Sunday, 5:30 p.m, the kitchen.

Eric and I dancing. (Actually, we’re dirty dancing. Ahem. Meow! Someone in the house is ovulating!)

Our shuffling is interrupted by coughing from the corner.

Lucy, in her exercauser, has a wad of kleenex hanging out of her mouth. In our, um, smooching, we’d forgotten about the piece I’d given her as a distraction while wiping the fifty bajillionth booger off her face.

We pull the chunk out while Lucy flings her head side to side, gagging and choking.

Eric and I are snorting with laughter.

“Grrrreat, we almost kill our daughter while fornicating in front of her.”

Welcome to parenting.

Possibly related posts:

1. Proof
2. Stop to smell the roses, toddler style
3. The sleep saga continues
4. Why timeouts are working. So far.
5. Lucy bits