I am constantly caught between wanting to freeze time and wanting to fast forward it to a point in the future where it’s just me and my mumu, playing spider solitaire and watching Netflix.
Today is a fast-forward day. I invite you to sit back and relax as I share a tale with you. A tale of poop.
The day Eva arrived Matt and I hadn’t slept in two and a half months. As I drove, cross-eyed, to the airport to retrieve her, Matt was stumbling around our kitchen banging pots and pans together, hoping it would somehow result in spaghetti and meatballs. We wanted our new au pair to believe she would be living with nice, normal people eating nice, normal meals—not human trash monsters covered in acid reflux and muffin crumbs.
This kid is not any of my sons.
Something has happened in this past year. At first, I attributed it to the postpartum hormone bath, but now I realize it’s a new, ridiculous, hopefully temporary part of me.
I am almost always about to cry.
By the time you read this, Matt and I will be gone.
Realistically, we won’t have gotten very far. We are probably idling on 95-North in some awful holiday traffic. But we don’t care, because we have our TAL podcasts, our snacks and our soon-to-be lack of babies. And we’re going to NYC, b-words!
This isn’t the first time we’ve spent the night away from our guys. Matt’s awesome aunts Kathy and Nancy hooked us up with a desperately needed night at Tranquil House Inn in Manteo back in August while they watched the babies. We slept until 8:30 AM, like gods. (There was also another attempt at a night away in November that ended prematurely due to some jerk–I mean beloved–dogs who escaped from home after we left.)
In honor of Mother’s Day, and the fact that I wouldn’t have enjoyed this day of sloth without them, I’d like to dedicate this post to my three sons. Continue reading
There are many things I won’t miss about this first year of parenthood. Obviously, the lack of sleep. Acid reflux. RSV. Trimming 30 microscopic fingernails each week. The time Bran somehow pooped on his own shoulders.
But there is far more that I will miss dearly. Finn’s never-ending giggle. The euphoric shriek Jem unleashes when he gets really excited about life. Bran’s beautiful curls and simian grunts. And the baby legs. Sometimes I think that if I had just given birth to six baby legs I would be equally proud. I love the Flintstone feet, the curdled thighs and the toes that are always pointed, like an elephant ballerina.
Me and Matt celebrating our anniversary like the wild and swinging free birds we aren’t
What did we do this weekend?
Oh, you know. On Friday after work we met friends for a couple pints of mixology and a basket of amuse bouches, then we all went out for dinner and dancing at the city’s hottest new gastroclub, where we laughed and pointed finger guns at each other until the sun came up. And then a magical limousine drove us across the clouds to our homes, where we fell asleep on beds made from the plumage of glorious birds.