Dear Dr. Spock,
I know you passed away in 1998, but I see from your website that you have a team of experts who are ready and able to field questions (sorry I missed the window to speak to the real you; my husband Chuck didn't baste my bun until 2006).
Chuck and I are doing a great job parenting our toddler, Junior. At bath time, I tell Junior all about the large, talking spider that's living in our showerhead. And during the day, Chuck takes Junior on fun-filled outings, like this recent one to a dinosaur park:
The thing is, Chuck and I can't understand why Junior's suddenly using the word "scared" so much. A 20-foot tall dinosaur head with menacing teeth—and a mouth that could swallow you whole—is delightful, right?
And this guy with the dagger-like claws? Why, the better to tickle with, I say!
At a time when Junior is using all his energy to navigate this large, overwhelming world, it's sound technique to throw frightful characters into his pea-sized brain, right? Right?
Whew, thanks. I feel so much better.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.