“Mom!” TJ screams from the top of the staircase. He’s named after his father and is definitely Travis’ mini-me—loud, obnoxious, and keeps life interesting with his antics. Basically, a typical thirteen-year-old boy. “Where are my basketball shorts?”
“You mean the entire dresser drawer that’s filled with them…” I muse from the kitchen as I grab creamer from the fridge.
Coffee. I need lots and lots of it.
Coffee.It’s Friday morning and chaotic as usual with three kids and three dogs.
“I can’t find my favorite pair!” he whines.
“James, go help your brother, please. Ginny, don’t forget you’re picking TJ up after practice,” I remind her. Ever since she got her license six months ago, she’s been put on carpool duty, which has been a godsend.
“Ugh. I have plans,” she deadpans, then holds
