Yet there I was, returning to New York City with body odor ripening as my deodorant quickly vanished under the stress of what would be the flight from hell because I was flying with your baby.
Who has the right of way: an older person or a child, in particular someone like me lugging around a squirming 35-pound bowling ball that refuses to walk or sit in the stroller?
I was married once before. I know the pain that it puts on a dude. No matter how much you try to show you aren’t bothered by it, the more it hurts.
I could tell there was something not right with him. Should I wait for the sitter? Rush him to the Pediatric Emergency Room?
I should have taken a clue that maybe a move to suburban Forest Hills wasn’t such a good idea when I ventured out the first night to see police taping off a huge part of the street.
There I was at Gymboree – my first introduction to parenting hell. All the singing, climbing, yelling. Ugh! Then things changed.