Except for the part about having a teenager, because I don't. She's all of three. Though sometimes I forget. Like yesterday when we were in the car talking about showing Moxie, our new puppy, to some of Aliyah's friends, and with head cocked to the side and hands flipping through the air she nonchalantly mused, "Unless maybe they already saw Moxie's picture on Facebook." Or the times that she asks to use my phone to take a picture because she want's to tweet it so that everyone can see it. Yes, she has a twitter account. And yes, she know's how to use it. (For sentences that include more than her name, she hands me the phone and tells me what to type.)
So anyway, last night, my three-year-old teenager spent the night with her aunt and uncle, leaving Brayden and I to slowly stretch our way into wakefulness as the morning light seeped its way onto the bed.
There we lay calmly, quietly drinking every last drop of the sweet serene until we've had our fill.
We breathe deep taking in the warmth of the sun's rays.
We gaze into each other's eyes and his round, liquid center baby blues melt me.
Once we've finally laughed and played and worked ourselves awake enough to head downstairs, we find this...
... a nest of shoes turned chew toys strewn haphazardly under the dining room table.
And now, I have to tell my oldest little that one of her precious possessions, her silver sandal, has been eaten by her puppy.
I wonder what she'll have to say about that.