Today my 11 week old was mistaken for a 9 month old. I mean, come on. I know he’s big and all, but he’s only in the 50th percentile for his weight.
Jota used to massage my hands out of their T-Rex shape first thing in the morning. Hand scooping thousands of muffins and cupcakes wasn’t as bad as the poison ivy-esque rash I got from dunking my arm in brownie batter to scrape the bottom of the bowl.