If You Give a Toddler a Steroid

[If You Give a Mouse a Cookie by Laura J. Numeroff]

If you give a toddler a steroid he'll want some juice to go with it.
So you'll give him some apple juice.
But the apple juice won't be in a purple cup.
And toddlers always want apple juice in a purple cup.
So you'll pour the apple juice from the blue cup into the purple cup.
But the purple cup won't have a straw.
So you'll go to the cupboard to get a straw.
And the toddler will remember that apple juice comes from apples and apples are high up on trees so he will climb on the counter to pretend to pick an apple and spill the apple juice all over the floor.

So you will get a mop and a bucket.
And the water in the bucket will look like the perfect tub for a teddybear.
So the toddler will plunge the teddybear into the bucket.
And you will tell the toddler to take the bear out of the bucket.
Which will make the toddler run around the house with a wet, soapy, bear.

Since the bear is already wet you will ask the toddler if he wants to have a real bath.
And he will chant "TUB TUB TUB" until he wakes up the neighbours.
So you will call the neighbours to apologize while pouring a bath.
But the toddler will scream that the bath is too cold. And too hot. And too cold.
And then he will remember that tubs require sitting and sitting is not running and he will insist on getting out immediately.

You will be so tired that you will call super aunt for backup.
And she will bring stickers.
The toddler will want to put all the stickers on all the furniture.
And you will let him.
Because it means you can sit on the couch for 76 seconds.

The stickers will remind the toddler of crafts and he will ask for scissors and glue.
So you will spread the craft drop cloth on the floor and get supplies.
But while you are trying to figure out how to turn newspaper and pipe cleaners into something entertaining, the toddler will run in circles around and around and around throwing pieces of paper in the air and yelling CONFETTI! CONFETTI!

You will remember the tip on Pinterest about pushing pipe cleaners through the holes in a colander.
The toddler will sit to examine what you are doing.
But the pipe cleaners will look like spaghetti and spaghetti will remind him of playing chef and he will shake the colander while screaming "I'M COOKING! I'M COOKING!"

His head will shake back and forth and you will remember Jesse Spano singing "I'm so excited, I'm so excited, I'm so, so … scared."
And you will be scared too. But you will also laugh. And you will try to take a picture of the chaos.

Pretending to cook spaghetti will remind the toddler that he's hungry.
So you will open the fridge.
And the toddler will crawl inside.
He will want pickles.
Not pickles, cheese.
Not cheese, donuts.
Not donuts, cookies.

And with the fridge open you will notice the half empty (half full) bottle of wine.
And you will drink it.
Because when you give a toddler a steroid it is like - well - giving a toddler a steroid.
So you should also give his parents more wine.

He's cute but he can be pretty annoying sometimes.

Conversation with my best friend circa 2010

My hand rests on my large round belly. I push my fingers into the flesh to see if I can feel him better but I don't. My best friend is sitting on the couch next me. She's had her hand on my belly off and on for the last few hours hoping to feel a kick but he doesn't move much during the day. He's got the schedule of a rockstar, my fetus, he parties the night away and sleeps while the sun shines. 

She doesn't feel a kick that day. But being in the presence of my expanding uterus makes her nostalgic for her own pregnancy. We chat about pregnancy, and babies, and toddlers, and parenthood. Her daughter is 4 and a half and no longer a toddler. She was just at our house for a sleep-over a few weeks before and was entirely delightful the entire time.  But my friend warns me that ages 1 to 3 were hard. I don't really believe her. I haven't lived in her home with her child but in the time I've spent with her she's been as sweet as can be. I didn't yet understand that phenomenon where children behave entirely different with and without their parents. 

Cailey, Mac, and me

I told myself that I would enjoy the toddler years. After all, it had taken no small amount of effort to create this miracle child of mine. How could I ever be anything but drop-to-my-knees-grateful?

Conversation with my nephew circa 2013

Tracy and the boys burst through my door at 10 PM chatting away about everything and anything. My almost 2 year old son is asleep on my fourteen year old nephew's shoulder. His size 13 feet and giraffe-like height are a walking reminder of how fast time moves. I swear he was a tiny kid last week. Now my son looks like a doll in his man-sized arms. 

"Auntie Kris," the younger one says to me. "Auntie Tracy said you needed a break from Mac today. How come? He's so cute!"

Mac is one year and eleven months old and those terrible and terrific twos have hit hard. On the one hand, he's often sweet enough to make my teeth ache. When I walk in the door he runs to me, arms outstretched, for a big hug. He says "Hi Ma!" and "Hi Mo!" like nothing in the history of the world has ever been more amazing than our return home. In the mornings, when he's almost, but not quite, awake, he snuggles into our chests and, for a few moments, the world is made entirely of lollipops and rainbows. 

But, on the other hand... oh the other hand. A day does not go by without an epic, my life is over, meltdown. One day it occurred to him that he couldn't wear three shoes at once. Oh the injustice! On another day he completely broke down because he couldn't both colour and go for a walk simultaneously. Truthfully, as much as I try, I do not always handle these outbursts with grace. 

It was a rough morning. And at one point I was holding Mac's writhing body and trying to calm his frustration when I looked over at my wife and with a few seconds of eye contact she knew that I was done for the day. To her credit, she quickly packed him into the car and headed an hour and a half West  to Pembroke to visit her family. And, as an added bonus, she also came home with the best nephews a girl could ask for. So major wife brownie points. 

By the next morning all is forgiven between Mac and me. And he is busily following his big boy cousins around. I think that maybe he is starting to understand the concept of gender. Or maybe he just thinks they are really cool. Because, of course, they are. 

Balancing the interests of a pre-teen, a teen, and a toddler isn't an easy task but the skate park seems to please everyone. Mac is fascinated with the big boys and for the most part is pretty agree-able. But "pretty agree-able" is a relative term in the world of toddlers.

By the end of the day everyone is tired and hungry so we are happy to oblige when youngest nephew requests sushi for dinner. We give Mac a bite of sushi but he spits it out immediately. That doesn't stop him, however, from asking for more of it during the remainder of dinner.

"Auntie Kris," the younger nephew begins. "I can see why you needed a break now. Mac's cute but he can be pretty annoying sometimes."

He is wise beyond his years this kid. 

A spiked fever, a long drive home, and an Auntie Tata that makes parenting so much easier

The road that stretches between Ottawa and Mont Tremblant, Quebec is full of twists and turns and hills and narrow shoulders. It requires a steady hand on the wheel and a cautious foot on the gas. It is a beautiful drive with breath taking views of hills and rivers and quaint little towns that encourage you to stop for a taste of wine and cheese fresh from the farm.

It is a lovely drive and I highly recommend it. That is, unless your baby is sick on the other end and you are trying to get to him in a hurry.

It is 8:30 AM on Sunday morning and we are already on the road. The drive that, on Friday, had been so sweet and relaxing, Oh hello little town market, sure I'd love to try your cheese curds, oh, and a small glass of red to wash it down with? don't mind if I do, is now the longest drive in the history of the world. The GPS mocks me with an ETA of 10:30 and I know it's probably right. These are not highways to speed along.

The day before my wife and I were nestled in amongst tree covered mountains shooting the beautiful wedding of a boy, now a man, whom I knew as a child but haven't seen in nearly two decades.

The groom, clearly a man unafraid to commit to both his wife and life-long friends, has organized a group of groom's men that serves as a reunion of sorts for me. My memories of the groom involve him and his best friend, inseparable, and perpetually mischievous. And now they are men. With careers and wives and children. But still best friends. There is something about the longevity of the friendship that makes my heart swell. 

But while my wife and I were admiring beautiful scenery, love-filled vows, and life long friendships, poor Auntie Tata was back in Ottawa watching the numbers on the digital thermometer tucked under Mac's armpit rise and rise. 

I glance over at my wife and notice that she has both hands on the wheel. Her grip is tight but her knuckles aren't white. She's concerned but not panicked. I know I need to be the calm one. So I take a few deep breaths and try to imagine what Tammy and Mac are doing in that moment. The truth is that I am not overly concerned. I know that Tammy loves Mac as much as we do. And I know that she's likely to bring him to the hospital before I am.  I know he is in good hands. 

I know that he is in the hands of a woman whom he sees as a third mom. I know that he can be comforted by his Auntie Tata as well as he can by his moms. And I know that we are exceptionally blessed to have her caring for our babe in our absence. 

Mac and Auntie Tata: Day 1

Auntie Tata comforting a teething Mac 

And while I know these things, I also know that our sweet Auntie Tata is probably freaking the (insert expletive) out.

The roads twist and eventually we come to something more akin to an actual highway and the top left corner of my cell phone changes from "no service" to a picture that indicates two bars. I text her to ask how he is doing and she admits that mostly he's annoyed. She woke him up every hour through the night to check on his temperature so by this point he is trying to sleep-in and occasionally mumbling "No Tata, No." I can hear his exasperated voice in my head and I laugh a little.

You know that NyQuil commercial where the man has a cold and rolls over in bed asking his wife to call his mother? Well, with two moms and an Auntie Tata, that is certainly the kind of man we'll be raising. Good luck future daughter/son in-law! 

I assure Tracy that our baby is just fine. She smiles in my direction but I know she needs to see for herself. All four of our "mama arms" are starting to ache and we are counting the minutes until they are filled. 

Finally, FINALLY, we arrive home. We quickly bring the cameras and photo cards into our house and make sure that they are stowed away safely (oh the pressure of wedding photography!) and then we are off to retrieve Mac. 

We walk into Tammy's house afraid of what we might see. A sick babe limp in his Auntie Tata's arms perhaps? 

Instead, we see Mac running around the living room in full monkey mode. The coffee table shows remnants of a painted bird house project and the floor is littered with toys. Auntie Tata is sitting at the table looking relieved to see us. And her sister, who was woken up through the night to give reassurance, is huddled on the couch in her PJ's offering us knowing smiles. She has two babies of her own. Now young men. She remembers. 

Mac breaks momentarily to say hello and offer us hugs. But he acts as if we were just gone for an hour or two instead of two nights. He is excited to show us the painted bird house and ball he has been throwing for Auntie Tata's "big dog," but then he is back to playing and relatively undisturbed by our absence and subsequent reappearance. 

My hand rests on his forehead. I am certain that a Mama's hands are as accurate as any thermometer. The Advil that Tammy has been giving him has kicked in and his fever has broken. 

Tracy and I are relieved. We may have an extra grey hair or two but we are fine. Mac is oblivious to all that has gone on in the last two days. If anything he's a little sleepy and annoyed by his Auntie Tata's obsessive temperature taking. Auntie Tata, on the other hand, may take a little longer to calm down. When Mac turns twelve and needs an ER visit for stitches because he drove his bike down a steep hill, or scaled a fence and got his pants stuck on the way down, she will be sitting with him in the hospital, holding a cool cloth on his leg, and telling him all about the time he stayed at her house and spiked a fever through the night. He will just roll his eyes at his neurotic aunt unaware of the trauma of a sick child without the words to express his discomfort. 

Auntie Tata has the day off work today. I hope she was able to sleep in. 

The First Haircut

As a toddler my brother had a floppy mop of adorable blonde curls that grew down towards his shoulders while my mother couldn't bear to cut them. One day my dad decided to get his hair cut without her knowledge. I don't think he meant to upset her. He just thought his son needed a haircut so he got him one. I don't think my mother has forgiven him nearly 30 years later.

Mac, on the other hand, has very little hair. But it grows in weird ways. Longer in some parts than others. So I make an appointment at MelonHead because they have cars, and trains, and airplanes for the little ones to sit in and I think he will love that. And he does.

We show up early to the appointment. And of course Tammy, Mac's Auntie Tata, comes along as well. The first haircut for a boy with the equivalent of three mothers is apparently a very big deal.

"Mac do you want to sit in the ChooChoo?"

"Mac do you want to sit in the airplane?"

"Ooohh Mac do you want to drive the car?"

Each of us focuses on a different vehicular choice and the poor kid is overwhelmed by all the mother-hen-ish estrogen. He gives us a look that is the equivalent of a toddler eye-roll and points to the plane. His stylist doesn't seem to bat an eye at the three women nervously bustling around the boy who is the centre of our universes.

I take the backpack off my shoulders and pull out my large pro-level camera and lens. I attach a flash. My wife has already warned me not to set up external flashes for this event. Tammy is waving at Mac from behind her iPhone and snapping pictures of her own.

Tracy is busy explaining her vision of Mac's hair to the stylist. To her credit, the stylist entertains my wife's long list of directives while casually joking that he has such a small amount of hair that she could probably blow on it to dry it. 

I'm still snapping away. Different angles. Smile Mac! Hey Mac! Macaroni! Mac? Hey Mac! Brrrrmmm Brrrrmmm are you flying? Macadoodle! Macadoodle Do!! 

The whole thing takes about 118 seconds and then it's over. But we need a little more photo documentation. 

Also, note to self, that hair dye made your hair much more orange than you think it did. 

The stylist pulls out her point and shoot camera. In its entirety it is smaller than my flash. Part of the MelonHead experience is a photo, certificate, and a cut lock of his hair. I feel a bit silly with my camera by comparison. Like I brought a gun to a knife fight. Or some other comparison that is less violent and more appropriate for a post my about kid's first haircut. 

She takes her picture and prints it off. She attaches the picture to a certificate with a tiny bag containing his cut hair. I pass the whole package onto Auntie Tata. She's much more pack-rat-ish than we are. She stuffs it into her oversized purse trying not to bend it. 

It has been ten minutes and everything is over and done with. Mac struts a little. Proud of his new do. His moms and his Auntie Tata follow behind. Six hands smooth his shirt, tug at his hair, and snap more camera phone pictures. 

And suddenly I smile a little to myself and feel a wave of sympathy for whatever girl or boy shows up at our house for his first prom. Good luck future prom date! Try not to be blinded by the flash. 

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Remembered Always

April 15th, 2012

The week of busy, of rushing, of go-go-go, is finally coming to an end. I think we just planned an entire wedding in the span of one week. My future sister-in-law has bought a dress and shoes and all of the sparkly wedding bits that will decorate her on the day she marries my brother. We've made guest lists and to-do lists and to-buy lists. I've made a master list of the lists. It's over and I finally have Mac all to myself again. In this week of wedding planning extravaganza my major contribution to the upbringing of my son has been to pull my boob from my shirt when needed. Instead of spending his days in my arms, as he usually does, he has been passed from grandmother, to aunt, to friend, to random sales lady, and back again. And when I finally get a moment to myself to wind down I realize that my arms have ached for him. So I pull his warm little body next to mine and curl myself around him as I try to quiet my mind in preparation for sleep. But for some reason I can't turn my thoughts off. I think of all the parents who have lost their children and I wonder if they feel an ache in their arms.  At first I try to chase those thoughts away. But then I force myself to give them my full attention. I can't complain about imagining that loss. So many parents are living it.


April 16th 2012 - 7:00 AM

It's Monday which means blog time. I'm exhausted from the week of wedding planning and all I really want to do is hold my baby. But that's why I called this blog Mondays with Mac. I knew that by giving myself a hard deadline each week I'd be forced not to let procrastination, that old temptress, take over. So with the baby happily tucked into the carrier against my chest I sit down at the computer to write. I'm still thinking about the strange ache I felt in my arms last week. "Mama arms"- I coin the term and realize that I have a topic for my blog. I write about the busy week and how I missed my baby. And then I write about all of the parents who have lost their children. I write about my wife's friend who lost twin sons, and my grandmother who lost two adult children, and the bloggers I follow who write about the loss of their children, and my heart breaks for them. I sit at my computer and I cry. I ache for all of the parents with aching Mama (and Papa) arms. And I finish the post by writing "You are in my thoughts today."


April 16th 2012 - 12:00 PM 

The green light flashes on my phone and I turn it on to read the single worst text I have ever received. My friend, who has just amazingly grown two perfect babies in her womb for the last eight months, has lost one of her children. Her pregnancy has been pretty normal, in the world of twin pregnancies at least, and this is a devastating shock. No heartbeat. No signs of life. Alive two days ago. Gone today. My heart drops into my stomach and then leaves me entirely. It is flying across the country, landing in a hospital room in Nova Scotia, sitting next to Katie's bed.

I sob. Hard ugly cries. Her words make her seem brave and strong. She's in shock most likely. And since her son is still living in her womb I imagine that her body is not yet letting her feel the full impact of the trauma.

Never one to be short on words I struggle to find the right ones. I'm sorry seems too miniscule. I'm sorry my grocery cart bumped into yours, I'm sorry I forgot your birthday, I'm sorry I'm late for our appointment... but I'm sorry your child has died? No that doesn't sound right. But there really aren't any words that matter. I know she doesn't give fuck about my words right now. And I can swear because I know she would. She's probably so fucking sick of hearing I'm sorry. There are no words that will help. No words that will comfort. So I write some anyway, knowing they are useless, but necessary nonetheless.


April 10th, 2013

It's a cold spring. I don't know if the groundhog saw his shadow or not. I don't much care. But I'm cold.  Which allows me to believe that it's still winter and not yet spring. Can it really be April already? Has it really been a year since Caroline died? It seems impossible. And yet I look at the photos of her brother and there he is - happy smiles and big toddler teeth. Somehow a year has indeed passed.

She doesn't feel strong, my friend, I know this much. And she's sick of people telling her that she is. It's not strength that keeps her going. She's angry and sad and a million other emotions I can't comprehend. But she's still breathing and there's strength in that. She's made it through the first year of parenthood and the smiles on her son's face are proof of how much she has rocked it. She's also muddled through the no man's land of bereaved parent and new mom. It's hard to find a place to be between the grieving parents envious of her healthy son and the rest of the new moms who exchange birth stories like baseball cards.  

As the date approaches we talk a lot about Caroline. Even though I know it's the wrong thing to do I'm always cautious to mention her name. What if in that one single moment she wasn't thinking about her terrible loss and I just reminded her? I tell her about the blog I posted last year just hours before hearing of Caroline's death. And then I backtrack. I tell her not to read it because it will just make her feel worse. And then she tells me what I already knew but somehow couldn't really accept. "It doesn't make me feel worse," she says. "There's no such thing. People always worry about reminding me, or opening up wounds. Please don't ever worry about that. My wounds are always open, not a second goes by that I don't think about her."

Her words hit me over the head like a hammer and I feel bad for all of the times I didn't say her name. All of the times that I saw a butterfly, thought of Caroline, and didn't tell her. This time I heard her. Really heard her.


April 15th, 2013

It has been one year since Caroline died. One year without her precious soul on this earth. And today I will say her name on repeat. I will tell Mac about her. I will say a prayer for her. I will say a prayer for her parents and her brother. I will morn her. I will love her.  And I will remember her. Always.

Like Tin Men we Walk Around Heart-less

"Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body." 
--Elizabeth Stone 

There is a pretty famous quote about parenthood that says that when you have a child you make a choice to forever walk around with your heart outside of your body. Like Tin Men in the Wizard of Oz we walk around fearful of the things that can happen to our hearts when they move outside of our field of vision. A lonely little heart out there all on his own. Does he miss me? Is he safe? How can my heart be expected to survive without me? And then we find people who can hold our hearts for safe keeping. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends and trusted child care providers. We wonder if we have made the right choice. Will she protect my heart? Will my heart be safe with him? Some of us are devastated to learn that answer to those questions was no. And that is the haunting part of having your heart walk around outside of your body. The horror of the possibility of that reality is enough to keep the rest of us up at night with worry.

I've been lucky enough to answer only yes to those questions. My heart has travelled to different cities and gone on many adventures beyond my view. And he has remained safe and protected. And now that I understand what it means to hand over your heart to another person for safe keeping I take it as an honour to be allowed to protect someone else's heart.

Jordan, or DieDie as Mac for some reason only intelligible to toddlers calls him, is someone else's heart. Sometimes his parents hand him over to me for safe-keeping. Those are Mac's favorite days. Each morning he wakes up and asks DieDie? DieDie? and if I have to tell him that there is no DieDie today his little heart breaks. For a minute until a truck or a cookie gets his attention.

So I cuddle him, that heart that belongs to someone else, and I love him like I would my own heart.

This week DieDie's mom is gone on a much needed and much deserved vacation. And as much as I know she is looking forward to the drinks and the beach and the sun and drinks, I also know that it will be difficult to board a plane without her heart. So before she left I helped Jordan to write a letter to his mom.

Enjoy the beach Amy! Your heart will be here safe and sound when you get back! 

Have you met my Dad? A guest post from Mac.

I have a Ma, a Mo, and an Auntie Tata. They all have their strengths and weaknesses when it comes to caring for me. My Ma is the best at scaring the bad dreams away and my Mo is the best at washing my hair without getting soap in my eyes. I don't know what is wrong with my Ma but she really sucks at that. And my Auntie Tata is the best at never saying no. She'll even lift me up to the magic cupboard and let me pick my own treat.

It takes a lot of work to tire these three out. But, hey, I'm up for the challenge. Sometimes other grown-ups, like my Gramma and Grampa, come to visit and Ma, Mo, and Auntie Tata sit on the couch depressed that they aren't getting all of my attention. Sometimes they can't even open their eyes because they are so sad. 

I also have a Dad but he lives in New York City. I visited him there last year. It's a cool place with lots of bagels. Dad comes to visit us in Canada too. He complains about the cold but not about the donuts. 

The first few times he visited I was just a baby and still a bit shy. My Ma hadn't yet earned my trust and I could never be really sure that she would come back when she left the room. So I kept her in arm's reach just in case. But she's left me 1023 times now and has come back every time so I'm starting to believe her when she says she'll be "right back." 

This visit with Dad was the best one yet. I'm not a baby anymore so I got to do big boy stuff with him. 

Like watch videos of cats on the button machine that my moms never let me touch. 

And staying up really late to watch even more videos of cats.

We had a pretty epic game of hide and seek in our cool no-moms-allowed blanket fort. 

He even showed me all of his cool big boy products - like soap that doesn't smell like flowers and bottles of dark liquid that make you smell rugged when you spray them. Once he forget to let me come in the bathroom with him. But I waited outside the door. 

And he felt so bad that he let me keep his toothbrush. That doesn't even have any cartoon characters on it. 

And when Ma brought us donuts he let me eat the cool one with the little coloured balls over it. 

He was really cool. And I guess he liked me too because he was constantly taking my picture. 

Ma says I'm starting to look just like him. 

Hopefully one day I can be just as cool as he is too. 

And We Are A Tricycle

Before we get started today I just wanted to take a moment to announce how incredibly honoured I am that Mondays with Mac placed in all three nominated categories of the 2012 Canadian Weblog Awards. It was named first in the Family & Parenting category, 2nd in the LGBTQ category, and 2nd in the Best New Weblog category. At the risk of getting too Oscar-y, it really was an honour to be nominated. And to have placed amongst such incredible blogs is truly humbling.

Now, back to your regularly scheduled blogging.

Last week Tracy and I got a taste of how the other half live. The Auntie-Tata-less parents out there. And let me tell you, we didn't care for it much. We tend to monopolize a fair amount of Tammy's time so, of course, we were happy for her when she said she was going on a cruise with a friend. But a week without her wasn't going to be easy.

I realize that a two-parent-to-one-child ratio is still pretty damn good. Cue all the single parents out there with a HELL YA. But you know what's better than a two-to-one ratio? A three-to-one ratio. Since she lives close by she visits several times a week and has been known to pick-up Mac and take him with her while she runs errands just because.

We are past the point of Tammy being company. I know this because I don't put a bra on when she comes over. Which I'm pretty sure is the definition of company. We don't even offer her a drink anymore. She knows where the fridge is.  Instead she just shows up and focuses all of her attention on Mac. And Mac entirely ignores us when she is there. Which, truthfully, is pretty awesome. I tend to sigh with relief when she walks through the door knowing that I've just switched to off duty and can take a few moments to check-out. Her presence has become so common in our home that I think we've begun to take it for granted.

We missed her while she was gone. And Mac missed her too. On the day she was finally (FINALLY) set to arrive home we continually bribed him to get dressed, eat his lunch, get in the car, and every other thing he sometimes makes a fuss about, by telling him that we were going to see Auntie Tata.

As we entered the airport he had basically given up on our seemingly fake promises. He ignored our pleas to hurry-up, we're almost there, if we can just get downstairs we'll see Auntie Tata. He had other ideas. He wanted to explore every inch of the airport instead. And then he found a table that was just his height and wanted some down time with an iPhone and a donut.

Finally we wrangled him to the waiting spot and promised, repeatedly, that Auntie Tata would be coming down the stairs at any moment. But we had cried wolf Auntie Tata too many times and he didn't believe us.

And then he saw her coming down the escalator. More tanned and relaxed than he was used to. But still, his Auntie Tata. And she was as happy to see him as he was to see her.

Now that she's back we will do our best not to take for granted the amazing support system we have in one very special not-by-blood-but-by-love aunt. She once joked that she was the third wheel in our parenting relationship with Mac. I almost corrected her but then changed my mind. She is absolutely the third wheel. And we are a tricycle.