I’d call it the Toddle On Inn

I have only as long as it takes my youngest daughter to eat a bowl of ice cream (which could be anywhere between 45 seconds and 10 minutes, depending on whether she gives up and just starts shoveling it in with her hands), so I must be quick.

But it’s a good metaphor, really, for every-day life with a toddler. You must be ready to live your own life– the life that’s just for you, not the one you live for your kids, because that does happen, no matter how much you swear that it won’t happen to you— in the gaps when they are occupied, because they will never, ever let you do it otherwise.

This makes it sound very furtive and sneaky, like passing notes between prisoners when the guards aren’t watching, but honestly? It kind of is.

For instance, I just had to take a ten minute break from this blog to convince Rosie to finish eating her ice cream, just so I could have a few more minutes to write. I literally had to plead with a toddler to eat ice cream. 

There should be a resort where the staff is required to cater to the guests exactly as if they were toddlers. I want to be able to stand in the middle of the lobby wearing just underpants and a headband and make unintelligible yodeling noises while the staff attempts to talk to each other about very important things, and then I want to be able to pick up all the local wildlife by its hind legs and run awkwardly around the grounds while the maids try, but fail, to stop me.

Although that might actually not be as much fun as it sounds– which, to be honest, isn’t actually that fun, when you really think about it– since I’d also have to go to bed at 8:00 and would have to wear one of those chest floaties to go in the ocean. And also, everyone else would also be acting like toddlers, and I definitely couldn’t handle that.


She chose hands.


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