My kids cry. They get fat lips from trying to climb up slides with crocs on. Sometimes they even wear pajamas to bed that have remnants of Kix cemented to the butt because I didn't strip them down for breakfast.
And what am I doing? Hugging them? Putting clean PJs on them? Nooooo, I'm photographing them in the bathroom and thinking, "wow, this wall makes an amazing background. Why didn't I haul them in here earlier?"
I bet my mom is thinking, "Nice, Meg." As she reads this. Oh, wait... she couldn't be... she NEVER calls me Meg.
