I'll buy you a diet coke for the side effects.
I have a story:
I have a hilarious younger sister, Andie. She, being the youngest of 7 girls, is destined to grow up with all sorts of issues. But she sure is cute. (Is it just me or does she look like me much?)
When she was 3, she watched Jurassic Park every night before bed with my dad.
When she was 4, she learned how to do Tai-Chi (I don't know where... no one taught her, just something she picked up) and we exploited her in front of everyone that came over.
When she was 5, her favorite color was black and she was obsessed with witches.
At some point in her early childhood, Andie won the award for the Queen of DRAMA. (psssh, she did NOT get that from me...) I remember her having to do her Saturday jobs once when she was little. Her Saturday jobs consisted of things like "write a happy note to your sister" or "fluff the pillows on the couch". Nothing like the jobs I had when I was a kid. Spoiled much? She was complaining that her jobs were toooo hard and she didn't want to do them. She began unconsolably crying, and suddenly clutched her chest. "I'm having a HARD-attack" -- she said.
She still is that funny. And dramatic.
Anyway, this story has two morals:
One -- I think I have had like 8 "hard"-attacks in the last two weeks. Can someone throw me a bone here? Whine.
Moral two: I took thought of this story after taking photos of my A-Dor-A-Ble Son last week for his birfday invitation. And then I died of a heart-attack. My child is too good looking. And I'm not even just saying that. (I hope you got the connection there... that's the way my brain works)
