Scene: Me, sitting on the couch with the three year old, watching The Princess Bride.
Cary Elwes (on screen): Whatever happens to us, I want him to live a long life alone with his cowardice.
Kid (turns to me): Ask me if I'm going to do that.
Me: I'm not going to ask you if you're going to live a long life alone with your cowardice.
Kid: Ha! I wouldn't anyway because I'm Brave.
Me: Okay.
Kid (fishes in pocket): Also, I have this! (pulls out a new, unwrapped bar of Lever 2000 soap, jumps off couch and runs through house) Super bar of soap! Super bar of soap!
I used to go out drinking. It wasn't half as crazy as this parenting thing.
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Monday, April 9, 2012
THIS EASTER EGG WILL SELF-DESTRUCT
I blinked. "Yes, just like that."
On Easter morning, while he was at church with my parents, the Easter bunny stopped by and dropped off the following note:
Hey Kid,
I need your help. While I was dyeing eggs, a wicked snow bird - allied with the snow spiders - stole the candy eggs! The snow bird has filled her nests with eggs. Those she couldn't fit, she gave to the snow spiders to hide in their webs - along with some gold doubloons.
Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to recover the eggs. If you are caught by the snow bird or the snow spiders, I will disavow all knowledge of this operation.
Good luck, son.
Yours Truly,
The E. Bunny
P.S. There's a map.
There was a treasure map, carefully marked with X's. He chose to accept.
Snow birds nest in the sides of snow banks.
And in vast, glacier-like expanses of snow.
Gold doubloons. Snow spiders can weave webs for days. They won't stop a dedicated treasure hunter.
And the wickedest, wiliest snow bird is no match for this kid.
Hope you had a great Easter...with far less snow than we had.
Monday, February 27, 2012
THE WAY OF THE WORLD
Children are natural story-tellers. With little experience and limited vocabularies, they try to fit new discoveries into what they know. That can mean roleplaying as favorite TV characters, determining the cat is a gumball machine after she vomits kibble in front of him - it's the same basic principal, minus the feeding of spare change - or performing the same ritual over and over again until their little brains have finally digested it.
My son is three and a half. At the moment, he is simultaneously convinced of the following:
My son is three and a half. At the moment, he is simultaneously convinced of the following:
- That everybody he knows is a character in the kid's show The Octonauts (This is actually a pretty good show. It's educational and low on the irritating background noise scale)
- That he is the Dread Pirate Roberts
- That Peter Pan's shadow regularly latches on to him and causes mischief around the house (Ask me how much I like this one. >:( )
- That he is the commander-in-chief of a snow fortification in front of our house called Fort Burrito. (Don't laugh. That thing is booby-trapped to the frozen hilt!)
- That his dreams take place in an alternate reality called Engine City, where things move very fast and one must always be alert to villains intent on stealing one's ice cream and sandwiches. The bastards.
Meanwhile, with decades more experience and a decent grasp of how the universe works, my world consists of:
- Get up
- Go to work
- Cook stuff
- Clean stuff
- Pay bills
- More work
- Think about sleeping in, kind of sleep in
- Think about working out, don't work out
Which of us is better off, I wonder?
Thursday, February 16, 2012
A DAY IN THE LIFE - EVENING EDITION
5:10 p.m. - Leave Work.
5:20 p.m. - Pick up child from day care.
5:35 p.m. - Get home, divest child of snowgear, admire his artwork, wash his hands. Feed cats. Fill humidifier.
5:45 p.m. - Make dinner. It's late in the week, so it's cobbled-together leftovers.
5:55 p.m. - Child comes into kitchen and drops 6-inch by 6-inch cube of building blocks on top of your foot, proclaims that he is Wall-e. Grind teeth until pain passes.
6:00 p.m. - Set table and call child to dinner. Child consumes entire glass of milk and proclaims himself full.
6:01 p.m. - Child grips stomach and complains he's dying. Send child into bathroom.
6:02 p.m. - Eat in peace and quiet.
6:07 p.m. - Because you have learned to eat like a starved honey badger in the few minutes you can scrounge up between obligations, dinner is consumed and dishes are already done.
6:08 p.m. - Settle onto couch with book.
6:18 p.m. - Spring from couch when you realize the house has been silent for 17 minutes. Open bathroom door to find child standing in front of the closed toilet, completed naked.
You: Are you done?
Child: Yes.
You: What's going on in the toilet?
Child: Nothing!
6:19 p.m. - Open toilet lid. Find 1/2 a roll of Charmin settled uneasily on top of...something wretched. Explain to child why we use less toilet paper. Child, upon hearing the word "clog" for the first time, runs from the bathroom.
6:20 p.m. - Begin the painstaking process of progressively flushing small amounts of the toilet's contents, using the toilet brush as a dam.
6:21 p.m. - TP disintegrates; dam fails. Overcome by drama, cat pukes in hallway outside bathroom.
6:23 p.m. - Power-walk past child, who is naked, clutching his clothes to his chest, and on the brink of tears. Explain it's time for Plan B. Tears.
6:23:30 p.m. - Retrieve toilet plunger from other bathroom, begin Plan B. Outside the door, cat #2 steps in cat #1's puke, gets mad, commences to beat cat #1. Separate cats with foot.
6:25 p.m. - Plan B complete. Clean bathroom. Dress child. Wipe tears. Clean up puke.
6:30 p.m. - Decide to refill soap dispenser. Child drops 6-inch by 6-inch cube of building blocks on your foot. Soap everywhere.
Child: Wall-eeeee.
5:20 p.m. - Pick up child from day care.
5:35 p.m. - Get home, divest child of snowgear, admire his artwork, wash his hands. Feed cats. Fill humidifier.
5:45 p.m. - Make dinner. It's late in the week, so it's cobbled-together leftovers.
5:55 p.m. - Child comes into kitchen and drops 6-inch by 6-inch cube of building blocks on top of your foot, proclaims that he is Wall-e. Grind teeth until pain passes.
6:00 p.m. - Set table and call child to dinner. Child consumes entire glass of milk and proclaims himself full.
6:01 p.m. - Child grips stomach and complains he's dying. Send child into bathroom.
6:02 p.m. - Eat in peace and quiet.
6:07 p.m. - Because you have learned to eat like a starved honey badger in the few minutes you can scrounge up between obligations, dinner is consumed and dishes are already done.
6:08 p.m. - Settle onto couch with book.
6:18 p.m. - Spring from couch when you realize the house has been silent for 17 minutes. Open bathroom door to find child standing in front of the closed toilet, completed naked.
You: Are you done?
Child: Yes.
You: What's going on in the toilet?
Child: Nothing!
6:19 p.m. - Open toilet lid. Find 1/2 a roll of Charmin settled uneasily on top of...something wretched. Explain to child why we use less toilet paper. Child, upon hearing the word "clog" for the first time, runs from the bathroom.
6:20 p.m. - Begin the painstaking process of progressively flushing small amounts of the toilet's contents, using the toilet brush as a dam.
6:21 p.m. - TP disintegrates; dam fails. Overcome by drama, cat pukes in hallway outside bathroom.
6:23 p.m. - Power-walk past child, who is naked, clutching his clothes to his chest, and on the brink of tears. Explain it's time for Plan B. Tears.
6:23:30 p.m. - Retrieve toilet plunger from other bathroom, begin Plan B. Outside the door, cat #2 steps in cat #1's puke, gets mad, commences to beat cat #1. Separate cats with foot.
6:25 p.m. - Plan B complete. Clean bathroom. Dress child. Wipe tears. Clean up puke.
6:30 p.m. - Decide to refill soap dispenser. Child drops 6-inch by 6-inch cube of building blocks on your foot. Soap everywhere.
Child: Wall-eeeee.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
BEDTIME READING
Kid got a little out of control tonight. There was an interrogation, then a mention of zombies. I tried to calm him down with a little light reading. He wasn't having Dr. Suess.
Count Zero, by William Gibson
Bloodshot, by Cherie Priest
And yes, those are Thomas the Tank Engine PJs.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
TIME OUT FOR DOMESTIC MANIFESTOES
Tweeeeeet <--that's the sound of a whistle being blown.
Why, you ask? Because we're taking a time out to talk parenting. Specifically, potty-training, that surreal period of time in which one or more humans employ every trick in their arsenal, as well as stooping to things like bribery and begging, to convince another human (or possibly an alien-monkey hybrid) not to poo in his own pants.
Granted, it's a new human (hopefully), but it's still another person refusing to not poo in his own pants. And it's awful. Just soul-searingly awful.
We've reached the point where our new human recognizes the need to poo (hereinafter referred to as the Poo Instinct), considers pulling down his scientifically-engineered pull-downable pants and utilizing the device specifically purchased for him to poo in, then says nahhhhh, not gonna do it.
I'm not sure what to do. When a person decides not to do something related to the Poo Instinct, there isn't much an outsider can do to force the correct reaction to the Poo Instinct. So, I've decided to put my college degree to work. It's English, for the record. I'm going to use all my skills of composition, borrowing of other's fine works, and rhetoric to attempt -once and for all- to get my son to use the potty. If you would like to try this at home, then feel free to borrow the following. I give you:
When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one (tiny) person to poo, and to assume among the powers of nature a separate and equal location for his used sustenance, a decent respect to the olfactory sensibilities of mankind requires that this (tiny) person should remove himself and make use of the throne-shaped potty so highly recommended by Consumer Reports.*
Now we are engaged in a great and unbelievably frustrating time, testing whether this household, or any household, so conceived and so dedicated to the principal of not pooing in one's own pants (possibly while standing in the kitchen playing with an exceedingly irritating parrot toy from a McDonald's Happy Meal) can long endure.**
To thine own Poo (Instinct) be true; and it must follow, as the day the night, though canst not then reduce thine mother to tears and unproductive gagging.***
*Declaration of Independence
**Gettysburg Address
***Hamlet
Why, you ask? Because we're taking a time out to talk parenting. Specifically, potty-training, that surreal period of time in which one or more humans employ every trick in their arsenal, as well as stooping to things like bribery and begging, to convince another human (or possibly an alien-monkey hybrid) not to poo in his own pants.
Granted, it's a new human (hopefully), but it's still another person refusing to not poo in his own pants. And it's awful. Just soul-searingly awful.
We've reached the point where our new human recognizes the need to poo (hereinafter referred to as the Poo Instinct), considers pulling down his scientifically-engineered pull-downable pants and utilizing the device specifically purchased for him to poo in, then says nahhhhh, not gonna do it.
I'm not sure what to do. When a person decides not to do something related to the Poo Instinct, there isn't much an outsider can do to force the correct reaction to the Poo Instinct. So, I've decided to put my college degree to work. It's English, for the record. I'm going to use all my skills of composition, borrowing of other's fine works, and rhetoric to attempt -once and for all- to get my son to use the potty. If you would like to try this at home, then feel free to borrow the following. I give you:
The Poo Manifesto
When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one (tiny) person to poo, and to assume among the powers of nature a separate and equal location for his used sustenance, a decent respect to the olfactory sensibilities of mankind requires that this (tiny) person should remove himself and make use of the throne-shaped potty so highly recommended by Consumer Reports.*
Now we are engaged in a great and unbelievably frustrating time, testing whether this household, or any household, so conceived and so dedicated to the principal of not pooing in one's own pants (possibly while standing in the kitchen playing with an exceedingly irritating parrot toy from a McDonald's Happy Meal) can long endure.**
To thine own Poo (Instinct) be true; and it must follow, as the day the night, though canst not then reduce thine mother to tears and unproductive gagging.***
*Declaration of Independence
**Gettysburg Address
***Hamlet
Monday, December 13, 2010
Just Another Monday
Following are comments I overheard while doing my very best to fall into a trance (also known as sleeping standing up) as I washed the dishes.
"Stop biting my pants."
"Those are my pickles. They're always all my pickles."
"That angry beaver hurt the monster."
"Did you just drink that? That's two days old. Why would you drink that?"
"The baby broke the house."
"Don't floss Juno." (Juno is the cat)
Now guess which lines were spoken by my husband, and which by my 2 1/2 year old son. Feel free to talk amongst yourselves.
"Stop biting my pants."
"Those are my pickles. They're always all my pickles."
"That angry beaver hurt the monster."
"Did you just drink that? That's two days old. Why would you drink that?"
"The baby broke the house."
"Don't floss Juno." (Juno is the cat)
Now guess which lines were spoken by my husband, and which by my 2 1/2 year old son. Feel free to talk amongst yourselves.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Parent's Log, Star Date Oh-5-90
Starring:
Mother - Played by Me
Son - Age 2 - Played by some spastic alien-monkey hybrid masquerading as my offspring
The scene: Wednesday Night, Dinner Table
Son (speaking through small Frankenstein toy): Where's my mommy?
Me: You don't have a mommy. You were created in a lab by a mad scientist.
Internal Monologue: I then think better of this. Perhaps one shouldn't tell one's child, even through a toy, that he is the motherless son of a crazed genius. Perhaps that's what leads to kids sucking their thumbs until they are 24, or going up on to water towers with Kalishnikovs. Perhaps in this one moment, I have just destroyed his sense of security for the rest of his life.
Son: Oh, okay. (resumes eating enchilada)
Mother - Played by Me
Son - Age 2 - Played by some spastic alien-monkey hybrid masquerading as my offspring
The scene: Wednesday Night, Dinner Table
Son (speaking through small Frankenstein toy): Where's my mommy?
Me: You don't have a mommy. You were created in a lab by a mad scientist.
Internal Monologue: I then think better of this. Perhaps one shouldn't tell one's child, even through a toy, that he is the motherless son of a crazed genius. Perhaps that's what leads to kids sucking their thumbs until they are 24, or going up on to water towers with Kalishnikovs. Perhaps in this one moment, I have just destroyed his sense of security for the rest of his life.
Son: Oh, okay. (resumes eating enchilada)
Thursday, June 10, 2010
A Funny Thing Happened...
I opted out of my countdown yesterday, which I suppose it's my prerogative to do. It actually wasn't intentional, despite the premature launch that removed the need for a countdown. What actually happened was this:
1. The neighbors sold their house. Their house was (is still, but they no longer own it) very near to ours. They have apparently invited every contractor in the United States, Canada and Russia (I can't see it from here, but that's because the trees are too tall) to work on it, round the clock. Thus, with all the hammering and power tool whining and the one very ominous destructive crashing sound, I have had some trouble focusing.
2. My better half has been out of town for a few days, leaving me to the monumental task of single parenting the spastic monkey who pretends to be our offspring. Just this morning he tackled me (he's two, but almost as big as me) and declared himself a "monkey, monkey, monkey" while bashing his head against my sternum and calling it a hug.
3. I've been trying to figure out self-employment tax law while:
3a. Obsessively minding my batch of queries
3b. Performing CPR on an old short story - I finally had to hand the corpse off to the experts
3c. Researching Japanese myths and the Ainu people
But, since I'm not the sentimental type, I'm not going to continue counting down toward something that has already occurred. Onward and upward! Or, at the very least, away.
I will update the query stats tomorrow.
That is all.
1. The neighbors sold their house. Their house was (is still, but they no longer own it) very near to ours. They have apparently invited every contractor in the United States, Canada and Russia (I can't see it from here, but that's because the trees are too tall) to work on it, round the clock. Thus, with all the hammering and power tool whining and the one very ominous destructive crashing sound, I have had some trouble focusing.
2. My better half has been out of town for a few days, leaving me to the monumental task of single parenting the spastic monkey who pretends to be our offspring. Just this morning he tackled me (he's two, but almost as big as me) and declared himself a "monkey, monkey, monkey" while bashing his head against my sternum and calling it a hug.
3. I've been trying to figure out self-employment tax law while:
3a. Obsessively minding my batch of queries
3b. Performing CPR on an old short story - I finally had to hand the corpse off to the experts
3c. Researching Japanese myths and the Ainu people
But, since I'm not the sentimental type, I'm not going to continue counting down toward something that has already occurred. Onward and upward! Or, at the very least, away.
I will update the query stats tomorrow.
That is all.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
From Woe to Wow (and other stupid titles)
I have been suffering from a stomach ailment. It started with acute and dreadful symptoms and is now more like a lazy houseguest. It lays about eating Utz Pub Mix, flipping channels and leaving its dirty socks in my way while I’m trying to work and/or pace (Which is a pre-working exercise during which I try to get my brain to wrap itself around POUS/S: problems of unusual size/scope).
An odd response to this malady is that I’m obsessively drawn toward any television programming having to do with food. In fact, if I am in front of the set, I’m attentively flipping back and forth between two programs at the same time. Why? I have no appetite. When I do eat, I can only eat small amounts of pretty bland food. So why this obsession? I don’t know. Why did Eve eat the apple?
I’ve also been cooking a lot, in part to make food I can actually tolerate. I am currently awaiting my slow cooker’s beep to alert me it’s time to take the potato-leek-collard green soup out and blend it to smithereens. Yes, I did say collard greens. Will it be good? I have no idea. It smells good. I just finished a batch of pumpkin-apricot muffins (Nuffins, if my son is reading this, which I doubt he is because he can’t read. It’s not a problem. He’s only two and he’s not Robert Titzer’s kid.) And I baked chicken and then hacked it up and made chicken salad out of it. I debated adding apple to my chicken salad. I’ve had it and enjoyed it, but wasn’t sure it would go over well with the Household.
So, to answer the question you’ve surely been asking: Yes, you can catch what I have by reading this blog. If by “what I have” you mean a desire to cook mouthwatering food. The stomach bug probably does not travel electronically.
An odd response to this malady is that I’m obsessively drawn toward any television programming having to do with food. In fact, if I am in front of the set, I’m attentively flipping back and forth between two programs at the same time. Why? I have no appetite. When I do eat, I can only eat small amounts of pretty bland food. So why this obsession? I don’t know. Why did Eve eat the apple?
I’ve also been cooking a lot, in part to make food I can actually tolerate. I am currently awaiting my slow cooker’s beep to alert me it’s time to take the potato-leek-collard green soup out and blend it to smithereens. Yes, I did say collard greens. Will it be good? I have no idea. It smells good. I just finished a batch of pumpkin-apricot muffins (Nuffins, if my son is reading this, which I doubt he is because he can’t read. It’s not a problem. He’s only two and he’s not Robert Titzer’s kid.) And I baked chicken and then hacked it up and made chicken salad out of it. I debated adding apple to my chicken salad. I’ve had it and enjoyed it, but wasn’t sure it would go over well with the Household.
So, to answer the question you’ve surely been asking: Yes, you can catch what I have by reading this blog. If by “what I have” you mean a desire to cook mouthwatering food. The stomach bug probably does not travel electronically.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
How Your Kid is Like a Poem (but only if you're a poet)
Becoming a parent isn’t like they say it is. That subtle, constant disapproval of small children and those who raised them doesn’t go away. It’s just accompanied by a tired resignation that, to the childless out there, you are now included in that group. “It’ll be different when it’s your own” isn’t true, either, for anyone wondering. You’ll still be frustrated and disgusted, sometimes to tears. And for anyone who thinks you can’t be disgusted to tears, wait until you get distracted for that slip of a second while changing your kid after someone has fed him a bucket of corn and a barbeque brisket sandwich, and he gets hold of the diaper before you. Tears, I tell you. Also, possibly some screaming.
What was I saying? Oh yeah, parenting is difficult and frustrating. It’s also rewarding in a way that’s difficult to articulate. Because it’s not different when it’s your own. You are different when you have one of your own. That’s when little things like an unsolicited hug, or a moon-eyed child wandering up to rest his head against you when he’s tired makes your whole day.
Of course, the next day is more monkey-style feces-throwing (You be the judge of whether I mean this literally) and howling protestations when you give the child something he just freaking asked for.
Writing is a little like raising a child. You’re tired. All you want to do is drink a glass of wine and put your feet up and watch Lost, but you promised yourself you’d hit at least 1,000 a day. You’re so frustrated you can’t think, but just like you can’t shake a baby, you can’t rattle sense into your computer or typewriter. Time out barely even works on it anymore. And when a piece gets rejected, you feel like you’ve failed as its maker. And when it succeeds, happiness bubbles up inside you like a tiny, carbonated sun (Not really – that would kill you. The sun is hotter than you think). So you go on to the next day, or the next story, or the next chapter.
What was I saying? Oh yeah, parenting is difficult and frustrating. It’s also rewarding in a way that’s difficult to articulate. Because it’s not different when it’s your own. You are different when you have one of your own. That’s when little things like an unsolicited hug, or a moon-eyed child wandering up to rest his head against you when he’s tired makes your whole day.
Of course, the next day is more monkey-style feces-throwing (You be the judge of whether I mean this literally) and howling protestations when you give the child something he just freaking asked for.
Writing is a little like raising a child. You’re tired. All you want to do is drink a glass of wine and put your feet up and watch Lost, but you promised yourself you’d hit at least 1,000 a day. You’re so frustrated you can’t think, but just like you can’t shake a baby, you can’t rattle sense into your computer or typewriter. Time out barely even works on it anymore. And when a piece gets rejected, you feel like you’ve failed as its maker. And when it succeeds, happiness bubbles up inside you like a tiny, carbonated sun (Not really – that would kill you. The sun is hotter than you think). So you go on to the next day, or the next story, or the next chapter.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Aaaaand...we're back
Aaaaand…we’re back. The brief hiatus was to collect our thoughts, take a short and lovely vacation to St. Paul, MN and respond to the first signs of spring at the latitude with some half-hearted yardwork and balls-to-the-wall car washing.
Thoughts we thinked while away.
Target Field is pretty sweet. And seats in the Legends Club section yield a delightful view of 1st Baseman Justin Morneau's behind. Well designed (the ball park), it feels open even with about 40,000 people there, except when everyone is coming and going all at once. Unless you’re trying to find a cup of coffee, in which case you will walk seven miles inside of the ballpark and find exactly two coffee stands (one of which was directly behind you when you started walking, but you didn’t see it…thus the trip around the world).
Homemade raspberry limoncello is not a good idea. Not before or after dinner. Not with wine or beer or booze. Not in a boat and not with a goat.
The Happy Hour margherita pizza at Pazzaluna is, for reals, good.
My brother and his girlfriend are the bests hosts ever.
It hurts right around the sternum to be away from my two year-old for four and a half days.
Thoughts we thinked while away.
Target Field is pretty sweet. And seats in the Legends Club section yield a delightful view of 1st Baseman Justin Morneau's behind. Well designed (the ball park), it feels open even with about 40,000 people there, except when everyone is coming and going all at once. Unless you’re trying to find a cup of coffee, in which case you will walk seven miles inside of the ballpark and find exactly two coffee stands (one of which was directly behind you when you started walking, but you didn’t see it…thus the trip around the world).
Homemade raspberry limoncello is not a good idea. Not before or after dinner. Not with wine or beer or booze. Not in a boat and not with a goat.
The Happy Hour margherita pizza at Pazzaluna is, for reals, good.
My brother and his girlfriend are the bests hosts ever.
It hurts right around the sternum to be away from my two year-old for four and a half days.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
To Breed or not to Breed
All my friends are having babies, or talking about babies, or thinking about adding more babies to their current collection of babies and/or children. I'm not sure how I feel about this. We had one baby. It's now a toddler well on its way to becoming an adult and/or howler monkey. Sometimes you don't know until later how they turn out.
So, my friends say (paraphrasing here), you are still at a viable age to produce normal offspring. Why don't you jump on the baby-making bandwagon (not literal-that would be gross) with us?
I look at what that entails: nausea; heartburn; sleepless nights; demonic snoring; sciatica; trying to perfect the "latch" with a recalcitrant infant while going on 0 sleep for two weeks; trying to lose the weight, again; trying to be patient and kind and educate the child when all I want to do is take a shower or have breakfast. I won't even talk about giving birth, because for those of you who got drugs, you have no idea. For those of you who didn't, you know why I'm not talking about it.
Then I look at my son and his quests to eat Vaseline and climb everything and bite the backs of my knees, and I think to myself that he is just perfect. I'm not greedy. I know the next child would be different. Maybe it would sleep through the night starting at four months. Maybe it would want to sleep with us until it was four. Maybe it would prefer Comet to Vaseline. I think I'll just stick to the one.
So, my friends say (paraphrasing here), you are still at a viable age to produce normal offspring. Why don't you jump on the baby-making bandwagon (not literal-that would be gross) with us?
I look at what that entails: nausea; heartburn; sleepless nights; demonic snoring; sciatica; trying to perfect the "latch" with a recalcitrant infant while going on 0 sleep for two weeks; trying to lose the weight, again; trying to be patient and kind and educate the child when all I want to do is take a shower or have breakfast. I won't even talk about giving birth, because for those of you who got drugs, you have no idea. For those of you who didn't, you know why I'm not talking about it.
Then I look at my son and his quests to eat Vaseline and climb everything and bite the backs of my knees, and I think to myself that he is just perfect. I'm not greedy. I know the next child would be different. Maybe it would sleep through the night starting at four months. Maybe it would want to sleep with us until it was four. Maybe it would prefer Comet to Vaseline. I think I'll just stick to the one.
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