The problem with spending your days reading Harlequin novels is that you start to realize things about the inevitability of growing up and having, you know, a life.
Today, as I sat here editing a book about a single mother taking care of her infant son, I had one of those HOLYFUCKINGCHRISTI'MGOINGTOBEANAUNTSOON moments, envisioning my weekends with this miniature human--or Koh the Face Stealer, as we like to call him/her--toddling around the park, trying to keep him/her from eating dog poo while I simultaneously tote around a stroller full of baby crap.
The realization just slugged me in the gut from nowhere: I'm going to be drafted into babysitting service...
Pray for your children. Pray hard.
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