The eldest discovered the theatre a few weeks ago. He’s spending his time acting and playing us.
This morning, we surprise the children playing Scrabble. Obviously, the game is quite epic, since the little one can’ t read and the older one, barely.
We’re taking the kids to a show. There is a small interlude. We sit down with the kids to talk and have a drink.
My wife’s putting the youngest to bed. She gives him one last hug before going to bed herself.
We were at the Mc Donald’s and they were playing in the indoor playground. He came to me, excited.
At home, my main job is to keep the kids from overflowing our home and give them context so that they can position themselves.
I’m a parent container.
I just found a handful of peanuts in a sock, hidden behind a radiator. I don’t have kids, I have squirrels: they’re stockpiling for the cold times.
– Dad, is there a Happy Meal for grown-ups?
– With a toy inside? I don’t think so. They must think grown-ups don’t like toys.
– They’ve never seen your office, for sure.