Tristan is two years old. At first it was amusing. But now he’s been two years old for a whole two months and the whining thing is killing me. In fact, it’s possible that I’m not recovering from the stomach flu, or that I didn’t have a cold and the stomach flu at the same time. It’s possible that I’m dying a slow and painful death from the whining. That the whining is consuming my soul.
Sure, I know I should do something about it. But there’s nothing you can do… except ignore it. You have to ignore it to prove to him that it doesn’t work. But it’s so. damn. hard. It’s even driving Connor half mad. And when Connor stops turns on heel and yells, “WHAT DO YOU WANT TRISTAN?!” I can’t even scold him for it. Because it’s exactly what I was just about to do. Or just about to want to do. Or just did. It’s a good damn thing Tristan’s so cute.
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