They’re worse than the paparazzi.

I mean, do the paparazzi cry when Britney Spears leaves the room? Do they grab her leg and dig their fingernails into her skin? Do they commando crawl after her grunting “uhn uhn”? Why are my kids so much worse than the paparazzi? Or, better question, why am I so much more awesome than Britney Spears?

Graham has reached that anxiety stage that often goes along with learning to walk. He must be glued to me at all times. And Violet has decided to become a homebody. This behavior culminates in scenes like the one at the gym Kids’ Club yesterday: Hand off Graham to the sitter. Graham’s face turns purple from screaming. Violet turns into that squid thing from Alien and attaches to my body with inhuman strength, wailing as loudly as Graham. It doesn’t help to repeat, “I’m going to be very grouchy if I don’t go work out right now” over and over. The sitters at the Club ask me what I’ve done to make them so attached.

Sigh. I don’t know.


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