Summer. For other mortals, it means fireworks, water fights, and long, hot, sweat-soaked days that never seem to end.
For me, it means—oh wait, that IS what summer is like at my house. In fact, that’s what it’s like all year round. Let me start over.
Summer. For other mortals, it means cookouts, the beach (well, maybe not this year), long road trips, and warm evenings chatting on the patio beneath a purple sky.
At my house, it means this:
I have no idea how Baby Bear accomplished this feat of destruction. In the past I’ve caught him sitting on it, standing on it, and the day before this happened, I found him hovering next to it, all innocent nonchalance, while the overhead chandelier swayed like a pealing church bell over the center of the table.
Just when I find myself wondering what atrocity that kid is going to commit next, he shows me. I guess I really need to stop wondering. I'm just thankful he wasn't hurt.
Baby Bear is over six feet tall, doesn’t have an ounce of spare flesh to pinch, and has the strength of ten oxen.
Forget Michelle Obama’s “Let’s Move” campaign. I need one called, “Let’s Just Sit.”