savasana with a three year-old lurking.
Namaste is not in a three, six, or eight year-olds vocabulary – at least not in its proper use.
It is near impossible to find board shorts with an inner liner.
Aloe is a wonder ‘drug’.
Fall is coming. I can feel it in my bare shoulder peeking out from under the quilt in the morning.
You can still go to the playground in the rain if you stay under the trees or in the big wooden ark.
Whole-wheat o’s covered in honey are like crack to the playground set.
The amount of times I’ve been told to ‘not get old’, apparently it’s not advised.
Even if a story is wholly written in your head, it’s still not easy to get it down on paper.
Firefly larva eat slugs, hunting them by their slime trail.
Even though I hate slugs, I still find that fact revolting.
A week, while packed with infinite moments, goes by in an infinitesimal flash.