I grew up a tomboy and, while I now own well over 40 tubes of lipstick (and I’m still searching for the perfect blue red) emotionally, I remain a tomboy. Nothing too sticky for me, thanks. No babytalk or cutesy shit. Love, yeah, but without the girly squealing.
So imagine my surprise to find that, after a pretty idyllic weekend with son and husband, I’m really disappointed to be back at work. I know that doesn’t qualify as babytalk but so much for being a hardass.
What can I say? Donny and I now officially have a game: he reaches his hand up to me and I “bite” his fingers and growl. This elicits the Donovan laugh, which is a simple “Ha!” and then we do it again. And again. And again.
And now I’m at work. Blah.