She's 13 already.

“Go away, can't you see Gossip Girl’s on? And I’m expecting a call, so stay off the phone. When can I, like, have my own phone already? Everybody else has a phone. What? OMG it’s none of your business who I talk to. Why are you bothering me? You’re so annoying. Get out of my room. I hate you.”

Sleep depravation is a form of torture utilized at Gitmo. And at my house.

John Lennonette is seriously cranky.
(She was just John Lennon until she laid eggs. Then we had to improvise, because clearly, I don't know my boy parts from my girl parts.)

Sicky-sick-sick-sick.

Over at our house, we are busy. Busy with leaky noses and red watery eyes, ugly coughs, snot-launching sneezes and lost voices. When one person with a stuffy nose makes sure nobody in a three-mile radius sleeps at night. I think even our lizards are sleep deprived.
And is there anything more sad and pathetic than an 8 month old baby trying her bestest to smile for the camera? No, I don't believe there is.