I just got a piece of junk mail from Gerber. Even though there was not a picture of a baby anywhere in the email, it still made my heart melt.
My biological clock is made out of sponges, flower petals, and dirty pennies. As in, at very random times, it is so, so broken.
The baby I've been watching for the past year and a half (since she was a few months old) is learning how to speak like her extremely musically-voiced jewish grandmother (whom I adore, by the way, and I'll talk about this later). When I babysat her last month, I slept over her house and we did her little morning routine together. She was eating her breakfast and suddenly said "oh no there is something on my tush!"
I said, "oh, what is it?"
"It is my dress."
And while sitting in her little chair she pulled the back of her dress so it came up like a hood over the back of her head and continued to eat, very content that the problem was now solved. I died.

-Camille