The Goose is officially 18 months old. 1.5 years. 1 and 1/2 years. 78.5 weeks. 549 days. She skis on the real mountain. She breaks things. She can swing from handlebars higher up than last month. She grows more powerful each day. Her knack for being a “good eater” has become both ferocious and volatile — a real pendulum swinging from avoiding food altogether to devouring even the rind of a citrus fruit. I walked into to the kitchen the other day where she had scaled the barst

The Goose turned 17 months on Sunday. She got her second ear infection this past month, a diagnosis that pairs nicely with four molars simultaneously poking through. Her angel doctor (and mother to three) even proclaimed that this was "a bit aggressive". To say sleep has been touch and go would be an understatement. What day is it again? I had my own birthday this month—a big ole 39. One more year, then I'm going to splurge on custom orthotics and some nice hair dye. I still

I love fantasy. I like Science Fiction. It takes a real talent to write Science Fiction I could devour, as all too many nerds out there get caught up in the science part and forget they’re writing a story. If the fiction feels like a textbook, I am out. Buh bye. Mr. Sanderson. You were a bit of a nerd on this one, sir. wags finger It doesn’t help that my first Sanderson book wasn’t one of his true fantasy series reads. It was Tress of the Emerald Sea, something he wrote as a

How do I explain the big things breaking out of this tiny kid? She’s monstrous and loud. She’s so happy and really pissed. She's magnetic most times and kind of annoying others. Ladies and gentlemen, I have a toddler.