According to the super-reliable (and very deep) USA Today, the life expectancy for an American woman is 80.1 years.
But not for me.
I've decided to start keeping track of the years Iain is removing from my life. Like this:
79.1: That time last week he flung himself off the guest bed and I caught him two inches from the floor. Now, it was only about a 12-inch drop, and the floor is carpeted. But still. Minus one year.
78.1: This morning, when he bit off a chunk of teething biscuit, gagged, and then vomited three times all over the place, red-faced and looking at me like, "Holy Cannoli, Batman!" Minus 1.
Why do I have a bad feeling about this?