I just can’t get behind wearing sunglasses indoors. I’m all for impractical fashion statements — after all, it’s not like a necklace serves any purpose, when you get right down to it — but if I don’t care who you are, if you’re wearing sunglasses indoors, at night, you’re a douche. I mean, RIGHT? How is this not such ubiquitous common knowledge that no one dares attempt it, for fear of public stoning? EVEN YOU, USHER. Or perhaps, especially you.
So! Today, I was chatting with Adam and being a total smuggimus douchimus about how since having Sam I’ve really gotten it together! I haven’t dropped the baby, spilled copious amounts of paint, smeared dog poop on my forehead or pulled any of my pre-kid hijinks! Look at me, all MATURING AND TOGETHER AND SHIT. Motherhood has turned me into a responsible adult! AM GENIUS.
(Honestly, you guys, I thought this. What an asshole I am, right? I mean, who thinks that, much less admits it, but y’all, really, I was all, LOOK AT ME GO!)
We had tacos for dinner, and though Sam is at the age where apparently she can eat whatever we eat, I’m thinking, tacos? Really? I mean, is there a way to present tacos in a way that is both practical and palatable to a miniature person who is still incapable of wielding a spoon, much less a crispy taco shell? No, no, I decided. Best to stick with the usual fare, I say! (Strawberries, carrots and grilled cheese, if you were wondering.)
And then she was all excited about the tacos and wanted to TRY the tacos and I’m thinking, well, if I break off a small enough piece, hey, no problem, LOOK AT ME GO, FEEDING MY BABY TACOS! MARVEL AT MY COMPETENCE IN REARING A BABY WHO IS NOT ONLY SURVIVING BUT HAS AN ADVENTUROUS PALATE.
(Smuggimous! douchimus! for so many reasons, not the least of which is, really? Tacos from an Old El Paso taco kit are haute international cuisine? REALLY?)
And she loved it! For like, a minute, and then there was, oh my God you guys, SCREAMING. BLOODY SCREAMING. Red-faced screaming and flailing and SCAH-REEMING and I’m all, is she choking? (Because of course, when people are choking, they scream.) And then I stuck my fingers in her mouth, fishing around and the screaming intensified and I’m all WHAT THE HELL OH MY GOD WHY THE SCREAMING?
Oh hi, there were jalapenos on that taco. I mean, I didn’t feed her a jalapeno, but have YOU ever touched your eye after handling peppers? And you guys, I not only fed her a bit of taco that was BEPEPPERED, but I was all fishing my bepeppered fingers in her already-painful mouth and HOO BOY, I’d be screaming, too, because MY MOTHER IS A BITCH WHO IS TRYING TO KILL ME, you know what I’m saying?
I basically fed jalapenos to my baby. Full of win, this one.
Oh, but the comeuppance had not yet ended! I got in a stupid bickering match with Adam and was all stubborn and bitchy because he was right and I didn’t want to admit it (I finally did), and stewed about THAT for a little while, but when I went to walk the dog, OH! That’s when the gods decided this bitch needed to be smacked, quite literally, as I got tangled in the dog’s leash and just fucking HIT THE GROUND in the driving, freezing rain yelling, for reasons that have yet to make any sense to me, “AHHH MOMS FALL! MOMS FALL! MOMS FALL!” while Sunny squealed in pain as she choked on the leash. And then this neighbor guy, who fell once and literally couldn’t get up, JUST LIKE THE COMMERCIALS, leaving Adam to scrape him off the pavement, was all, “YOU’RE FALLING!” And I’m all, “MOMS FALL! MOMS FALL!”
YOU GUYS. I can never leave the house again.
Was I referring to myself in the third person? Having a moment of comeuppance that I realized that mothers are not infallible? Oh, these are deep thoughts indeed, smuggimous douchimus. DEEP THOUGHTS, INDEED.
Yogurt on her face and hair. Why? Because after the jalapeno incident, I was all, “EAT THE YOGURT! EAT THE YOGURT!” and proceeded to paint her with it.
That was something. If by “something,” I mean something horrible and soul-crushing and easily the most challenging two and a half days of my entire — no, seriously, ENTIRE — life.
(Warning. This is kind of painful, but I HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO SAY. IT WAS THAT BAD AS MY TWITTER FOLLOWERS CAN ATTEST AS I LIVE-TWEETED THE HELLFIRE.)
The short version is this: I got the flu — the achy, shivering, feverish, want-to-die kind — plus barfing. The pukles! I GOT THEM! I woke up at 2 a.m. Wednesday morning thinking, boy, that London broil was a bad idea … I wonder if it was old? And by 3, I was in the bathroom, still holding onto hope that it was just a passing food thing when I realized, hm. Adam seems to be holding up just fine. By 7, I was starting to panic, and by 7:30, I was back in the bathroom ready to gouge my eyes out with my Venus razor. By 8, I realized desperately that Adam was leaving on a business trip (an interview in Boston, among other things), and I was supposed to go with him to visit my sister and have dinner with our friend Eve and there was no way in HIZELL I was going to make it.
Now all this seemed fine and good until I realized that while *I* was off the hook for traveling 300 miles (IN A CAR THAT WAS MOVING), Adam was still slated to be there, by hook or by crook, which meant that *I* was going to be home alone with a baby and a dog and The Pukles and … oh heavens, my friends, it was awful. Awful. AWFUL. It was EPIC in its awfulness, and I plopped my kid in front of the TV all day, every day (THE GUILT) and I watched the same! Laurie! Berkner! DVD! over and over again, and I acquainted myself with The Wonder Pets, and twice, I threw my screaming little baby into her crib while I desperately ran to the bathroom to throw up because she was doing something like reaching for the scissors on the counter and … oh.
Random aside: she’s effing tall enough to reach for shit on the counter. She’s not even 13 months old. She’s SO EFFING TALL, you guys, what is this MINIATURE GIANTESS I am raising?
Anyway, the whole thing was a horror show, and honestly, no exaggeration, CHILDBIRTH was easier than that shit, yo. CHILDBIRTH. I was in tears, I had a 102-degree fever, I was throwing up, I was desperate — oh, so desperate — for sleep and by the time Adam came home with sweet, sweet relief on Friday afternoon, the house looked like someone broke in, I hadn’t showered since Monday and Sam was happier than a pig in shit because she was basically wading in piles of it.
I tell you though, and I don’t mind saying this, for I feel I’ve earned it: When Adam came home, and everyone had survived? Dude. I felt like I was fucking BADASS, which is, when you think about it, ridiculous, but I’m telling you, it was like running five marathons with a colicky baby strapped to your chest while getting poked in the lady bits with a ceremonial sword or two. (Maybe the one Jacob and the Man in Black keep trading back and forth?) I LIVED. THE BABY LIVED. Oh y’all. I can do ANYTHING.
Meanwhile, the dog. My God, the dog. The dog was acting like some kind of FREAK DOG the whole time Adam was away — she followed me around underfoot, she barked at the air, she barely slept. Since he’s been home, she’s been passed out on his chest, snoring, every chance she gets. If I may anthropomorphize for a moment, I think she felt like she had to be on high alert because her alpha was gone. (I am not the alpha. Or even the beta. I’m pretty sure I’m her underling. She heeds the BABY better than she listens to me.)
Guarding the important people, before all hell broke loose.
Several epic naps, a husband who cleaned the entire house from top to bottom (including the CARPETS, people) and plenty of time lounging and I am almost recovered, at least physically. Mentally, it’s going to take some TIME, y’all. Like, YEARS.
In other news, I’m going to be in another Smart Pop book! This time in a guide for Glee! GLEE! It comes out in the fall, just in time for the second season. There’s also a contest if you want to submit your own essay on how Glee has impacted your life for a special section in the book.
Trust me when I say re-watching an entire season of Glee, over and over again (this time focusing on Mr. Schue and that irritating, no-good Emma Pillsbury. THAT’S RIGHT, I SAID IT. EMMA SUCKS.) is SO MUCH LESS TRAUMATIZING than two seasons of True Blood. (And infinitely easier than a day filled with C-SPAN.) TRUST ME. Let’s see: perky, whip-smart high school students embroiled in situations that don’t involve blood, guts and gore or John Boehner? Easy! Hell, after deconstructing two seasons of True Blood, teenage pregnancy seems downright wholesome.
And with that, happy Monday, y’all. May you all remain puke-free.
How ridiculous is it that one of the first things I do when I see a hot musician/actor/celebrity of any kind is check to see if he’s, a) gay; b) married? LIKE IT MATTERS. It’s not as though I’m not (happily) married, and it’s not as though I’m going to be trolling the streets of … LA, I guess? … meet these people, so honest to GOD, who gives a rip about whether they would find me attractive and/or are married to someone else? Oh, this is such flawed, broken logic, and yet it persists.
So! Healthcare bill passed! I … well, look, I was for the bill, mostly, although I wanted it to go further (pinko commie ahoy!), and I promise, I’m not going to proselytize (although I have to admit that I have no tolerance for this kind of crap whatsoever. Save the drama, ye pamphlet-makers. Liberty is alive and well. It survived Medicare, y’all!).
But listen, dudes, I know I’m a political junkie and believe me, I’ve watched my fair share of C-SPAN — for God’s sake, we got the SPECIAL PACKAGE of extra channels only so that we could get all THREE levels of C-SPAN! (And Biography. Adam loves the Biography channel.) But yesterday? I watched ELEVEN AND A HALF HOURS of C-SPAN. I watched so much C-SPAN that I dreamed about being on the floor of the House. I dreamed about John Boehner more than anyone should. I woke up all SWEATY thinking I was yielded one minute and I farted into the microphone instead of speaking, true effing story.
And ultimately, I fell asleep before that grand moment where Nancy Pelosi smacked the gavel (“HEED THE GAVEL!”) and was all, “IT PASSED!” But you know what? It doesn’t even matter. Because after eleven and a half hours of that crazy-ass shit, the only, and ladies and gentlemen, I mean the ONLY, thing that would be even SLIGHTLY satisfying would be if Pelosi and Boehner wrapped up the evening in some kind of joint striptease, followed by public fornication on the damn FLOOR OF THE CHAMBER.
NO ONE SHOULD WATCH ELEVEN HOURS OF C-SPAN. NOT EVEN CONGRESSMEN.
I’m not sure I even want to say this, as it’s not something I’m proud to admit, but dudes, I’ve been working out EVERY DAY. EVERY DAY. FOR A LONG TIME. And though my body IS noticeably different than it was at, say, Thanksgiving, and my endurance is pretty freakin’ amazing vs. when I first started. (Level 3 of the Shred? I don’t sweat. Or even breathe that hard.) And my diet! Is very healthy! Like, as healthy as I’m willing to go long-term, so … this is kind of it. I mean, I’m at a sustainable, healthy diet, and I exercise every day. I’m eating healthier and working out more than when I lost 30 pounds last year, I swear to God.
SO WHY DON’T MY OLD PANTS FIT? THAT’S ALL I WANT, INTERNET. I don’t care about the scale. I don’t even care about what I look like! I feel good, and I think I look fine. I just don’t want to have to buy more GODDAMN PANTS. I mean, I can get through back to back levels of the Shred and I kick ass at Banish Fat, Boost Metabolism, and … oh fuck me, I think I have to buy more pants.
One last hopeful question: Could it be because I’m still nursing? I was not one of those mythical people for whom the pounds just FLEW OFF when I breastfed. In fact, I gained weight.
Side note: I’m still nursing. My kid is more than a year old. You could knock me over a feather with this fact. She IS starting to show signs of weaning (GROSSEST WORD EVER) herself, so it’s not like I’m going to REALLY shock myself by nursing until she’s eleven, but … still. I will have nursed her for well over a year when all is said and done. I was so nervous about breastfeeding and was prepared with formula and I donated it all. I … well, this is shocking to me, I don’t know why.
And finally: I am going to BlogHer. Have I mentioned this before? This is my first year, and the first time I’ll be meeting most of you who are going. Oh yes, I’ve met bloggers before — plenty of them! And, if I say so, it’s always gone swimmingly, if slightly awkward at first. (Me, not them.) And here’s the thing that even THEY don’t know: I am very shy in large groups, and it manifests itself in one of two ways: Either I am VERY CHATTY to the point of wondering if I am EVER going to shut up, like, EVER. Or I become super-reserved and hang around the periphery, so inwardly focused that I won’t even SEE YOU if you wave or approach me or anything like that. Ergo, sometimes I come across as a total snobby douche. At one of my workplaces, during one drunken sales event, a longtime colleague admitted to me that he thought I was super-cold, unapproachable and just plain mean. Oh, and that I thought I was too good for everyone. Which, oh my God, NO HO HO.
I’m not! I’m not! But I’m nervous that’s how I will APPEAR, because I will be NERVOUS and then everyone will think I’m a big SNOB who thinks she’s too COOL for everyone and is CLIQUEY, as you all imagine me in some private party where they give out gold ingots in big, supersecret swag bags, when really, I’ll be in my room, breathing into a paper bag and watching TV. (Note: my roommate is my girl Jennie. I’m sure you’ll agree that this is a SHOCKING choice. Why, I hardly know her!)
So now you know. I’m shy in large groups. Like, SUPER SHY. And again, people who know me in a SMALL group setting may find this SURPRISING, but OH JUST YOU WAIT!
*Are you ready for this? THE LAURIE BERKNER BAND. SOUNDTRACK OF MY LIFE. I WILL NEVER BE COOL AGAIN.
You know what would be awesome? If I didn’t pee every effing time I sneezed. Even when I don’t THINK I have to pee, it sneaks up on me, like an insidious unwelcome visitor. These are the things no one warned me about before I had kids. To think, all those people wasted all that time telling me how I would never! sleep! again! (I’m sleeping now, bitches!), when they should have been warning me about the loss of bladder function. Oooooeee! What’s up with that? WHAT’S UP WITH THAT?
(Apparently my entire life is an SNL skit. It’s in my vernacular now so hard that I can’t stop it even if I tried. I find myself ding-donging and “OH REALLY”-ing and … well, OOOOEEEing ALL THE TIME.)
It seems I am the only parent in the universe who is in TLA with the DST. Dudes! My kid is sleeping until SE-VEN A to the M. She’s going to bed later, sure, but as a late to bed/late to rise person, this fits in to my schedule perfectly, and allows me to eat dinner WITH my child, rather than shoving food in her face, jamming her into the bathtub, and then scrambling to get something on the table for Adam and me to eat before 9 p.m. This eating-with-my-child thing is also new and weird, now that she’s a whole one year old and can eat what we’re eating for dinner. HELLO MINDFUCK.
I know this is in no way revelatory, as, well, this is what babies DO, but in one short year, my kid has gone from barely opening her mouth like a baby bird on my boob, to using her fingers to shove (SHOVE) pieces of chicken and asparagus into her gaping maw, and it’s BLOWING MY MIND. It’s like, dude, who is this small PERSON with opinions and food preferences — this tiny person who, when I offered her more blueberries, swept them all off of the table with her arm and said, “NOOOOO!” and glared at me like, Jesus, bitch, do I LOOK like I want more blueberries to you? Have you SEEN the amount of cheese I just ate?
Okay, then, kid, I get it! YOU ARE ALL DONE. FINE.
The other day I glanced over and saw her sitting on Adam’s lap, sippy cup in one hand, graham cracker in the other, acting like a TEENAGER waiting impatiently for me to turn on One Tree Hill. It’s … I don’t know what, but I tell you, I know I’m killing y’all with this mommyblogging bizness, but there’s something about having Samantha turn ONE that has me all like, WHAT THE EFF? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love it — sleeping, for instance, is a truly fantastic thing. It’s that she’s becoming so big and SO fun, and while I wouldn’t go back to any other age — truly, not even for an instant — I can’t help but be a little sad because it’s all going so terrifyingly fast.
The littlest eater in the throes of cheesecake ecstasy on her birthday.
Hey, one last thing that will be interesting only to parents of small children: Sam is uninterested in eating anything she can’t pick up herself, which means things like yogurt and other puree-type things are out. HOWEVAH, my friend Meg tipped me off the other day that Cheerios mixed with yogurt are great for little ones like Sam. Messy as all hell, but also, awesome. And OMFG YES. AWESOME. Here’s the recipe:
Stir Cheerios in yogurt. Serve.
SO COMPLEX, I KNOW. And yet, GEEEEENIUS.
Finally, my friend Kate came over with her little boy today, and … well, honestly, I just love Kate. Down to earth, rational, chill and just … NORMAL, she’s very refreshing to be around. But what really gets me — what gets me about all of my mom friends, the good ones anyway (all, um, three of them), is that I love watching them with their kids. I LOVE hearing that Kate thinks her son is the cutest, and watching her kiss him and tell him what an angel he is. (She must have done this five times today, and by the fourth, I almost said something, for I was getting MISTY.) I love watching Meg hide a toy in her hands and laugh while her son giggles like crazy and tries to guess where it went.
It’s just … I don’t know, a completely unexpected joy of parenthood, not only watching and enjoying MY kid grow up, but seeing other good parents — my friends, who I love — who adore their kids in action. It sounds silly and a little shmoopy, but it reminds me that although this world is full of annoying, shitty assholes who do annoying, shitty things, there is so, so much love. It gives me hope.
Aaaand, on that completely out of character note, I hope you all have a great weekend!
*Peter Gabriel. Can you tell I just got Scratch My Back, and can’t stop listening to it? I have a Peter Gabriel PROBLEM. It’s OBVIOUS.
Look, here’s the truth: I’m not sure if I can REALLY give up Big Love. Oh, I know I SAID I was, and I will admit, I half-watched this entire season, because it was a strangely repellent mixture of incredibly boring and incredibly far-fetched. All the things that made it wonderful in the first few seasons — the delicate nuances of the wives’ personalities as they danced around the (horrible) center of their universe, Douchebag Bill; the impact it had on their children who, for the most part, were expected to live normal lives without ever letting anyone in on their secret; the unforeseen challenges of being a husband, three times over.
All of that was replaced by bombastic fireworks with little substance. Murder! Mayhem! Closeted gays! Arm-slicing! A bizarre eugenics experiment that went entirely unexplained! And it was all so poorly written and … oh, what the HELL, people?
But you know what, I said the same thing about Grey’s Anatomy somewhere in the range of FIVE THOUSAND TIMES, and umpteen MEELLION years later, here I am, TiVoing the shiznit outta that show and relieved, week after week, that they’ve refrained from torturing us with MerDer dramzzz.
I’m a sheep, however. I can’t stop.
Whenever my dog is behaving oddly — like, say, this evening, when she busted into Sam’s bedroom during our nighttime routine no fewer than three times — I have a tendency to suddenly assign a great deal of meaning to her actions, like she’s somehow channeling Lassie and trying to tell us something Very Important. “Is there a fire, girl? Do I smell different? DO I HAVE CANCER, SUNNY ROOBS?”
All this portentous behavior ascribed to a dog who can’t effectively communicate that she needs to go outside to go to the BATHROOM.
Here’s a sad fact: I quit smoking at least five years ago, probably longer — I can’t even remember anymore, maybe 2003? — and the truth is, I miss it every day. Every. Day. When I find out someone I know smokes, my reaction is almost never one of revulsion, although I AM repulsed by the smell of smoke, but instead is, OH YOU ARE SO LUCKY. I miss smoking terribly, you guys. TERRIBLY. Everything about it just screams “RECKLESS YOUTH!” to me, from taking too-long smoke breaks at my first job to bond with coworkers, a la Rachel in “Friends,” to Adam and me, in the throes of our early days, buying two packs apiece on a Friday night and wondering if it would be enough to last until Saturday morning (!!).
I’ll never smoke again, especially now that I have a daughter, but I don’t think there will ever be a day where I look back on it with anything but fondness.
However, that doesn’t stop me from being a totally judgmental douchebag when I see anyone climb into a car with little kids (in their CAR SEATS, even!) and light up. And if you have the windows rolled up? There’s a chance I’ll flip your ass off. I don’t care if you smoke, but their little lungs are all FRESH AND PINK and you have no right to sully them, biznatch.
And finally, a baby in a barrette, made by Metalia:
*The Platters. Yes, THE PLATTERS. From DECADES AGO. I have a thing for The Platters, for reasons that have to do with my mom and me singing them while baking cookies.
I took the dog to get her anal glands squeezed and get a rabies shot today, and if THAT doesn’t set the tone for a day filled with unprecedented awesomeness, I’m not sure what does. No, wait, let me back up: the day started with me cleaning my daughter’s, um, STUFF, out of her armpits after a blowout, which is something that hasn’t happened in MONTHS and happened because … oh God, I don’t even KNOW why (her diaper is the right size, I assure you), but I am sure my future holds a day where I don’t have to wonder if today is going to be the day that I have to clean someone else’s poop out of their armpits, you know?
ARMPITS. This is not unlike the time she was a wee, wee infant and somehow did her business with such force it landed on her FACE.
This was followed up by a rather strongly worded lecture of gibberish as she stood naked at the end of the coffee table this evening, full on SCREAMING at us, complete with arm gestures. Aaaand moments later … more poop. While naked. On the floor. Just after a bath. How delightful!
Internet, I’m sorry for those back-to-back gross stories, but honestly, it’s like I never believed this shit (HA) actually happened until it did, and worse, I’m actually shocked at how unfazed I am by it all. Sure, no one likes to be living with their very own miniature version of Tubgirl, but … well. This is what you sign up for, I suppose.
My nonchalance probably ties back to the fact that frankly, I would rather change an entire preschool full of diapers than clean up one (1) yard of dog poop. Anything but dog poop, folks. ANYTHING.
So hey, um, here’s a pop culture observation a day late and millions of dollars short: There are a PLETHORA of magazine covers dedicated to how Vienna “deceived” Jake (the latest Bachelor, if you were wondering), and honestly, I never really had a problem with Vienna, but that’s not even what I’m about to talk about. What I’m wondering is, why has no one bothered to dissect the fact that this guy is GROSS. JUST GROSS. And … ugh, the guy is just a walking bottle of MASSENGILL and they’re worried about whether VIENNA deceived him? Oh COME ON. They should be worried about the fact that she is YOUNG and IMPRESSIONABLE and is now chained to a DOUCHE.
Hey, you know what sucked? Big Love. The whole season. Sucked. And the finale? SUUUUCKED. I think I’m done. I have no interest in this new world order of theirs. Sorry, Big Love. I quit you. Not even using Peter Gabriel’s cover of “Heroes” in the final scene could redeem you. NOT EVEN PETER GABRIEL CAN SAVE BIG LOVE.
So! Relocating, Or the Potential Thereof. There are so many parts to this story — many moving parts, including jobs that have been left, job offers received and turned down, my years-long strict adherence to Suze Orman that put us in the position to be able to be OK no matter what happens — but the simple emotional part is this: UGGGGHHH. We always knew that Vermont would likely be a temporary stop on our, um, journey (ON THE WINGS OF LOVE), and before that there was Florida, and before THAT was the place I consider home, given that our families are there, and I lived there for ages and ages, which is Boston.
Boston, by the way, is very likely where we’re going to end up, um, eventually. But as it turns out, I like it here — quite a bit, as it turns out, and I wouldn’t mind staying (it’s not off the table entirely). I’m surprised, however, by the emotional response I’m having by thinking of being back home, which is that when I left, I was one person, and when I return, I will be a completely, and I mean COMPLETELY, different one. When I left, I was in my twenties, relatively newly married and way into my career and living a completely stressed-out competitive existence. Now, I’m in my thirties, have a child (and want more), and am neither stressed, nor competitive. And I know you don’t have to be who you were just because of where you are, but, well, I challenge anyone not to make the same comparisons, when you think about it.
It makes me wonder if you really can go home again without some serious emotional turmoil, and the answer appears to be no. The truth is that I am having a hard time with both the uncertainty and with what seems to be the inevitable certainty. (Is this making any sense? It’s just that DETAILS ARE BORING.)
We’ll see. At the moment, it’s the most likely possibility, but in some ways, the country is our oyster. But you know what else? I’m over the nomadic existence. So there’s that, too.
Unexpected introspection! It’s what’s for your Tuesday.
PS, the book has been picked. Get ready for Joan Didion, y’all.
*Peter Gabriel. Yes, from Wall*E. It’s one of my favorite songs. What of it?
Well, ermm, where have I been? God, EVERYWHERE. We went to Boston for a day trip that turned into … a week, because things just kept going ON and ON (Adam job search stuff, yes, we may be relocating again, and just … oh whatever, it’s all long and boring), and then … well, we finally came home, but NOT BEFORE Sam and I got thrush! THRUUUUSSSSH! Have you ever had thrush? No? Let me enlighten you as to what it feels like!
First, take a chip clip or a clothespin, and pin it over your nipple — or, if you’re a gentleman, your scrotum. (This tip from Marie.) Actually, wait — first, what you do is grab some of that fiberglass insulation from your attic. The pink kind. Grind that up (with gloves on!) and smear it all over your boobs (or balls), THEN put the chip clip on. Squeeze repeatedly. Yes, again. Nope, not over yet! AGAIN.
Yessss, that is thrush. And it was complicated by the fact that my kid always sleeps like shit when we’re in the same room, so she wants to SNUGGLE and that includes being all up in my THRUSHY PARTS and … oh, man you guys. And we got rid of it! HAPPY DAY.
AND THEN IT CAME BACK. IT IS HERE NOW, LURKING LIKE A SHADOW. And now, she has a fever. A giant one. OH MY LANDS, LET IT END.
But not before my baby — my teeny, tiny, screaming baby girl — turned one.
My baby is ONE, you guys. She went from this:
Oh man, you guys. She’s such a big, pretty, smart girl. It’s insane, how it happens, isn’t it? Insane.
I’ll be back next week in full force, I promise. I missed you guys terribly.
(In the meantime, the new poll is up for next month’s book at the Book Lushes. I’m behind AGAIN, but am doing MAY next week, so, ah, will fix this! AH SWEAR.)
(Edited to add: JOIN US! It is never too late, even if you can’t read a specific month’s book, you can join the forums anytime.)