For a few minutes today I thought I wanted to be a toddler: long afternoon naps in a dark room with soothing music to drown out big-kid bickering; soft cotton clothes with giant felt flowers; meals that appear magically at regular intervals; bubble baths; and a big box of blocks that still smell of pine. Then I remembered that toddlerhood also means sitting in your poopoo and spending at least 51% of your time red-face-mad and rolling around on the floor in total frustration. Every coin has a backside.
Rock that diaper on your head, Baby. But please do not put the toothbrush back where you found it, under the tennis shoes lined up by the front door. Turns out that is not cool.
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