Three seems to be the inevitable age of precious, pink cheeked, cooing babies turning into monstrous, out of control, I’m-gonna-hold-my-breath-until-I-pass-out toddlers. Ah, these will be the years to remember.

Ever since coming home with only a three-quarter finished dress I’ve gotten nothing but grief from my precocious (and questioning) little angel. I suppose the “gimme now” concept is something I’ve instilled upon her. After all, I can’t take credit for being patient. I’m the meaning of impatient.

And I guess that’s a good thing.

I’ve had quite a bit of a good thing lately. And that feels, well, good.

{She was saying “I miss Gramma”.}

{“I love daddy”.}

{“Easter Bunny, gimme chocolate.”}

Yeah. It’s all good.


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