I used to think I understood when my great-grandma Dolly would tell my mother that my twin brother was hard-headed. What I found out when I became a mother to my youngest is really what “hard-headedness” means.
Case in point: the image above.
But I guess if bringing a pocketfull of rolly-pollies to school is the worst he’s gonna ever do (at school anyway), then I’ve got it good.
Wait there was that one time he knocked his desk over because he was fiddling around with something in it.
Then the time he was crawling around on his hands and knees and barking like a dog.
Can’t forget about that other time in the bathroom he was sticking his hand in the toilet and swishing it around.
Or the time he thought it was a good idea to pick his boogers in front of the entire class.
Now I’ve got to teach him to quit blaming everything on “Zacya.”
Pretty much I have no idea what I’m dealing with.