Is there anything more frightening than waking up to a pair of eyes staring at you in the night?
The answer is no. No there is not. (Not even when your kitchen faucet turns on by itself when you are home alone.)
That’s how I woke up at 4am yesterday. And 3:30am the night before. And 5:15am last week.
Isabella is Queen of the—often ill-timed—Ailments. She’s basically Peggy Ann McKay. She can’t go to school today — or to bed or to drive Emily to dance or upstairs to brush her teeth or into the shower or anywhere — because of this mysterious rash or this strange burning on her rib or this weird scratch on her finger or these growing pains or this sore throat or this sore neck or this headache or this stuffy nose or this weird jaw clicking.
She is in constant need of
attention medicine or a cold drink or a hot towel or a band-aid or to go to the emergency room.
She’s a needy hoverer, this child.
She is just so damn lucky that she’s cute.
And that I’ve basically just surrendered my personal space until my children move out.