I seriously can't believe I've given birth to a picky eater. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, Gus just glares at me, lips clamped shut, whipping his head violently from side to side, ever the moving target.
When I was his age, I would rappel down the side of my highchair, lowering myself into the trashcan wearing a head lamp to search for scraps while my mother's back was turned.
I would use my lima beans to spell out "Where's My Dessert, Woman."
I assaulted a Girl Scout once.
OK, twice.
But she was taunting me the second time.
What two-year-old carries exact change?
Anyway, no charges were pressed. But on second thought, perhaps it's best Gus didn't inherit my legacy.
When I was his age, I would rappel down the side of my highchair, lowering myself into the trashcan wearing a head lamp to search for scraps while my mother's back was turned.
I would use my lima beans to spell out "Where's My Dessert, Woman."
I assaulted a Girl Scout once.
OK, twice.
But she was taunting me the second time.
What two-year-old carries exact change?
Anyway, no charges were pressed. But on second thought, perhaps it's best Gus didn't inherit my legacy.
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