I think Carter plods through his daily life, just waiting for the very second he'll get to go out into the driveway with his horrendous, $9 thrift store car.
Today it started storming. Hard. A poopie diaper was even admitted to. But I couldn't talk him back into the house. I even offered up lollypops and a phone conversation with Daddy.
Days fly by. I'm always confused by my exhaustion; it doesn't feel like anything gets done. But going up against a Fred Flintstone car in a poo-scented thunderstorm? These are the types of things I just know make my bed soft at night.