Dear Spike:
I sang to you softly and rocked you slowly. And you curled up in your blanket — the one with the soft fringe on the end — and began to nod off.
And then you peed on me.
Lots.
And then you laughed.
Lots.
For the most part, you've got the potty thing down. Every week, it seems, your accidents are fewer and further between. I can count the diapers I've changed in the past month on one hand.
But occasionally, you find a nice, warm way to remind your mother and I that you're still a baby.
And we love you just the same.
Love,
dad
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