I had every intention of writing a wonderfully witty diatribe for you last night, but alas – the lure of the cool tiles on the bathroom floor were too enticing. That, and writing would have required me to extract myself from the oh-so-comfortable fetal position I’d curled myself into.
Abort! Abort! All too often we start off with one task, which due to toddlerhood, rapidly results in another. Or we are totally distracted and completely forget what we had initially set out to do.
What was I saying? Oh yes…
I arrived home from the almost tropic weather of SoCal. (Thanks Grandma! I knew you wouldn’t have it any other way.) And it was time for lunch. While Search dumped his plate, flinging ravioli far and wide, and pelting the dogs with orange pieces, Destroy just sat staring.
This was a huge red flag. Because that kid can eat. And eat. And eat.
I offered him a piece of bread. But he listlessly turned his head away. When he turned back, it was propelled by a force fueled by intense projectile vomit.
I carried the pitiful barfer upstairs. Little man was DONE with his afternoon. He was uninterested in being left alone – reaching out for his fuzzy stuffed duck. It’s become his “thing.” (You may think Casanova is extending his arms toward you, but if you go in for a hug he’ll quack at you.)
So the three of us cuddled, rocking in the nursery room glider, until I was holding a soundly sleeping baby boy. And inhaling duck fuzz.
For a brief moment I basked in the picture perfect mommyhood moment. I am so awesome at this! (Hubris. It’ll get you every time.)
He turned his head once more. And puked all over me and the duck. Abort! Abort!
Jon took over cuddle duties while I stripped down and started the 734th load of laundry. 110 minutes later I pulled my sweats and a lame duck out of the dryer. “Babe! We’re gonna need another shirt out here,” Jon called. Interestingly enough, Destroy looked rather pleased with himself. Apparently third time was the charm. He felt better. “Quack quack?” he inquired.
Unfortunately, this was not to be. Note to self: Fuzzy duck “things” are not washing machine safe. At some point I’m going to have to sew the hole shut over the newly amputated wing stump.
Don’t worry, I’ve already started a therapy fund. “She tells the world I ate poop and played naked guitar, then KILLED MY DUCK!”
And then. Destroy shared. Suddenly I didn’t feel so good.
Le arf. (It must have been a French flu.) It was pregnancy flashback déjà vu all over again.
Sigh. Get your mind out of the bassinet. This is not a pregnancy announcement post. (Did you miss the missives about Mohammad moving mountains of men and machinery to meet the million dollar miracle muppets in the first place? Don’t make me alliterate again…)
So I’ll be back tomorrow with your regularly scheduled snark. Got a preference for bell curves and bitches, career callings or annoying nicknames? You think about that and let me know. I’ll be in bed with the saltines.