I dread Wednesdays.
I either get a text, email, or call:
Can you get Arzilla?
I want to say no, but been there, done that, took a picture, got a T-shirt.
The Teen would rather kick rocks than cuddle and the Boy is too busy cocking his head and winking to give me the time of day.
Arzilla listens with delight as I read a story, will grease a pan (albeit unevenly) when asked, and is pretty liberal with kisses if the Teen isn’t home.
I would like another baby, but I’m content to chill with Arzilla until the Teen has five initials behind her name (no pressure), a few years traveling, and enough money to pay me to change diapers. (I am serious).