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mercurysnitch · 5 years

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Though You’re Many Years Away Part 1

Pairing: 70s!Roger Taylor x Reader (I pictured real Roger, but it could work with BenHardy!Roger as well)

Summary: Reader ends up getting a lot more than she bargained for when she somehow travels to 1974 and sees Queen live at the Rainbow.

Author’s note: This is the first fic I’ve ever written, so I’m a little bit nervous to post it, but what the hell. It was just a weird idea I had that I just had to write. It was planned to be a one-shot, but it’s getting so long I’ve decided to split it up into a short series. Probably 4 parts, maybe 5. Don’t think too hard about how the time travel works, it’ll make your brain hurt. The mechanics that are explained (or at least will be in the next part) are inspired by the time travel in @angrylizardjacket‘s Ben x Reader x 70s Roger stories (go check them out, they’re great :-) ) Also a bit inspired by the book ‘The Time Traveller’s Wife’, which is a bit weird, but very good. This part includes the first smut I’ve ever written, so sorry if that bit’s not great. Please comment or reblog, I would love to get feedback on this. Italics indicate reader’s thoughts, stars indicate a time skip (there’s a lot of them, sorry if it’s a bit choppy in places)

Warnings: Swearing, some drinking, little bit of smut (literally one paragraph, so just skip it if you’re not interested), mentions of pregnancy, tiny bit of vomiting

You weren’t sure how you ended up on a park bench in an unknown location. All you remembered was a feeling like you were falling down into the centre of the earth, and then waking up with a pounding head, in a strange place. Looking around, you noticed the sun seemed to be getting low, throwing a golden evening light on your surroundings. You could see a main road, and a little cluster of men in half-open shirts and flared jeans, smoking cigarettes. Wait, isn’t that illegal in public? And flares? Must be a 70s party nearby, you thought. Cautiously, you stood up from the bench, stretching experimentally. Your head spun a little, but you soon felt stable enough to start walking. You quickly decided to follow the crowd of people flooding down the main road. Most of them seemed to be heading in the same direction. Must be something on tonight, you thought. Might as well go, it might help me work out where the hell I am.

Suddenly, you found yourself outside an old-fashioned theatre. It seemed to be called the Rainbow, judging by the signs. The hoardings showing the names of upcoming acts contained a single word in big letters: Queen. No way, you thought. Queen were one of your favourite bands, and now you’d stumbled on one of their gigs? What a coincidence. You shuffled forward with the crowd, managing to slip in past the ticket sellers unnoticed. Thank god, I couldn’t pay them even if I wanted to. Suddenly you noticed something: more flares. Nearly everyone around you seemed to be wearing flares. There was a lot of long wavy hair about too, on the men as well as the women. That’s weird, you mused, is it a tribute gig or something? Your mind was humming with confusion as you moved with the crowd into the auditorium, when a sudden thought nearly stopped you in your tracks. Queen at the Rainbow. Why does that sound familiar? Queen at the Rainbow. Queen at the – Oh that’s right, there’s a live album, you remembered. Queen at the Rainbow ’74. Wait, ’74? They played the Rainbow in 1974. Realisation hit you like a freight train. I can’t be in 1974, I just can’t be. How could I be in 1974? How did I get here?

You were startled out of your shocked trance by a loud cheer. The music had started, and the band soon appeared, to another cheer, even louder than before. Once they started to play, there was no disputing it. You were watching early Queen, deep in their ‘glam rock’ phase. Freddie Mercury was utterly recognisable with his long dark hair, eyeliner and black-painted nails. Fuck, I’m at a Queen show in 1974. After a couple of songs you decided to accept whatever glitch in the universe had brought you here and just enjoy the show. It was a great show too. You had always wished you could have seen Queen play with Freddie, but knew it would never be possible. You hadn’t even been born for many years after Queen’s last concert in 1986, indeed, by the time you were born Freddie Mercury was dead. And yet, here you were watching him perform live, utterly entranced.

All too soon, the show was over. The buzzing crowd flooded out of the theatre and into a pub down the street. You went with them, wondering if the band would follow. Sure enough, all four members of Queen soon appeared in the pub, to scattered cheers and raised glasses. You headed for the bar, hoping somebody might buy you a drink. You would have bought one yourself but you had no money on you. It seemed you had travelled to 1974 with only the clothes on your back. You found a stool in a quiet corner and settled in to people watch. You had a feeling, a gut feeling you supposed, that this little trip to the 70s wasn’t going to last very long, so you decided you might as well soak it up while you could. Your stool coincidentally gave you an excellent view of the table all four members of Queen had chosen to sit at. They looked relaxed, rapidly emptying beers in hand, surrounded by a veritable flock of admiring girls. You started to scan the rest of the pub, soaking up the vibe, when you noticed movement at the band’s table. Someone was coming to the bar, heading almost directly for you. You turned towards them, and saw long golden hair and an open shirt weaving towards you.

You’d always thought early-70s Roger Taylor was the best looking member of Queen. Well, the early 70s was their best-looking era in your opinion, but the golden-haired, blue-eyed drummer was clearly the most attractive. Not that the rest of them weren’t easy on the eyes, but Roger was definitely your favourite. Now you were in a pub in 1974, and he was walking straight towards you. Well shit. This could be interesting.

He came up to the bar next to your stool. “Another round of beers thanks” he asked the bartender. Suddenly he turned to you, almost as if he could feel your eyes on you. “Hello” he said gently, “I’m Roger.” He held his hand out to you, smiling cheekily…flirtatiously? “Y/N. Hi” You shook his hand uncertainly. He continued to smile at you, his eyes crinkling, until you glanced down from his gaze, grinning nervously. “You’re cute. Can I buy you a drink?” Your head snapped up at the sound of his voice. He was definitely flirting now. “Okay. Gin and tonic please” You asked, smiling brightly. Roger added your order to his beers and turned back to you. “What brings a pretty girl like you to a pub like this?” The cheeky grin had reappeared. “I, um, I saw the band before. Good show, by the way” you stuttered, suddenly unsure what to say. His smile widened. “You’re a fan then?” Oh, if you only knew, you thought dreamily. “I guess you could say that” you responded, now smiling flirtatiously yourself. “Well then, what’s your favourite-” Roger’s question was cut off by the sudden reappearance of the bartender. You grabbed your drink while he gathered up the beers. “Want to meet the rest of the band?” He asked as he carefully stood up, laden with glasses. You jumped off your stool, careful not to spill any of your drink. “I’d love to” you beamed, perhaps a little too enthusiastic. Roger didn’t notice though, leading carefully back through the crowd to Queen’s table. Shit, you thought frantically, I’m going to meet Queen. Queen! Oh God, what do I say? I can’t mention the future, what if I break time or something? Have to be careful. Shit. Shit.

“More drinks! Lovely! About time Roger, what were you doing over there darling?” Freddie grinned mischievously from the opposite side of his table as he spotted you shuffling along behind his bandmate. Roger rolled his eyes. “Oh shut it Fred. Everyone, this is Y/N. Y/N, this is Freddie, obviously, that’s Brian” - the gangly, curly-haired guitarist waved cheerfully from his seat on Freddie’s left – “and that’s John. But we all call him Deaky” The bassist nodded shyly from Freddie’s other side, tucked into the corner. It took most of your determination not to gush hopelessly over the. Actual. Real-life. Queen. But you managed it. Just. “Hi” you said shyly. Roger, now carrying only a single drink in one hand, wrapped his free arm reassuringly around your waist. It felt… nice. “Um, I really enjoyed the show tonight” you nearly squeaked out, trying not to gabble. Freddie smiled. “I’m glad. What’s your favourite song then?” You tried to think quickly. Fuck, I have to make sure it’s something that actually exists in 1974. Shit. Shit. “Ahh… Liar? It rocks, I guess…” This response seemed to please Freddie. “Finally” he said dramatically, “someone who appreciates my art. Good work Roger” You could have sworn he winked on the last word. The drummer rolled his eyes, shaking his head in exasperation. He quickly drained his pint, slamming the empty glass on the table. “Shut it Fred” He glared at the dark-haired singer, who just smiled naughtily. “I need some fresh air. Come on” Roger pulled you along with him as he moved towards the door of the crowded pub. You followed enthusiastically, finishing your drink on the way and setting the glass down as you passed an empty table.

The air outside was crisp and cool enough to be refreshing without chilling you to the bone. “Sorry about that” Roger murmured, gazing intently at your face. “It’s okay” you murmured back, looking into those gorgeous blue eyes. Suddenly they glinted with mischief. “Is it okay if I kiss you?” He asked, leaning down. “Yes” you breathed. His lips were on yours in an instant. It was blissful. He was insistent, but not rough. You opened your lips for him and quickly felt his tongue gently exploring your mouth. Holy fuck, I’m kissing the Roger Taylor. In 1974. Holy fuck. Your brain quickly slipped from frantic babbling to incoherent screaming as you felt Roger’s hands curl around your waist and brush along your back. Suddenly Roger broke the kiss. You nearly whined at the loss of contact. “Wanna come home with me, continue this there?” he asked huskily. I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be in 1974, you mused. Might as well enjoy it while I’m here. “I’d love to” you replied breathily. “Great!” Roger smiled broadly, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. “Let’s just tell the others we’re going.”

You could barely contain your excitement as you arrived at Roger’s flat. Holy shit, your brain gabbled, Roger Taylor’s taking me back to his place. The Roger Taylor. Is taking me home. Holy fucking shit. When you arrived at his front door, he pushed you against it and snogged you senseless for the second time that night. He broke the kiss for a few seconds to open the door, holding you close all the while, then pushed you through it, his lips on yours again. You kissed frantically as you crossed his loungeroom, shedding clothes all the while. By the time you fell onto his couch together, both of you were in your underwear. You mentally thanked God you weren’t wearing anything noticeably out of place in 1974, although you thought Roger was unlikely to notice at this point. Roger lay on top of you, his face inches from yours. You could feel him against your stomach getting harder by the second. “Want me to show you a good time?” he growled, voice raspy with lust. “Why else would I be here?” you replied cheekily. “Well, if you’re going to be like that,” he grinned momentarily, then kissed a sensitive spot on your neck, smiling at the way you moaned at the sensation. He dotted kisses along your body, his fingers trailing the path of his mouth, until he arrived at your entrance, already slick with arousal. He grinned up at you, eyes now hooded with desire. “Do you want me to make you feel good?” he asked huskily, gently running his fingers along your folds. You moaned in delight at the stimulation. “I need you to use your words, love” “Yes, Roger, keep going, please” You moaned out the last word as Roger put his lips to your clit, licking at it expertly. You nearly screamed when he plunged a rough, calloused finger into you moments later. “You like that, babe?” “Yes, Roger, don’t stop-” Your words drowned in another moan as he added a second finger, dragging them gently across your dripping walls. His other hand held your hips down as his fingers roamed your walls until they found the spot that made you cry out with pleasure. He rubbed the spot in delicate circles while his tongue continued to lick at your clit, applying the perfect amount of pressure. It wasn’t long before you felt your climax begin to crash over you. Roger coaxed you through it, licking at you until you whined from overstimulation. As you came down from quite possibly the quickest orgasm you had ever experienced, you realised again that Roger Taylor had just eaten you out like a bloody expert. Looks like 1974’s gonna be fun after all, you thought happily.

***

You awoke the next morning feeling strange. You were disoriented at first, until you remembered where you were. And when. I slept with Roger Taylor last night. I’m in Roger Taylor’s bed. In 1974. Holy shit, I just fucked the drummer from Queen. Wow. You stifled a satisfied giggle, not wanting to disturb the snoring man beside you. Even when he’s asleep he’s fucking gorgeous, you realised. You eased yourself out of bed very gently so as not to wake Roger. But as soon as you stepped away from the bed you felt weird. Very weird. Sort of… insubstantial, like you weren’t entirely there. Suddenly you just knew you were about to be pulled back to your time. Shit. My clothes are in the other room. You bolted out into the loungeroom and gathered your clothes in a flash. Oh no, I won’t get to say goodbye. He’ll hate me. Oh shit, what do I do? At that moment your eye fell on a notebook and pen sitting on the coffee table. You darted over, clinging carefully to your clothing, and scribbled out a note as quickly as you could. I stayed as long as I could. It’s complicated. I’m sorry. Y/N xx You barely finished the last x before you felt yourself lurching forward, feeling like you were falling again. You dropped the pen as you fell into darkness.

You opened your eyes to a familiar sight. Your own white-painted bedroom, in your own flat. You were home. The light streaming through the gap in the blinds indicated it was morning. Suddenly you remembered something. You’d had plans last night, before you went to 1974. You were supposed to go out for drinks with some friends. Wait what day is it? Where’s my phone? Retrieving it from your bedside table, you saw a stream of messages and multiple missed calls waiting for you. Shit, how long was I gone? You checked the date. The day you disappeared was only yesterday. You breathed a sigh of relief. Aside from the friends you were supposed to meet last night, no-one would have noticed your absence. You immediately sent a message to the group chat apologising for missing last night, claiming you were sick yesterday, and had gone to sleep for so long you’d missed all their messages and calls until now. You thought it was a pretty weak excuse, but your friends seemed to believe it. Besides, it was very unusual for you to even cancel plans ahead of time, let alone ghost on them completely, so you were fairly sure you’d get away with it this time.

Lying in your own bed, in your own flat, in your own time, you weren’t entirely sure your whole 1974 experience hadn’t been some weird intense dream. Maybe you really were sick yesterday, and it was just an unusually vivid fever dream. I don’t remember feeling sick yesterday though. You got out of bed gingerly, feeling sore as you turned around and stood up. If it was just a dream, why am I sore? Glancing down as you started to move, you noticed a mark on your hip. You rushed to your mirror. The shape was unmistakable. It was definitely a hickey. You could see one high up on your inner thigh too. And you remembered exactly how you got them. So it wasn’t a dream then. It really happened. It all really happened.

***

You never told anyone about your little trip to the past. No one would have believed you if you did. As time went on, you sometimes didn’t believe it yourself. It just seemed to incredible to be true. Even if it was true, the question remained: how did it happen? And why did you go to that particular day in 1974, when Queen just happened to be playing? Was it just a coincidence? Or was something more going on? If there was, you had no idea what it could be. In any case, after many days of contemplation you decided you were better off chalking the whole adventure up to experience and moving on with your life. Little did you know, that would be far more difficult than you ever could have expected…

***

You slipped back into your routine easily once you decided to get on with life. Work, eat, sleep, repeat. Your friends, thankfully, didn’t make a big deal out of your non-appearance that one night. You weren’t entirely convinced they believed your excuse, but they seemed happy enough to let it slide anyway. They even invited you out again a few weeks later. Clearly you were forgiven. You had fun that night, even if you spent a lot of it feeling decidedly odd. Not drunk – you restricted yourself to one glass of wine, you weren’t in the mood to get messy – just… not quite right. The feeling was still present when you woke up the next morning, but a glance at your calendar indicated your period was due about now. That explains it then. Just good old PMS. You hoped you’d start to feel more normal once your monthly visitor showed up.

A week later, though, and it hadn’t arrived yet. Maybe the time travel’s thrown me off? It must have affected my body somehow… But then a week late all too quickly turned into two, with no signs of change yet. The overlong cycle didn’t bother you much – cycles could be weird sometimes after all – until the day you went to eat some yoghurt for breakfast only to be wracked by a huge wave of nausea the second the smell of it hit you. You dropped your breakfast instantly and sprinted for the bathroom. Small and old-fashioned though it was, you always found the discoloured white tiles rather soothing. As you cleaned yourself up a few minutes later, enjoying the cool tiles against your feet, something suddenly clicked in your head. Oh shit, you thought with alarm, I’m two weeks late and the smell of yoghurt just made me throw up. I can’t be pregnant though, surely? I haven’t been with anyone in months. Except… prompted a voice in your head. Roger Taylor. In 1974. But that can’t have… seriously? I fucking time travel to the past for one night, one fucking night, and end up pregnant by a bloody rockstar? Seriously universe? Wait… Didn’t we use protection though? Now you came to think of it, you definitely remembered condoms being used at some point that night, but your memory was a bit fuzzy from about round three onwards. Round three… you smirked. Shit, that was a good night. Not now! snapped an angry voice in your head. Suddenly you crashed back to earth, feeling sick again. As you bent down to empty your stomach into the toilet once again, a single thought ran through your mind. Holy fuck, this can’t be happening.

Part 2 is coming soon! Please comment or reblog and tell me what you think!

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iamsoneurotic · 7 years

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Kids are gross.

I figure I’m long overdue for an update.

I don’t even know where to begin. There’s so much changing about these boys that it’s almost not worth trying to list. Short version: I have a 2 year old, a 4 year old and a world full of stress!

Let’s begin with the little bug, Noli. He’s gone through phases – He loved Curious George, he loved Thomas the Train… But oh me oh my, no love compares to his obsession with Spider-Man! I wish I could pinpoint the moment it happened. I want to say in an effort to silence one of his Cthulhu-level tantrums we shoved an iPad in his face and YouTubed Spider-Man footage from the movies. Love at first site. Honestly, who can know these things though. My memory has always sucked and poor Rachael is reaching record-breaking levels of mom-brain. These dang kids have obliterated her ability to perform simple brain functions like string a series of words together to complete a sentence. Sometimes I hear her mumbling “Abort, Retry, Fail?” in her sleep. I wonder if she can be restored to factory settings…

So as I said, Noli is obsessed with Spider-Man. He wears a Spider-Man cape, he has two Spider-Man stuffed dolls (a large one named Spider-Daddy and a small one named Spider-Baby) and he has a pair of red & blue shoes which are simply called Spider-Shoes. He pretends to shoot webs from his hands as well, something I’m rather proud to have taught him because while it appeared I was teaching him a cool superhero thing, I was secretly just teaching him to throw up the horns and rock n’ roll.

Milo does it too – because, as brothers do, they mimic everything the other does… and they do this to incredibly annoying extremes. They were in the back seat one day and per usual Noli began ‘shooting his webs’ at Milo, so Milo did it back to him. Rach and I thought it was cute until we realized it was an all out war in the backseat and these two were angrily trying to shoot each other TO DEATH with their imaginary webbing! So within a matter of minutes I realized I had reached that point in life where I spend my car rides yelling at children to stop shooting imaginary webs at each other. This is actually a thing I have to enforce now. “If you shoot your brother with webs again, you’re getting a spank!”

Yes, we spank. I had always been iffy about writing anything about it for fear that some obnoxious crunchy parent would start bombarding my email with complaints of child abuse, but then I realized that A.) I don’t care, and B.) Even if I did care, I highly doubt more than 3 people read this. Whatever, I live in Texas now – At any given time I’ve got about 4 or 5 other parents within shouting distance willing to spank my kids for me if my hands are full. God’s country, baby!

One night when I was getting Noli ready for bed, he grabbed the ‘spanking spoon’ which was within his reach, patted himself on the butt and said “Obey daddy?”… It was funny until I thought about how horrible that would look if he ever did that in public. There’s a lot of things you have to worry about when you’re in public. It used to be the thing you feared most was your child crying or making a scene - that’s all but expected now, but eventually your kids start saying things that aren’t fit for public areas. It’s not even things they’re learning from listening to me – and believe me, there’s a plethora of highly inappropriate words and phrases they should have picked up from listening to me empty their training potties, but the things they say they just figured out by putting sounds together randomly on their own. Noli, for instance (actually all of these things are Noli. Milo is a grammatical angel), started saying “Pop-a-tit”. Nobody knows what it means, nobody knows where it came from, nobody even knows if he knows what he’s saying. It just came to be one day.

The worst is when my mother asked him “Pappa what?”, and he just bluntly answered “Tit!”... Sorry, mom.

Luckily he says that one less frequently, but it just got replaced with something of equal socially unacceptable value: “Poop-shoot toot”. Now, I know where he learned poop and I know where he learned toot… But where in God’s green earth did he learn to string together Poop-shoot?? It doesn’t help that I laugh every time he does it. It’s a dad’s job to delight in his child’s potty mouth when mom isn’t looking.

Whatever though, talking about poop is as common as breathing air in my house. Milo’s almost fully potty trained now and I find myself longing for the days of diapers. When I was little, I’d yell “I’m all done!” when it was time for my tooshie to be cleansed of its own aftermath. Milo, being the ever so elegant child he is, just yells “HEY! WIPE MY BUTT!” ... Again, I find myself realizing my life’s situation as I reply without hesitation, “Hey, it’s wipe my butt PLEASE.”

I don’t even know why I bother trying to teach these kids manners - they’re animals. Children are filthy, disgusting animals. They delight in being gross. They love picking their nose, eating their nails and spitting. Here’s the thing, I can handle a poop, I can handle spit up, I can handle vomit… I can handle a lot of things. But when it involves the nose or the mouth, I immediately start dry-heaving. Even as I’m writing this I’m barely keeping it together so I can just get through this wretched paragraph.

Milo’s favorite place to do gross things is during his soccer games. He knows I’m rendered powerless to do anything about it. I can’t run onto the field and scold him, and there’s just something about being that one parent screaming from the sidelines “STOP EATING YOUR BOOGERS AND CHASE THE BALL!” that makes me uneasy… So I just have to sit there and pretend he’s not my kid until the quarter is over and I can chew him out while he’s on the bench. One time, after he finished doing his absolute worst coal-mining to his left nostril, he looked me in the eye and grabbed another kid’s hand with what I could only imagine to be a finger so moist it would make a sponge swoon. I just stood there, helplessly giving him the meanest dad-eye I could conjure up… But it was ineffective. He knew what he was doing and he knew there was nothing I could do about it. I’m pretty sure the other kid got ebola and died that evening.

Needless to say the “Obey Daddy” spoon came out that afternoon.

In all seriousness though, when he wasn’t infesting other kids with his little kid germs, he did an amazing job playing Soccer. He was the smallest kid on his team but he played his little heart out… And looked adorable doing it. I’ve never been much of a sports guy, but I got really into it when he played. I had to refrain from yelling things like “KILL HIM! KILL HIM, MILO!!” and “KICK HER IN THE SHINS!!!” … It was a co-ed league. And there absolutely was this little brat ginger girl on the other team that 100% needed a good kick in the shin from a 4-year-old. Sweep the leg, son.

I kid, I don’t encourage violence from my children… They learn it all on their own. Noli has grown into quite the bruiser, which is awful timing considering he’s right at the peak of his terrible 2’s. Sure he’s still a cuddle-bug, and adorable, and squishy and the sweetest little thing on the planet, but he also happens to be a little ball of pent up Italian rage. My contribution to the family. His favorite phrases as of late are “No”, “I don’t want to”, “Go away” and “AHHHH!!!!”. Oh, and “Spider-Man”. Though he pronounces it “Cider-Man”.

He sadly inherited my clumsiness as well. He trips and falls while laying down. It’s one of those weird parenting evolutions that happens from first kid to second. The first child falls and you run to him and cuddle him and buy him chocolate and weep because you feel his pain. With the second kid, you find yourself resisting the urge to spank him when he trips on his feet for the hundredth time that morning and lands on his face. “Omg, kid, if you’re going to bleed, do it on the tile, not the carpet!”

…

Who am I kidding, our carpet is a lost cause. I don’t even care if they eat food off of it anymore, it’s their own germs they’re eating at this point.

Speaking of germs, I’m glad the school year is over because I’m tired of these little petri dishes bringing home colds from the other kids. What’s worse is they’re probably doing something really gross to get those germs from the other kids. Why are kids so gross! Stop that!

Besides whatever gross activities they’re engaging in with the other children, both Milo and Noli are great at school-related things. Like Math. Noli’s report card had a section for “Counts to 10” and the “10″ was scribbled out and replaced with a “20”... Because my 2 year old is mad smart just like his older brother. Milo likes to routinely count to a hundred by 1’s, 2’s, 5’s and 10’s. For a brief moment I heard him counting by 6’s, but he saw that I took notice and started picking his nose and blowing raspberries. My boys love fart noises. Noli likes to run up to me, turn his butt in my direction and then exclaim “I poop on you!” and proceed to make all kinds of raspberry noises while shaking his chunky little butt all over my leg. It’s adorable in a shameful kind of way. I enable it though because I do the same thing to his mother.

He’s a funny kid. When he’s not running around singing the Spider-Man song (which he sings: “Cider-Man, Cider-Man, I never Cider-can”), he’s picking up fake phones and pretending to call my brother to order milkshakes. Good lord the boy loves vanilla milkshakes - or as he calls it “Amilla Milshaysh”. His head almost exploded one day when we had my brother buy a milkshake and wait outside the door. We had Noli call him on his cell phone and ask him to bring a milkshake, and when he asked, my brother busted open the door like Commando Santa Clause and granted his wish. Now whenever the doorbell rings, he thinks my brother is at the door with sugary beverages. We teach our kids disappointment at an early age.

We have to roll his window up when we’re at the Starbucks Drive-Thru now because he keeps trying to ask for vanilla milkshakes while we’re trying to order.

Anyway, this barely scratched the surface of how much they’ve changed, but you get the gist: Boogers, Spider-Man, Milkshakes.

Animals, ~ Mark

#parenting #fatherhood #dad #daddyblog #toddler #children #spiderman #humor #parenthood

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