What is it about having kids that leaves a huge, gaping wound that never closes? Why does it all of a sudden become impossible to reread a book or rewatch a movie you previously enjoyed, despite what happened to the young character in it, without crying your head off? That’s if you can even bring yourself to read or watch it again to begin with.
Because we love the everliving shit out of our little monsters and can’t help but see them even when they’re not right in front of us. They worm their way into our hearts & minds and set up shop permanently, the little brats. Just like they should.
I love my hatchlings and woe-is-me to anyone that ever messes with the little book ruiners 💕💕