Synonyms

This morning, after an extended session of whining and general stir-craziness we directed the kid to go play on the back porch for a little while. A few moments later this happened, with the kid on the back porch yelling at us through the open back door:

Kid: Daddy poopoo!

Dad: Do you need to poopoo? (clarifying because we’ve had some false alarms)

Kid: DADDY POOPOO!

Dad: Well, shit. (muttered under his breath)

Kid: Shit!

On the bright side, the kid is learning synonyms.

BASIC AF

Mom of the year right here. We finished our morning bike ride, pulled to a stop, then I proceeded to dump myself, the bicycle, and my child onto the pavement. I got banged up in the process of trying to slow our descent, but fortunately because we always make him wear a tight-fitting helmet, our kid is okay. (His head hit. It makes me feel nauseated just typing the words, but his head definitely hit. PSA: Please put helmets on your children, and also please don’t dump them on the pavement the way I did.)

I was pretty shaken by it, so when I took him with me to run errands we took some extra time and I snuggled him while we slowly grabbed the things we needed from Whole Foods and CVS–including a finger splint because somehow I managed to mess up a finger while I fell–then we sat down at the kids’ table at Whole Foods to eat our lunch and people watch (our faaavorite).

Along came a mama who had no idea that I’m “mom of the year” because she didn’t introduce herself or check my credentials before she decided to entrust me with her children. (And she must not have registered my frazzled expression, likely still tear-stained face, scraped up leg, or splinted finger…or perhaps she noticed them and didn’t care?) She sat down with her two littles, scrolled through her phone, then told them to stay put with their full grocery cart while she went back to get something. Right on her heels, the younger of the two took off into the store then promptly got lost and couldn’t determine which way her mother had gone. I could see her from where I sat, running toward the aisles then looking lost all of a sudden.

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Pumpkin spice errything

Alla y’all are like “Pumpkin spice errything and Christmas music squeeee!” and I’m over here like, “Gross it’s getting cold so I have to try on all my pants and figure out if any of them still fit me since giving birth or else I’mma have to wear leggings all winter long and oh wait a minute leggings squeeee!”

Seriously though, simmer down with that Christmas music nonsense.

Parenthood = Panic

New parenthood = a lot panicking, in my view.

Exhibit A:
I sleep lightly, randomly waking up long enough to panic that one of us has forgotten to put the baby down before dozing off. In my half-awake state, I begin furiously pawing at any lumps in the blankets of our bed, at any forgotten burp cloths or swaddle blankets, etc., thinking each one is the baby. This continues until B snaps me out of it by reminding me that the baby is sleeping soundly in his bed next to ours. B and I also trade off so that on nights when I’m not the one doing this, he’s the one having night terrors about dozing off with the child in our bed.

Exhibit B:
Last night the kid gave us five solid, uninterrupted hours of sleep. Did I wake up feeling rested, refreshed, and happy? Not before taking a detour to Panicville first, since something *must* have been wrong in order for him to not have woken us up at his usual 2-3 hour intervals. As it turns out, perhaps he was just being nice to his mother after the events of the night prior. (see Exhibit C)

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Schnoz, Part Two

Five years post-op, I finally took time off to visit my ENT doctor today to discuss a couple things that have been bugging me. He’s highly intelligent, quite literal, and very no-nonsense except when the jokes are his own. If you’ve ever heard me refer to my nose as “decidedly not very Anglo”, you can thank this guy for that expression because he randomly muttered it while examining my nose at my first appointment. Visits to his office are always lively for one reason or another, whether it’s because of the commentary or the post-op splint removal. (Want to watch a horror story? Google “septoplasty splint removal” and feel badly for me for having had to go through that BS.)

Anyway, about today.

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Tame Those Tatas

This morning after I was again woken up early, I stumbled out of bed and threw shorts and a zippered hoodie over my “pajamas” to finally have a conversation with the dog owner whose four-legged friend has been doing this to us for more than a month now, waking us up and serenading us throughout the day with extended episodes of continuous barking.

Husband–who deliberately lets me sleep in on weekends because he knows I’m trying to heal–greeted me quietly upon my return and asked me how it went. As I narrated the calmly worded (albeit growled) conversation his eyes drifted downward to my chest, then he grinned at me and asked, “Was your hoodie open like that when you spoke with them? Because you’re way out in the open right now.”

I looked down and there was one of the girls just as proud as she could be, on display for the world.

The rage monster has struck again.