As the mother of an almost-two year old, I find my living room reverberating with the sweet melody of Barney's Don Knott-esque voice, by O the Owl's inability to relate to people outside of a book, and and by Husband's rants that the gang at Chuggington Station are all so useless that they should be sent to the junkyard and made into razor blades.
And seeing as Lorelai started walking at 10 months, sometimes the only time I'm guaranteed not to have to run interference between her and the giant butcher knife she likes to grab off the counter and wield at her t̶e̶r̶r̶i̶f̶i̶e̶d̶ loving parents is when she's staring at our old ass tv with dead eyes. #motheroftheyear
Those few precious moments might be the only time I get to read during the day (not counting the 3 paragraphs I can normally manage before I l̶o̶s̶e̶ ̶c̶o̶n̶s̶c̶i̶o̶u̶s̶n̶e̶s̶s̶ fall asleep at night). They are special to me. But so as to make myself feel better about not being a helicopter mom (how DARE I have interests and hobbies outside of my child?! The Pinterest Gods shall smite me!), maybe I can start reading books related to Lorelai's viewing experience. I consider it a bonding experience. Forget those silly Mommy & Me classes.