The past week has found me saying things, out loud to another human being (namely Ismael), like “Gee cooking would be a whole lot easier if this boy didn’t have his face in my butt. Could you PLEASE get him away from me for a little bit?”
I told Twitter: “1200 Sf here and this boy has to occupy only the space adjacent to me.” (Plus Twitter? I don’t get you. It’s like a lot of strangers in a big room shouting at each other.)
By yesterday, I was trying hard to embrace having an additional 37 pound appendage. He could only have been happier if he were actually a tick, embedded under my skin. He’d be all “Can I bring my bendy, crazy straw? This is so AWESOME.” I was at the point of OMGPLEASESTOPTOUCHINGME like a bratty little kid and her little brattier brother in the back seat of mama’s un-air-conditioned* station wagon on a cross country trip. (*how in the world you spell that other than h-o-t?)
Then Lorie arrived and with her came an assortment of handmedown kid videos, a bottle of J-Lo perfume and this***:
Then today my mother came and I escaped for a couple hours. Ahh….
When I came back, she was pointing to this:
She didn’t think so.
Fast forward to 10 PM tonight when I open my son’s door for the fourth time since 8 PM and there he is, sitting straight up in bed, blinking at me. I’m sure I looked like an angel surrounded by that 100 watt hallway light.
Come son. Let me read you a story… oh wait no. You didn’t help me clean up blocks and instead threw Grandma under the bus by saying “Well Grandma got them out.” So I put you to bed at 8, you know, your NORMAL bed time. Hmm…come sit in the chair with me.
::crawls into my lap, snuggles into my chest::
Like a little bear? he asks.
::several minutes of snuggles and then mumbles which turn out to be him saying…::
You are my mommy. You. are. my. mommmmy.
***and yes, I know that America is all up in arms over this book, positive and negative. It’s a joke people, written by someone who was very tired from the attempt to make a small child do what is best for them…sleep.