It’s going horribly, this potty training. Months ago Avelyn mastered the delicate art of peeing in the toilet.
A wild gust of wind swept through the orchard and pitched our trampoline into the sky, then dropped it with a mighty thump, rendering it a crumped heap of springs and bars.
OK, so we’re halfway through this week from the pit and things are going better in some areas, and worse in others, than I had expected.
Avelyn knows where her grandma lives: in Regina. But with a two year-old’s pronunciation, it sounds a little shocking when she tells people.
I took an objective look at this blog and as I scrolled down the page in its entirety I thought, “A first-time reader would take one look at this, ascertain that I am a weight-obsessed, slighty depressed mother of
On Wednesday night Avelyn ralfed all over her crib sheets and the next day she had developed a cough that rivaled the bark of a wounded seal. Croup.