It happened. My newborn became an infant became a toddler became a kid.
LIKE TIME THROUGH AN HOURGLASS THESE ARE THE MOTHERFUCKING DAYS OF OUR EVER-SHORTENING LIVES.
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Oh, summer.
I've been to Evanston and back to visit Rose and Dave. SJ and I took the kids camping over Fourth of July. We had Gargantubaby's second birthday party over the weekend YES HE'S TWO TOMORROW MORE ON THAT LATER.
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Writing an angry blog when you take out the angry part isn't easy.
Also, writing a blog when you take out the motivated-by-anxiety-about-how-little-you've-accomplished-by-age-42 part is not easy.
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This is the list I made for myself titled "Shit I've Been Dealing With" to give myself perspective on why I might have had a panic attack on Feb. 22 …
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Three weeks ago Wednesday, I went in for routine surgery to remove a large dermoid cyst from my ovary. BA DUM CHING.
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Destructibaby is 17 months old. When he cries, his sweet mouth widens to a warbling rectangle and tears leak down his cheeks, and he stands with his arms at his sides, chin up, crying out, “Hon-eeeee! Hon-eeeee!”
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On Friday, a doctor said something to me no woman wants to hear: “You have a mass on your ovary, and it could be benign!”
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On Monday, a co-worker asked how my Thanksgiving was.
"Horrible," I said. "I slept on the floor because my son wouldn't sleep in the Pack 'n Play. How was yours?"
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My son, current nickname Dirtbaby, is 14 months old. He has been walking for three months and no longer holds his arms in front of him like a zombie. He says "thank you" and "book" and "ball" and "hello" and "bye-bye."
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A few weeks ago, Gordo, my son, my baby, turned 1. Which, as the pediatrician informed us, means he's no longer an infant JESUS YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO SAY IT OUT LOUD. He's a toddler now, and his main activities are 1). speaking in tongues, and 2). falling off the back porch.
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The Barnacle, aka Crusty One-Eye, aka Gordo, aka my son, is 11 months old, and we are counting down the days until he turns one.
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Crusty One-Eye, my sweet, sweet boy, is 10 months old (and for the record, we no longer call him Crusty One-Eye, as we unblocked his tear duct by holding his arms down and squirting breast milk into his eye twice a day with a dropper …
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The Barnacle, my sweet, sweet boy, is nine months old tomorrow. He assaults anyone who will hold him by throwing his brick of a forehead against their face.
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I've been back at work for two months. This is what people say:
IT GETS EASIER.
This is what really happens:
IT GETS HARDER.
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In the middle of January, my dad came to stay with us for two weeks. During a Skype conversation last fall, when it appeared both my parents had had too much to drink, my mother gaily volunteered to send my dad to California, and my father gaily agreed.
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I started off Sunday morning cupping my hand so my son could vomit into it.
A few minutes later, back in fine spirits, he gazed at his father in the kitchen whisking batter for crepes.
"It's a high-whisk activity," SJ confided to him. "I like whisk-y business."
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I was having a perfectly good day, chasing down some bitch who stole my husband's debit card information and depleted our joint account buying Chinese food, Hawaiian food, and pizza and making a payment to MetroPCS …
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These are the last days of my maternity leave. The weather has turned cold, so in the predawn we turn on the heat, which makes a satisfying boom and then slowly seeps up through the floor vents and smells like a different toxin in each room.
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Since I had a baby, I've started a lot of lists. I LIKE LISTS. But I don't finish many because baby.
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