Daddies, Babies, and The March Toward Siblings

If I inadvertently drop something, it’s dead to me now. I can’t pick up all the messes Brontë leaves anymore, so clutter is piling up our floors and I try to see around my feet to avoid tripping on it as I waddle back and forth until John comes home and pushes it all aside like one of those ice-smoothing machines at ice skating rinks.

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