The Goose is 20 months old, and in a bleaker time for our country, she's this sharp burst of light for our household. She's the double dose of extravert, the showgirl of her mother and the comedian of her father, the dancer of all beats in the background, and a damn good time. She loves us almost as much as Ms. Rachel and definitely more than Elmo, as she now regularly pushes her sweet Elmo toy over and laughs. When we play in a group, she is the first to make friends, and in

Ah, the best planner for a spaghetti brain.

She's 19 months old (8 or 9ish days ago). Her hair is the love child of Farrah Fawcett and Medusa. Her personality is the love child of Farrah Fawcett and Medusa. Sometimes I'm like "my kid is so fun and so beautiful and everyone loves the charismatic and lovely Rainie!" and sometimes I'm like "I think she's going to kill me." Because, you guys. This month was a lil nuts. I want to start with a story. In January of 2024, I attended the 30th-ish birthday party of her Aunt Shes

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