If you follow me on social media (which you should, by the way), you would know that I often joke and post pictures depicting how my life is a circus. There’s been stuff like busting the cat running down the hallway with my keys, her snoozing in the dryer and sink, our seven-year-old son with his blue mohawk and a strange affliction for phone books from hotel rooms.
Oh, and how could I forget my couponing adventures! Then there’s my slave driving coach/husband/therapist/chef/co-worker/friend Robb, who makes me do squats until I may shed a tear (if no one sees it, it didn’t happen, right?).
The trials and tribulations of not being able to fire your coach is enough for a whole separate article! Amongst it all, we’ve been acclimating to welcoming the newest and tiniest member of ‘Team Philippus’ for the past five months. 98.5% of the time, she is a little bundle of love and giggles, but during that remaining 1.5% she requires some sort of magic from Daddy that I can’t seem to parallel. It’s probably because he has bigger biceps and they’re cozier. Totally unfair. I have become alarmingly aware of this mysterious magic during the past two weeks with his absence.
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