And Who Doesn’t Love Glowy Seahorses?
So, not to get all Britney on you, but it’s been awhile. (I realize that was a fairly mundane pop culture reference, but hey. Once again, my blog, my blonde references. So there.)
When last we left our heroine, things were super perfect.
Boy has that worn off.
To recap, here’s the last three months:
Explained breastfeeding (don’t you have any real baby food?), circumcision (why does it look like that?), and umbilical stumps (why does that look like that?) to the six-year-old. Explained projectile crapping (Sanny, is the baby still pooping?) and not poking at the soft spot to the three-year-old. Yes, we’ve been an italic household of late.
New job is pretty much what you’d expect. People mad at their insurance, people mad at the hospital, and people mad at me, because I’m the one who gets to tell them why they should be mad at their insurance or the hospital. Then I get to tell them they owe us thousands of dollars. It’s awesome.
Fast forward to the (semi-) present:
The other morning, I got up to get ready for work. I actually got a cup of coffee down (yeaaah, preset setting!) and half my makeup on before my spawn decided he was hungry. So he ate, we played a bit, and he then graced me with enough time to finish dressing while he discussed the Gaza Strip issues with his glowy seahorse. We loaded everything into the car, and as I picked him up to put him into the car seat, he grinned at me. As I reveled in the heart warming feeling the smile of your offspring brings, he puked on me.
Aghhhhh … had to be something, didn’t it?
Now don’t get me wrong, the elements of the perfection are still there, lurking under the slightly dusty and jelly fingerprinted surface. Maybe they are having a hard time moving the box of diaper wipes aside to come up. Who knows? Maybe they’re hiding so the baby doesn’t puke on them, too.