You guys know I give my husband a lot of crap. Like a lot. Okay, I could probably link almost every post I’ve written, because I weave some kind of subtle (or not-so-subtle) dig into nearly every one. It’s my way of ensuring he reads them.
This blog is served with a heavy helping of snark, which doesn’t always translate appropriately, so I want to be very clear: my baby is very, very loved. Like, obnoxiously so. He’s for sure going to be that overconfident jerk who thinks he can do no wrong when he’s older. (Sorry about that.)
Sure, I make fun of him occasionally (a lot). Yes, I complain about my exhaustion (if you’re not going to whine about how tired you are, are you even a parent?). And yes, I call him names like “monster” and “demon baby” sometimes (okay, almost all the time…). But hey, I bought and paid-in-full for his crazy ass; you better believe I’ve earned my right to a sarcastic comment every now and then.
You see, he was a long time in the making. Over two years, to be exact.