The other day I found myself in the hardware aisle, purchasing, once again, these:
It’s not the first time, but it may be the last.
I’ve been waiting to throw open the windows and the doors and let the fresh air come in.
But not so fast.
I’ve got an escape artist in the house, one who has absolutely no regard for his life or the heart or mind of his mother.
He’s a boy under the age of 3. Which means he waits, stealthily, like a caged animal, for the perfect moment to make a mad dash for the door, left ajar by an unassuming, or just negligent, sibling (or parent???).