Archive for April, 2011
I just have to get this off of my chest while I’m thinking about it: No one can tell you how many children to have. There is no “right” answer. No, for some people one isn’t enough. Yes, for others, it is. For still more people? Seven isn’t enough.
It struck me after I miscarried how many people — even people I love and trust — had the attitude of, well, at least you have Sam! Which is true. In many ways, having a miscarriage or infertility after already conceiving a child on your own is … well, at least a little different, and I know from both sides. This time, I didn’t have to wonder what direction my life would go: would I EVER be a mom? Would I ever know what giving birth feels like? Well, yes, now I do, and I don’t have to wonder if I have to fill my life with other things to create meaning in an empty hole I wanted fill with something else.
But I still want another one, and no, I wouldn’t be okay if I couldn’t have one. Sam is enough — on a thousand levels, she is enough. She is the sun, moon and the stars; she is everything. Of course she is.
(And of course she’s better than your kid. Of all kids, really. SHE IS THE KID TO END ALL KIDS.)
(That was a joke.)
But having her doesn’t make wanting another one any less aching, you know? There’s a thousand reasons I want another baby, and giving Sam a sibling is a huge part of it, and that, actually, makes it even harder than I ever expected. So much of what I want for my child includes having someone to grow up with; someone to bear witness to her childhood in a way I didn’t really have, despite my vast number of blended-family siblings, both biological and not. (It’s complicated. Lovely, but complicated.)
In some ways, it’s harder than it was before I had Sam, in that I know precisely what I’m missing, and though I know a second child would be different than she is, I know, at least, exactly how much I will love that kid, how much I love being a mom and how much I’ll revel in their own little personality. So yes, you know, I want another baby, and no, having one baby already doesn’t necessarily make it easier on me, at least if it turns out to be hard, and I know that’s a complicated concept to write out, but that’s the best way I can put it.
It’s hard and heart-wrenching and difficult and someone who wants a THIRD baby and is struggling is suffering just as much as someone who doesn’t yet have any babies at all. This isn’t the pain olympics. Everyone suffers. Everyone wants the family they always dreamed of, and everyone deserves it, but not everyone gets it. It’s just the way it is, and it sucks, but everyone deserves to try, and everyone deserves to be upset when their dreams didn’t work out or are hard to come by.
On the flip side, my friends who DO have one child and ARE happy with it, it’s … well, it’s almost as bad to hear what they go through from other people. I don’t know why it’s considered rude to comment on another person’s parenting when it involves things like breastfeeding and discipline (and it IS rude), but it’s perfectly acceptable to tell someone who has or wants an only child that they will grow up deprived and self-centered. Oh hey, thanks for telling someone that they’re screwing up their kid because they’re SELFISH. It’s … kind of amazing, and I firmly believe it isn’t true.
We — the people building the families — get to decide what we want, what we will try for, what to be upset about. Everyone is different. There is no sliding pain scale. Nobody wins. Like I said, if you have five kids, and desperately want a sixth, but it’s not coming easily? You get to be upset, and you get to be just as upset at someone who’s never had kids. No, you don’t get to be talked into any, “Well, at LEAST you have ONE. I don’t have ANY! Therefore YOU cannot be UPSET!” bullshit.
Well, now that’s out there. Happy Friday to you.
*Britney Spears. Not the classiest title I’ve ever come up with, eh?
April 28th, 2011
I don’t know about you guys, but I’m sitting here wondering how to keep myself from dancing until the world ends. Or — OR! — waving my drink in the air and getting sick on the floor! In IBIZA!
Clearly I’ve been listening to too much Kiss 108 (the Young People’s radio station here in Boston), because I just can’t stop marveling at the number of songs that imply that we all live to dance and — AND! — harass the DJ until they put our song on. Or maybe that was just Madonna in “Music.” I can’t remember.
Either way, I am shocked and a wee bit embarrassed by my reaction when Jennifer Lopez and/or Britney Spears start singing about getting wasted, rubbing up on dudes and dancing on the floor until their tatas fall off. I just … well, I go all, WON’T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN? And also, last time I checked, Brit-Brit, you were on a family vacation to the most mundane of destinations: the Grand Canyon. Were you in an RV, hmmm? And JENNIFER! Good sweet GRIEF, your kids are THREE. And you’re 42! I’m all for dancing, but maybe curb the clubbing to a reasonable hour?
This sounded a lot less dowdy when it was just in my head. I won’t even bother to discuss my feelings on Flo Rida’s “Club Can’t Handle Me,” where he talks about “zoning out” and somehow making everyone else jellus of his dance moves, then.
Speaking of children (eh?), I talked to a nurse at my doctor’s office today, and reached Maximum Frustration Level when she tried to say that my (totally justified) reaction to something was MY HORMONES. “Oh honey. It’s probably just HORMONES.” I just … you know, there’s really no appropriate time to suggest that it’s a woman’s HORMONES that are making her react a certain way. Especially someone like me, who is basically walking around in a state of PTSD when it comes to health issues (OK ANY ISSUES) after the year I’ve had, WHICH SHE KNOWS ABOUT, HA HA, I DO NOT WANT TO TALK ABOUT MY “STRESS HORMONES” WITH YOU, CRAZY LADY.
(Do I sound sane there? Or just hopped up on hormones?)
What killed me, however, was that just before I replied, my center of gravity shifted from Chatty Nice Patient Jonna to Enraged Jonna, and at the precise moment the shift happened, Sam’s eyes got very wide and she warned, “UH OH! UH OH!” like some kind of tsunami detector. Mama’s pissed, and she knows it.
See, nurse? My KID knows when I’m about to get serious up in here, so perhaps you want to save the hormone talk for SOMEONE ELSE. Or actually, no one. No one deserves to be invalidated in such a totally dismissive way, and GOD, WHO HIRED YOU, NURSE?
Meanwhile, have I TOLD you guys that I’m driving a Mercury Grand Marquis, because my tree-smashed car is STILL not repaired? And that it’s been … let’s see, TWENTY SEVEN DAYS?
Do you know what a Grand Marquis looks like? No?
Yessss. Oh, I’m sure it doesn’t seem so bad from that angle, but it’s a boat, and I have yet to park it straight. Oh, and it doesn’t have automatic locks, and it ONLY has a key entry on the driver’s side, which means every time I get in or out, I have to haul EVERYTHING to the driver’s side (including Sam, if we’re in a parking lot), open the door, then unlock all the doors, THEN go back to the other doors. Also: NO CUP HOLDERS. Oh, and the trunk is key-accessible only, which makes grocery shopping more of a workout than is necessary. And! AND! it has NEW JERSEY plates, which is basically the worst thing you can have in Massachusetts. This car could get me KILLED in a MAFIA TURF WAR, for chrissake. I WANT MY HONDA BACK, MY SWEET GOD.
Upside: it’s a smooth ride, and I am shamed to admit I was doing 80 on the Pike today and didn’t even notice, but like the old lady I am, I slowed it down right quick. Like buttah, you Marquis de Minx.
(PS, I was driving to see Nic, one of my longtime internet besties, for the first time. And it was great. Do you know what it’s like to finally meet someone you talk to at LEAST four times a DAY? IT IS AWESOME. Who cares if Sam pooped in her hotel room? OH GOD.)
Have a great Thursday.
*Jennifer Lopez featuring the horribly named PIT BULL. PIT BULL. First of all, the word ‘pit’ is disgusting and reminds me of ACNE BITS. And then BULL? Really? No, I don’t think about the dog, I think about an ACNE-PITTED BULL. GROSS.
April 27th, 2011
First of all, I think it’s absolute CRUST that people are behaving as though they are above the royal wedding. Now, listen, I get if it’s Not Your Thing, but you don’t have to act like you’re cooler than me because you’re not interested. Come on! COME ON! It’s this bizarre antiquated institution full of bizarre mores and customs and yes, Charles and Diana’s wedding was a TOTAL SHAM, but for the LOVE, it’s still stupidly exciting. It’s watching CELEBRITIES GET MARRIED, and if you think I wouldn’t have tuned in when Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt got married (RIP, Brad & Jen), you are seriously off your rocker.
I’m not even a WEDDING PERSON, but if I can tune that shiznit in from the comfort of my own home, with Twitter at the ready and perhaps a mimosa? I am so there. In fact, if you follow me on Twitter and don’t want my unsolicited, unfiltered opinions on the wedding, perhaps it’s best if you unfollow me on
Sunday FRIDAY DUH SORRY. I won’t be offended, so long as you come back when it’s over.
This weekend I wrapped up a couple of work proposals, and I realized today that if they come through, I might … um, hire someone to help with part-time child care. I just … well. It dawns on me that most people do their work during the day and are sort of kind of done at night, save for some loose ends, and don’t spend every minute of their free time trying to cram an ENTIRE DAY’S WORTH OF WORK into four hours every nap/night, and wait wait, this is why people have work days and … hm, maybe I want to reevaluate some things here, eh? I’m not talking a LOT, just a few hours here and there and … well, I popped the childcare panic-cherry by enrolling her in preschool and apparently it’s a slippery slope that I’m pretty comfortable with, and also, this is a no-shitter to most of you, but forgive me, I AM SLOW.
Speaking of slow, on at least two occasions recently, I have been reminded of and/or once again experienced the type of parents who, and I hope I explain this properly, seem to actually believe that their kids really ARE superior to every other child on earth, and fail to grasp that it might be — just a little — colored by the fact that they are the parents, you know? Like, I’ve had multiple conversations, and I KNOW y’all have too, with parents who talk about their smart, glorious children in a way that suggests, somehow, that I’m supposed to be jealous of their children? As though I would … trade my child for theirs, or somehow think that my (perfect, brilliant) offspring is INFERIOR to theirs and I got a dud model? Or … that your parenting MUST be better than mine, and OH TEACH ME, JEDI.
Look, we’re all proud of our kids. I think Sam is the most amazing person I’ve ever met, or likely ever will meet. I find her endlessly fascinating and funny and of course, I believe she’s exceptionally smart and beautiful, but I ALSO recognize that I am her MOTHER and thus, it is my job to believe those things. And as a mother, I also realize that you, a bystander, might not feel the same way, because it’s not really your job to feel that way, and honestly, I might find it a little creepy if you did.
Am I … making sense? I mean, yes, I share stories of her, and how funny she is, but I recognize that *I* think she’s funny, and I would never talk about her as though she is the FUNNIEST CHILD WHO EVER LIVED, because I realize that’s probably not true (there are other mothers out there, of course), and also, that’s obnoxious. And yet, you would be amazed at the number of people who do NOT recognize this fact.
Further, this is what I want for my daughter in life: I want her to be happy. I want her to do her best and achieve things, and reach her potential and all that Tiger Mother bullshit, but most of all, I want her to be happy with herself, her choices and her life. I’m not sure any of that is fully realized at age two, you know? I don’t care if your two-year-old is a Mensa candidate and can speak four languages beyond the fact that it makes you happy, and hopefully she’s happy … it has really very little to do with MY kid and how I perceive her successes and failures.
Even if your kid can speak Mandarin while painting elaborate Ukrainian eggs and knitting a sweater, I am STILL going to prefer my kid to yours, sorry. The same way that, say, I might possess more self-awareness than you by not rubbing my kid’s accomplishments in your face like an obnoxious one-upper, by some strange miracle, your child will still prefer you to me. THIS IS HOW THINGS WORK.
I’m rambling, and it probably isn’t making any sense. I just find some parents amusing is all, I suppose. Because once again, are we supposed to be JEALOUS of their CHILDREN and want to TRADE OURS IN FOR THEIRS? If only … If only I’d given birth to THAT KID instead!
You know what else is amusing? When Sam wakes up, she demands that Sunny get up too. Girlfriend is SO! EXCITED! about! Sunny! that she can’t keep it together until the dog comes out, reluctantly and very slowly. Mind you, this is a dog who, up until recently, woke up FOR THE DAY no earlier than noon, and now Sam’s rousing her by 7 at the latest. She’s … very tired. Sam, ever perceptive, realizes this, and by 8, is usually trying to make things right by giving Sunny a fluffy pillow, blanket, her juice and both remote controls.
“There you go, Sunny! There you go! Rest up!” She then covers Sunny with the blanket and tries to force her to take a drink from her sippy cup. “REST UP, SUNNY! JOOOOOOOOSE?”
Meanwhile, Sunny’s wondering what the hell happened to her cushy life. Having a baby hardly changed it at all, but having a toddler rocked her whole world, and not in a good way.
Hey, I hope you have a great Tuesday.
April 25th, 2011
Oh, did you think I disappeared?
(What an egomaniacal thing to say, really, because come on.)
BUT DID YOU?
THAT’S BECAUSE I DID. I wasn’t hiding it or anything, as I tweeted often enough, but we went to Vegas! We went to Vegas! And it was, in a word, perfect. Honestly, it was Vegas, and it was six days, but it didn’t feel that way at all. It was really quite perfect. I suppose I get why people were all, “STOP WITH THE SIX DAYS IN VEGAS OH MY LANDS!” because if I’d been drinking and/or gambling heavily for any part of that trip, I’d be all, GET ME OUT OF VEGAS OH MY LANDS. But instead, neither of us had a drop of alcohol, and we gambled modestly, much to the disappointment of the casinos, I’m sure and we … well, we were in bed no later than 11 p.m. most nights, and up with the chickens. Oh, we adjusted just fine to the time change … eventually. Like, on the last day. HELPFUL.
What we did do was lie about a lot, rising only to do important things like eat, take baths and go to the pool. We did mix in the occasional roulette game in, and yes, we saw Cirque du Soleil (Ka), but other than that, we did a lot of nothing, which is precisely what we wanted to do. Plus, it was easy — encouraged, even — since our hotel (Bellagio) upgraded us to a suite the size of my entire house. I’m pretty sure this means we used up all the good luck we’ll have for the entire year. Look for another season of miscarriages and illness, coming to you direct in 2011/12! (I hope not, but I’m not convinced, because I tell you, THAT STUFF DOES NOT HAPPEN TO US, EVER.)
I think, too, one of the best parts about Vegas is that you can just let go and be a stupid tourist. There is no pressure to fit in as if you are a local. Gawking is encouraged. You don’t have to pretend to be cool, because NO ONE is cool in Vegas, and if they are, they’re faking it. Everyone is a goofy tourist gazing up at a fake Statue of Liberty with a weird sense of displaced awe.
Honestly, I don’t understand how ANYONE drinks a lot of alcohol in Vegas. This isn’t a judgment, but more of a physical observation. Isn’t alcohol … dehydrating? And MY GOD, PEOPLE. It’s the desert! The desert! If I had any complaints about the trip at all, I’d say that I wanted to hook an IV of saline to my arm, because I was so! thirsty! ALL THE TIME. I COULD NOT GET ENOUGH WATER. Cocktail waitresses were coming around non-stop to supply me with nothing more than Fiji water for a handsome tip. And yet, there were people drinking GIANT BONGS of daiquiris and bloody marys and I’m like, HOW ARE YOU PEOPLE NOT DEAD? You must be so THIRSTY! The thought of even a glass of wine made me shrivel up in desperate thirst, and you guys, I LOVE WINE.
Oh, and here are the pictures I took while on vacation:
Aren’t they awesome? Yes! I took so many! SO MANY PICTURES OF NOTHING. This is why I’m not a photographer. I cannot be relied upon to remember to do anything of the sort, and by that I mean, I never charged and/or brought my camera anywhere with me.
Vegas is, obviously, just! so! much! It’s funny how certain cultures have fashion standards that in other parts of the country would be considered unacceptable and/or easily mocked. Hell, I see many of the get-ups hawked by my comrades in San Francisco, and invariably think that if ANYONE wore that here in Boston, things would … not be met with the same enthusiasm. People may be quietly shuffled off to asylums, in fact, although they look perfectly normal in San Francisco. Ditto other parts of California. The brightness of LA and Orange County always looks so, so right in context, but so garish when put in contrast with the darkness of New York. (These are things I learn from the Real Housewives.)
Conversely, Boston’s tendency toward staid, classic neutrals (Look out! Muffy’s got a new LL Bean tote!) and the occasional foray into the hilarious world of preppy chic (I had a boss who wore pants embroidered with PUPPIES from Vineyard Vines) is equally laughable out of context. Yet in the summer here, Nantucket reds are almost de rigueur, particularly on the Cape and the islands. For God’s sake, I HAVE A PAIR. Throw an outfit like that together in some parts of the country and people would assume you were being ironic, or at least pretending to do a Pretty In Pink re-enactment, because why ELSE would you be wearing wide-wale cords with … are those ANCHORS on your pants, or are you just happy to see me?
And then there’s Vegas, where things that fly there would fly … well, honestly, I am hopeful that some things are only in Vegas, because, SERIOUSLY. I saw more stripper heels worn by non-strippers than I ever hope to see again. God, does everything need to be sequined? Why so loud, Vegas? Dresses coming up higher on women’s backsides than my UNDERWEAR. And oh my good grief, I played roulette next to a man wearing a rhinestone SHIRT and he didn’t even look that out of place. A RHINESTONE SHIRT.
A mom — A MOM, A VERY OBVIOUS MOM — wearing clear high-heeled platforms with light-up soles approached her daughter in the pool. THE POOL. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY. LIGHT-UP STRIPPER HEELS. The fact that she was wearing a hot pink sequin monokini cut to her appendectomy scar is almost unremarkable in comparison. And yet, she really didn’t look that odd. No, you guys, it was ME, in my navy and red-striped Ralph Lauren tank who looked lamely subdued and terribly un-fun.
The best part of all, is that it was really special and important to just hang with my husband, alone, without any distractions or small animals or small people yelling, “MAMA, WHERE IS KITTY?” and hearing, “Gabba? Gabba? Gabba? GABBA SPACE?” on repeat. It was something we didn’t know we needed, but did, and it turns out I still really like the guy, quite a bit in fact. And it made me realize that it’s important to spend more time, just the two of us, and I’ve promised myself to book a babysitter once a month to get out and remember what that feels like. It’s the least we can do for each other, I think.
Most importantly, however, Sam was fine. More than fine, actually. Happy and thrilled and in totally capable, loving hands. My parents were amazing — they came here, spent the week at our house, took her to all of her regularly scheduled events, plus the park, active play-time, etc. etc. She was loved, she was happy, and we are very, very lucky and grateful. (Thank you again, Mom & Dad!)
I have to tell you, though, seeing her this morning for the first time in a week? Best thing ever, even if she did cling to me with the tenacity of a spider monkey for eleven consecutive hours. Worth. It. Man, I love that kid.
I hope you had a great week.
April 20th, 2011
Invariably, there comes a time when I am irritated with EVERYTHING and feeling rather maudlin and hopeless. I start thinking how awful everything is! Everything! But see, it all comes INDIVIDUALLY, so I don’t see that I am feeling this way about everything, I only see my irritations in isolation. So, for example, I will spend several hours bemoaning the fact that I miss Jennie and life is unfair and awful because I don’t have a nanny at my beck and call, or have Sam in daycare so that I can just whip off to see her every weekend. And then I get irrationally pissed off at her because she lives in Texas, and why so selfish, Jennie? What’s wrong with Boston?
And then she goes and spends the weekend with Elizabeth, who I have loved for years and never met (!) and I am a WELL OF DESPAIR. Then I also apply this to Lawyerish, and I think about how her husband hates the Red Sox, and thus would never move to Boston, and I want to burn piles of tiny bespectacled dolls in Yankee hats in effigy, and not in a good-natured way. And then I feel ridiculous, because I love Joe, and why am I burning Joe Dolls?
All this is before we’ve even GOTTEN to Kate, who used to live ten minutes from here, but now lives in Vermont, and it’s BULLSHIT. I AM FUMING.
In isolation, this seems understandable — I miss my FRIENDS, right? But then a day or so — or say, HOURS — later, I start brooding over something else, and I find myself slamming the dishes around the kitchen, because do I have to do EVERYTHING around here? Why is my husband being so LAZY? Why AM I DEALING WITH EVERYTHING?
Then! Then later! I find myself getting paranoid about yet another thing, like whether I said the wrong thing or is that song about ME, CARLY? WHY DOES EVERYONE HATE ME? And then! I talk to a friend who works full-time, and I find myself SEETHING WITH JEALOUSY over an upcoming business trip she has! TO CLEVELAND. And I am almost in tears because I WILL NEVER GO TO CLEVELAND BY MYSELF.
(Note: I have never wanted to go to Cleveland by myself. Oh, and my husband does a SHITLOAD around the house, to the point where he tells me I unload the dishwasher wrong and he’d RATHER I DIDN’T DO IT AT ALL.)
And then I look at the calendar and see that I’m on, say, DAY 27 up in this piece and everything is illuminated.
What does come out of this that is valid is that sometimes I DO get frustrated with my primary job — that of being a mom and, uhh, household-running-type person (I WILL NOT SAY HOMEMAKER). I am fortunate — thrilled, even — that I still freelance, but that rarely comprises the bulk of my day, and sometimes it is exhausting to have no real measurement for success, you know? I don’t even know what my performance review would include, in terms of parameters. Some ideas:
1) How many days has it been since you put your daughter in time-out?
2) Did she eat anything besides cheese today?
3) Does she regularly share her toys? (Yes, even Brobee.)
4) If a stranger took a broom to your floors, exactly how much dust would they kick up?
5) On average, how many days a week does your family have clean underwear? Do they have their choice of socks?
6) Rate your toilets’ cleanliness. Are they generally Spotless, Very Clean, Clean, Passably Clean or Not Clean At All?
You see how this could be a bit … discouraging, yes? The success or failure of my day is largely out of my control, because if she’s in a bad mood, there is no sharing and there are many time-outs. If she doesn’t nap, my floors languish in dirty piles and Adam has no clean underwear, OR he has to do the laundry himself, which is not something I enjoy, because then *I* can’t find my clothes and then I’m bethonged and unhappy and … well, it’s obvious where a level of FUTILE DISSATISFACTION could rear its ugly head in moments of hormonal duress, yes?
Bah, never mind. I’m happy with my life, but there are moments. MOMENTS. MOMENTS WHERE I WANT TO GO TO CLEVELAND.
*Dave Matthews Band
April 6th, 2011
So that happened, and by that, I mean a large, terrifying chunk of my next-door neighbor’s tree crashing down on both of our cars in the wee hours of Friday morning.
HAAAAAAA. Yes, seriously! Seriously! A tree crushed our cars! There’s really nothing else to say, because my car is as close to totaled as it can get without actually being totaled, although the jury is still out. We woke up at 5:30 to a too-quiet house and an alarm system that wouldn’t stop beeping, which meant we had no power. Sam, she of the 8 a.m. daily risings, was pretty pissed off that not only was she awake at such an ungodly hour, but there was no Yo Gabba Gabba to take the edge off. It wasn’t until we’d been sitting in the dark for a good fifteen minutes when Adam looked outside and saw this:
I know! It doesn’t look that bad … does it? I mean, it certainly doesn’t look like our cars are DEAD or anything. Adam’s is actually fine — for the love of God, he drove it to work a few hours later — mine, however, is smooshed. Paint gone, hood smashed, windshield in smithereens. The tree removal guy rang my doorbell and sheepishly handed me a PIECE OF MY CAR, asking, “So, ahhh, what should I do with this?” Bits of the engine are sticking out all over the place! The tires are falling off! The fender! IS DANGLING OFF.
What started out as a $5K estimate is rising by the minute, and all I can really say is, thank God for car insurance, AMIRITE?
As a result, I have been tooling around town in a Dodge Caliber, and I hate it. I hate it! It’s tiny and handles terribly and GAH, I hate it! WHERE IS MY HONDA? CAN I GET A HONDA, ANY HONDA? Oh, rental car companies and their hard-on for American made cars. (OH I KNOW. I KNOW. I JUST LIKE MY HONDAS.)
I have to be honest in that I find the whole thing sort of hilarious. Despite the inconvenience and the, ah, smashed car, I just … I don’t really care, honestly. It’s just a car. I’ve got a $300 deductible that will probably be picked up by my neighbor’s home owner’s insurance (it was his tree), and I just … well, it’s just a car, you know? It’s a car, and a memory, and after the year we’ve had, I don’t really give a rip what happens to any inanimate object of mine, and so long as my kid, husband and dog are safe and sound, I am happy. Ergo, I can’t help but find the whole thing so goddamned hilarious, I can’t stop snickering about it. My CAR was smashed by a TREE. What are the fucking CHANCES?
(Apparently pretty high, for when I talked to my insurance agent at 8:30 a.m. that day, I was the *fifth* tree-smashed car that day. Heavy snow and high winds = a bad combination.)
ANYWAY, thanks to all of you, at least in part, Sam is registered for two-day preschool. Which means that I will have six glorious hours each week to while away doing glamorous things like steaming the floors and doing laundry ALL BY MYSELF. It’s very exciting and also sick-inducing, as I know you are fully aware, and ultimately, I think it was the right decision.
See what I just did there? Talked about it like it was Harvard again. GEEENYUS.
Besides all this crap, I’ll tell you two things that are killing me right now, mostly with excitement:
1) Vegas. OMFG, I have never been so ready to go on a vacation in my life. I just want to SLEEP and take BATHS and go to the POOL and READ and I know, those are not things one thinks of in Vegas, but I’m telling you, THAT IS WHAT I AM DOING. I am less excited about leaving my little beanpole, who at her well-baby visit today was declared The Tallest Two Year Old In All The Land, clocking in at 38 inches tall and in the 99th percentile for her age. Her weight is a delightfully proportionate 30 pounds. And while I am dying to sleep and read without interruption, I am so sad to miss her, because she is …
2) God, I love Sam right now, tantrums and all. How can you not be excited about this kid? Come on.
She never makes this face unless the camera is out.
You can’t see it, but she’s also wearing a swim bubble. And has also found my stash of Trader Joe’s wine.
Sunny, too, deserves an award, because this happens, like, a JILLION TIMES A DAY and while she loves getting love, let’s be realistic, the hugging is a bit aggressive.
Hey, have a great Tuesday!
*A Fine Frenzy
April 4th, 2011