We're not eating dinner anymore at my house. I mean, we're eating a third meal (-ish), but it's not dinner. A. gets home just in time to put Bird to bed (though he doesn't leave until 10 in the mornings, so they have a nice morning together), and I'm just not interested in whipping up something piping hot and casseroled during my own Bird time. I'm too busy trying to soak her up.
By the way, this afternoon, she dumped out her daycare bag on the kitchen floor, picked up the empty cheese container and handed it to me, then held out her little hands, palms up, like a starving Oliver Twist. Sadly, there was no more cheese to be had, and she collapsed in a noisy heap with her forehead on the floor and her bum in the air. Our darling has discovered whining.)
Which leaves us at nine o'clock in the evening, sitting on the couch, eating cheese and crackers and watching a documentary about Andy Warhol on PBS. It's just like college, but without the pot.
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