My mom has a pet partridge. A wild one, that follows her around, and pecks at her feet. In typical fashion, she is afraid of it. You don't know my mom. She's a forester. Cuts all her own firewood. Grows all her own vegetables. Completes tedious, crushingly difficult tasks through perseverance. And was once terrified of her neighbors' fat cat, Rusty, bc he was too friendly. She is a life-long cat lover. Scared of a big, fat, geriatric, orange cat. Also afraid to do some work under her car, for fear that this little, tiny bird will peck her.
On the Gumball front, we have two-year molars. I hate teeth. We've had fevers, vomiting, constant requests for medicine, and really, really terrible moods.
She hasn't totally lost her sense of humor though. The other night, I had to change her diaper. Now she can count to thirteen, so she started counting. When she got to thirteen, I started, "fourteen..." and paused. Then she said "poop-teen" and started laughing. Yup. Poop jokes already.
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