Dear NBC, CBS, ABC, FOX and Whatever the WB is calling themselves:
Here’s your show: Get the robot from the video below, and put a GPS tracker on a contestant. The longer he or she can run away from the cheetah robot, the bigger the prizes.
You call the show, “Holy Crap, I Just Shit Myself.”
I was recently interviewed by Liberty Hardy at Book Riot. I used the words “licked” and “rubbed” more often than I intended. Read it here.
Some discoveries made at the end of five days of nonstop solo parenting.
Rules make great guidelines. They don’t make great rules. Being firm gets nothing if the only point is to win. Where is the joy in winning if it means no one gets ice cream?
After getting caught in a downpour on an impromptu walk across the Brooklyn Bridge I said to my sopping wet son, “Even though you got wet, I hope you still had fun.”
“That was the best part.” His smile was delicious.
Tiny clothes hanging around the apartment to dry are adorable. So too are small shoes with paper towels in them to wick moisture.
When your son yells “Its our favorite game!” and throws his underwear at your head, and you get mad because, well, dirty underwear, and then your son gets mad that you got mad, give him room, let him shut the door, because when he emerges twenty minutes later with a drawing and a note explaining that he thinks you are trying to make him cry you will get to be proud and heartbroken and you can see how proud he is to have sounded out the words and drawn the tears.
It’s worth discovering you are allergic to the adhesive in masking tape for the thrill of having dinosaur stickers applied to your back.