My baby is five. Sure, he still says "lemember" for remember and "bigtar" for guitar but I know he's just humoring me because I have to buy him new shoes every three months and despite my best efforts he insists on learning how to read. He could happily eat nothing but meat all day every day with maybe some frozen peas thrown in for variety. He remembers every single thing that has ever happened to him since birth, as near as we can figure, and he uses it against us on a regular basis. Five. My baby. Five.
My not-baby made a chocolate cake with two kinds of frosting and decorated it pretty much entirely by herself. I figure tomorrow I will just teach her how to drive and then she can dispense with this whole parenting facade and get herself an apartment, except that she will have to come over every morning so I can strap the velcro on her shoes which she refuses to do for herself.
I bought a minivan. I know, I know, but I hate how much I love it. I'm working on developing some sort of minivan-mom gang signs that we can flash each other when we pass in the elementary school carpool lane. Something that means "yes I'm driving a minivan, but only ironically" or "we win cupholders" or "maybe you should put your latte in one of your many cupholders before you flash minivan gang signs next time." I'll host several convenient training sessions once I have them finalized.