A Tale of Two Mommies

…because more seems excessive…

Monthly Archives: November 2015

Lions and Tigers and Bears…Feh…

The four of us visited the zoo today; Little Man hasn’t been to a zoo yet (Yes, I realize my daughter is not born yet, but I’m counting her in the tally…I’ve having far too much trouble breathing and sleeping for her not to hold a position on our family outings.).

I must say, even though he woke-up this morning incredibly uncharacteristically early with an exceedingly brief morning nap, the trip was a resounding success.  The zoo is a small, poorly funded city zoo, but the limited newer parts are quite nice.  We knew ahead of time almost the entirety of the children’s attractions were in the process of renovation; therefore, closed.  Why make the hour trip down chaotic streets?  Admission was half priced, which made the usually quite expensive affair worth the gamble to see if our son was old enough to appreciate the animal experience…He wasn’t, aside from the goats at the petting zoo.  But, doesn’t everyone love a goat?  I think, however, I may return alone in the near future; I’m pretty sure they charged us the kid’s rate for my admission ticket…Can we say knocked-up MILF pushing forty?

Even though nineteen-months-old proved a bit early for this type of trip, Little Man enjoyed himself thoroughly.  Sadly, the giraffe was vacationing in his winter home, which would have been thrilling for my son.  It’s the most consistent animal he points to whenever an image appears before him…He finds peacocks pretty groovy too, but I knew this zoo did not have them loitering and terrorizing visitors on the open walkways.

It’s almost December, but some of the animals were still available for the public’s view.  Mr. Man journeyed through each section saving his excitement for the random debris in the opposite direction from the exhibits.  It goes without saying that acorns cannot be found littered around our home…  A few rocks caught his attention as well…clearly rare excavations…  The stick he found became his companion for most of the day.  So integral was this playmate that I named it Montesquieu D. Stick.  Unfortunately Monty men an untimely demise after my son whacked him entirely too hard on a steel barrier outside the Condor exhibit.

My husband and I enjoyed the apes, especially the Silverback with the baby clutching his leg as he moved throughout the enclosure.  My son enjoyed the dirt in one of the potted plants.  He only perseverated on grabbing fistfuls of the soil until he noticed the drainage grating on the floor.  That, my friends, is why people go to zoos in the first place after all.  The following ten minutes were spent with my son surveying the floor in hopes of finding other coverings that have me wondering if his future profession will be in civil engineering…or Mike Rowe’s replacement for Dirty Jobs

My favorite moment of the afternoon was not watching my delighted son engross himself in their new and incredible playground structures.  I relished and absorbed every moment of him sitting on my lap for a bite to eat.  I was holding Little Man facing me on a bench outside, balancing his food container in my free hand.  My husband shared his apple with me, cutting up pieces and feeding me like the underage goddess I am.  My son pointed and was rewarded with a piece of apple that he wasted no time clutching in his small hands.  But, he didn’t want the apple for himself; he wanted to feed his Mommy who unselfishly donated her lap for the cause.  He also generously offered to feed me his food, which I graciously declined.  Midway though his meal I was rewarded with Little Man smooches on my cheek while my daughter fluttered slightly.  I ask you, is there anything better than family outings?



Ode to Thanks

I’m thankful for chocolate…dark chocolate, but not dark chocolate more than seventy percent.  If I wanted to have no sugar with my sugar, I’d buy a bar of baker’s chocolate…It’s cheaper.  I’m thankful for dark chocolate with nuts that are chopped up in it.  Truffles are good too.  Lindt is probably the best, but some of those generics are mighty fine…  I’m thankful for everyone in my life who grasped my subtle inclinations toward this treat, and use it as an easy gift that I will ALWAYS appreciate.

I’m thankful for tea, and my husband who showed me the delights of adding skim milk to my hot tea experience.  I’m thankful for those times when we drink it together, especially sitting on a cruise ship deck looking out on the ocean.  It’s been almost a year since the last time, but one day we will do it again, knowing the happiness of bringing our expanded family.  It will be like our first cruise together, everything new and exciting.

I’m thankful for time…long, tedious, endless time that can be insufferable in the ticking moments, but I cling to them like the covers my husband hordes in the middle of the night.

I’m thankful for change, daunting and unpredictable, but relentless and dependable.  Sometimes its inevitability allows me to hold on even if I don’t know where the shift will take me.

I’m thankful for new friends, and the old ones I now take the time to connect with on a reasonably regular basis despite busy lives.  I’m thankful that it occurs to me to take unbegrudged initiation while simultaneously maintaining the confidence that they think of me too and appreciate my organizational drive of pursuit.  I am thankful for my friends whose strength of character keep them with me even through their great struggles.  I appreciate every day I can still hear from them, and hope the next year brings about easier times they deserve.

I’m thankful for my Kindle, the passport to endless realities and stories while I paddle in stationary bobbing most mornings before the sun awakens for the day.  I’m thankful to be witness to the blue glow as the sun rises, filling the room like black light at the horrible college parties I used to attend.

Perhaps trite, but I’m thankful to have my partner in life and the only person worth arguing with over incredibly stupid issues that we both realize are stupid, but feel the urge to argue about them anyway.  I know you read this, and I’m telling you the random paper towel sheets appearing mysteriously on the counter most mornings aren’t left by me.  Ten years later there is no one else I’d rather have be where I need to be.

I’m thankful for family, all of them.  Through times of strain and times of harmony it’s always a blessing, perhaps because there are so few of us in touch.  My stories aren’t as enriching without the people in them, and I value every moment I can still make a call to hear of whatever antics might be in play in that particular moment.  I’m thankful my children will grow to know all of these players with the capacity to fondly reminisce when the presence of some are no more.  This excludes my mother.  She will live for forever; I’m certain of it.

This blog is my ongoing gratitude for my current and future children.

I’m thankful for screaming goat YouTube videos, and those hilarious eCards I can read on Pinterest.  I’m thankful for hot showers.  I’m thankful for bulky yarn eternity scarves that look perfect every time I throw one on, and the variety of cardigans that I impulsively collect.  I’m thankful for real scratch mashed potatoes with its skin included and turkey gravy.  I’m thankful for grilled cheese…or just cheese, really…and bacon…Bacon is how I know there is still good in the world despite the atrocities that bombard the vacant spaces of life.

I’m thankful for opportunities, whatever they may be.  Finally, I’m thankful for cool, crisp days to walk and think about them; to think about what was, is, and will be.



Unspoken Truths

There are certain pleasantries I’ve come to acknowledge through this journey of Mommyhood that are so routine and consistent that I can label them as universal truths of raising my son.  For example, the smell of the diaper is inversely proportional to the size of the catastrophic presence hidden within.  My husband and I have been duped on several occasions, often perplexed or disappointed by the pebble that managed to contaminate our entire downstairs within minutes.  Describing this as a disappointing experience might seem strange, but a miniscule finding is an indication that likely within five minutes we will be changing a mass that will take us by surprise at the least opportune time.  I usually only discover said mass when Mr. Man is in a cuddly mood, crawling all over me in hugs and sweetness.  It’s usually when his tushie is in my face that I become aware; naturally, he finds this hilarious…

Another truth, the size of the smile is indicative of the magnitude of the disaster created.  My son’s most jovial expressions are always a foreshadowing to the bedlam I will find.  Sometimes when he knows it’s a real doozy, he runs into the room in crying spams and pointing for me to follow him…clearly his toys and all of his clothing made him do it…  I’m waiting for an Animal House layout that includes broken windows and askew furniture when he decides he’s bored with his daily spa in our toilets.  If, however, he concludes that he will restrict his destruction to emptying every trash receptacle in the vicinity, then he will spend twenty minutes beaming at me until I figure out something is amiss.

A final truth consists of my little man’s ability to entertain himself.  It doesn’t matter how engrossing the activity or how long we’ve been playing together.  He will be completely content until I need to make a phone call.  It is only those times that he really needs Mommy, and it must happen at that very minute.  The more important the call, the more urgent his needs.  My son is strategic though.  Sometimes he hollers and screams so that the conversation is really two people just talking and hoping the discourse is vaguely compatible.  Other times he is quiet, but chooses those very times to climb the furniture in an effort to visit the hospital…because of Mommy’s heart failure…

If I want to reframe these annoyances, as I’m sure all parents try to do, I’d say he is developing his own personality…Clearly, these aspects are influences from Daddy…

The Versatility of Beige

Another holiday season approaches, and with that a new experience.  A friend and I who have spent the last year-and-a-half avoiding the ebbs and flows of homicidal tendencies by meeting with our children at a local mall for a few social hours gathered just the two of us…that’s right, no kids.  The entirety of the preceding evening spent on text exchanges expressing our giddiness at the occasion.  My husband responded to my elations with a subdued, “O-okay,” marking the very reasonable response that my standards for a good time are pathetically low.

What was the focus for our afternoon plans you might ask?  Perhaps a tattoo or a crazy hair style with a bar of Belgium chocolate in one hand and a bottle of Jim Beam in the other?  Nope, exuberant plans of an uninterrupted, leisurely meal with, perhaps, an appetizer.  Yup, we are a couple of wild crazies with proclivities toward reckless abandon.  And, how did we follow-up our meal that actually did not finish with a healthy dose of heartburn?  We grabbed a tea and meandered at our own pace through the mall’s open areas…It was everything I could have ever dreamed of, and I want it immortalized in the same memories as the birth of my son…It was that good…

Now for the interesting or unsettling part, depending on the perspective.  When I was pregnant with my son I experienced many bouts of anxiety about just this type of situation.  Reeling that I’d be unemployed with a life like so many other mothers I’d met whose life became jubilations with these social banalities because life offered little or nothing else.  So, now I am here and one of these very women I feared for so long, and, my, how perspectives change.  Reframing the experience that used to cause such panic not all that long ago, I don’t see these opportunities as desperation, clinging to the only pleasantness presenting itself to me.  Rather, I see my capacity to value and enjoy more; enjoy others just because, enjoy small moments because I can, value what I have when I have it for as long as I am able.  It isn’t a state of mind that I consciously find myself, but things change so quickly, and not usually all that dramatically.  In a blink things are different and everything moves on without any purposeful drive in a specific direction.

I find I have the capacity to simply be and enjoy more.  I’m more aware of opportunities that have no specific benefit or end; merely, this moment is something to savor and enjoy for no other reason than it having value onto itself.  I don’t see an evening looking forward to conversations with strangers who work in my husband’s office as a pathetic need to engage with a world I’ve lost touch with.  Talking to anyone is a way to connect and learn from humanity; to enjoy the company of others and the limited festivities in the consuming hustle and bustle of life.

I’m not sure when I learned this, but it was certainly once I started sleeping again and began the long process of adjusting to a new life, and new me, frankly.  I’ve had to let go of so much and embrace so much more.  But, here I sit two years later through my perpetually evolving process with new offerings before me.  It helps that I can envision an open path leading to any direction that has the potential to be new and exciting in some way.  It also helps that I have a son that sees everything wonderful in the world because the only disappointment he really faces is that he cannot sit on his Mommy’s lap for another story until his soiled diaper is changed.  He is still a being of love and possibilities.  He is a sponge newly out of the wrapper before mildew and damage sets in, and for that I can sit back and listen for what he has to teach me.

Some Complaints Bear Repeating

It was the topic of one post in the blog I maintained through my son’s pregnancy (https://apprehensivelyexpecting.wordpress.com/), but when it’s my second pregnancy and I manage to sift through Old Navy’s seizure inducing maternity clothes section, I’ve earned the right to extensively gripe anew.

The issue isn’t really Old Navy, or should I say just Old Navy?  Maternity clothes shopping ranks up there in heinous acts with being forced to sit on a stalled and crowded subway car next to an exceedingly hairy man with a sweat gland issue after having run an ultra marathon in Texas mid August.  If I’m late for a snack, you’d better add said man on a subway eating a vat of sauerkraut humming the most horrible Spice Girls song you can conceive…I cannot think of a title, as I’ve suppressed every memory concerning their music.  If you think I’m exaggerating, go out and find a pregnant woman who abandoned all hope of fitting into her largest fat pants, resigned to maternity garb.  She will concur it is a truly wretched experience.

When I’m not hormonal, I have the confidence wherewithal to acknowledge a bad shirt does not label me as any mammal one would find partially submerged in a temporary watering hole in the Serengeti.  But, nurturing a tenet prompts one to weeping for twenty minutes in the dressing room, fearing someone will enter at any point confusing you with a large amorphous blob that someone let out of a local government research lab.

But, have no fear for my mental state because within minutes that mood passes, and I’m back to confused rage at the design personnel responsible for maternity lines.  I can’t imagine what Heidi Klum reality show reject merited a spot on one of these teams.  To top off the insult of horrible style and fit selections, women are blessed with exorbitantly expensive price tags for the privilege of taking part of the most comprehensive and long standing practical joke the world has ever seen.

A mild indication of the absurdity of this type of clothing is glancing through Gap’s online selection.  While I give the company tremendous credit for using real pregnant women to model their clothing (Don’t balk, I’ve seen many truly twiggy models with concave breast cavities demonstrating the latest bun-in-the-oven styles.), it takes a special selection that looks like absolute garbage on the people who are supposed to sport it best.  I mean, c’mon, Photoshop, airbrushing, or some other marvel of technology wasn’t available for the cause…ever?  I know that the customer is supposed to notice the clothing first, but at some point these women just look like shit.

I remember well the experience while pregnant with my son, which is why I usually shop for my maternity apparel online for the opportunity to enjoy good lighting and my favorite mirror, lessening the sting of auditioning clothing styles that seem to miss the boat that most women prefer clothing that make them feel good about themselves.

But, today, I required the store for a quick and cheap turn around.  With an almost nineteen-month-old Little Man in the picture, my clothing can rarely be reworn a second, much less third time, as they are immediately soiled with saliva, fecal matter, or some other mysterious substance I’ve long since stopped trying to identify.  Consequently, I realized that a couple extra pairs of jeans heading into winter would be a smart idea.  Given I’m not in need of anything else, the best financial option would be to brave the store in hope that they might have something returned from an online purchase, and, therefore, reduced considerably.  Even though I know the entire section is in complete disarray, which is a tremendous understatement, but a sufficient description may very well fail the English language, a good deal is a good deal and worth the aneurysm the experience will likely provide.

At the end of the day I found three candidates I will summon the courage to try on at some point in the near future, but I think it is best to do so on a full stomach and without a migraine.




The Quality of the Pre-Show Performance

I had a terrible doctor at first when I was pregnant with my son.  Unwilling to acknowledge the possibility of a longer cycle, he declared with his twenty-five years of experience that at “eight weeks” I was definitely going to miscarry.  His comment an abrupt assertion seemingly oblivious to the devastation such news provides.  Given my all too familiar gasping for air while lunging across the room as my son opens the toilet lid for the second time in an hour in order to plunge the entirety of both arms into the bowl, he definitely survived the initial growing process.  Even looking back when all is well, I remember the consequence of my initial doctor’s proclamation that led to an inability to enjoy my pregnancy until my son’s first movements at seventeen weeks.

My experience with the Warrior Queen have been blessedly uneventful.  First trimester went, and it seems similar with the second.  This time around she asserted her presence at fourteen weeks, but now approaching seventeen I feel her more regularly if I pay attention.  The result of uneventful and repeated experience is procrastination.  It feels like my husband and I are not in a hurry to initiate plans for my daughter’s arrival just yet.  Maybe it just feels good to be pregnant without a possible demise looming or the needs of the unknown.

My pregnancies have been both similar and different.  Apparently I was a rockstar with abdominal strength training in between pregnancies.  Even with a slutty uterus, I’m still carrying quite high this second time around.  Showing earlier, I started struggling to breathe earlier.  By now the lack of oxygen flowing to my brain as I excitedly gaze upon seasonal chocolate options in a store is almost more than I can bear.  I’ve mentioned it before, but at times it’s quite silly what limited activity forces me to pause and catch my breath.

I haven’t reduced my exercise all that much, but I can tell that within the next month I will be forced to do so.  Over exertion a couple of days ago prompted an overwhelming need to sleep the entirety of the day…Naturally my son was amendable to such an idea…  But, I’ll take the inconvenience and periodic discomfort of pregnancy as long as it remains uneventful.  With two children two years apart, I’ll have as much drama as I need soon enough.

Unacknowledged Murphy’s Law No. 72

Your habitually good sleeper will only awaken in the middle of the night when you decide to watch ALL of Rachel Maddow and splurge on Lawrence O’Donnell that ends at eleven ‘o’ clock.  After all, Grandma and Grandpa are in town and watching your son tomorrow, so that early exercise routine is more of a optional suggestion.

Declaration of Independence

There are certain assertions of independence my son exhibits at this point.  At eighteen months he will grab his shoes from the closet before we leave on an excursion.  In the morning he will repeatedly open and shut the shades, of course, he is seeking the ideal length for them to rest for the day…  He can climb on and off the sofa, and just to prove his deft skill, recklessly runs the length of the cushions amidst the joint cheers of admonishment from his parents.

Recently he has unsuccessfully attempted to climb on our kitchen chairs; probably so he can eventually sit on our table, inevitably plummeting to his death shortly after.  Little Man expressed interest in washing his own hands, as well as intermittently eating with his utensils from a dish before launching both items into the stratosphere.  Gazing at food all over the floor, he has the decency to hover over the various spots of grime and point…You know, in case I run the risk of missing something cleaning it up.  I suppose I should consider this behavior a blessing; he usually decorates the floor in an effort to choose his dining experience.

While on the subject of nourishment, Mr. Man enjoys grabbing his own drink from the fridge shelf.  In actuality, this is just a means for him to engulf a puffed mouthful and spit it out all over himself and the floor; subsequently, running away with said drink chuckling mid chase…It’s quite endearing, really, and I will remember it fondly gazing at his memorial photos that our future children will curiously look upon as we share stories of the prototype that just didn’t work out.

But, sometimes he is helpful.  Cleaning up before bed he often helps restocking his toy shelves…in the most inefficient way possible, but his father and I get to sit, so who’s to complain?  As we journey to go upstairs…a process that takes exceedingly longer than is required for the task, Little Man takes great pains that the gate is closed behind him.  I suppose this is to ensure his parents break their necks in the morning after forgetting that he haphazardly latched it.

Little Man’s latest independence leap is brushing his own teeth, which amounts to him chewing on his brush bristles and refusing to allow me to tend to his mouth that must be really rank by now.  I’ve been a bit more successful by allowing him to brush my teeth with my toothbrush.  He’s been willing to take turns provided he can gnaw on my toothbrush handle and periodically graze his lips with my bristles.  But, honestly, after spending as many as twenty minutes in tooth brushing hell, a little kid saliva likely won’t kill me.

My new favorite, however, was tonight just before bed.  I’m folding some laundry while Little Man plays quietly in his room…Did I mention he was quiet?  True, this is a scary sound, but I told myself that I haven’t heard a crash yet, so it can’t be all that bad.  Then my husband’s child comes barreling into our room weeping and pointing down the hallway for me to follow.  Mind you, this isn’t the “I’m hurt” weep, so I saunter after him…Perhaps I’m instinctually gathering strength for what I might find.  I reach his room, and apparently my son can open doors because almost the entire contents of his walk-in closet storage is strewn across the room with his riding car sitting in the middle of the masses of stuff.  In that moment I recall the comment my husband made several days ago that we must remember to call our friend in gratitude…at two in the morning…who gifted us this blessed car.  At this point I’m not sure if I should be impressed or what, but I start laughing at a loss of another reaction and just clean-up.  Little Man contributed by pointing at the various piles so I did not forget an item, and didn’t give me an argument when I stated he would not be going for a ride on his car.  With the refusal he quietly climbed on his rocking dog and patiently waited for his next opportunity for mischief and mayhem.




A Baby in the Making…

My son is all about “baby” these days, and that’s before he can appreciate the cuteness of the girl styles at Baby Gap.  The Chinese four-year-old responsible can be proud of the craftsmanship, but I digress.

Just before bed Little Man wants me to read Pat-a-Cake, which I’m convinced was created only to prevent parents the world over from passing on the incorrect rhyme to future generations.  This is an incredibly stupid book with horrible illustrations, and I can’t believe a publisher invested money in its generation.  But, periodically, my son retrieves it from the shelf, so what do I know?

Tonight, however, I was befuddled.  True, he’s been picking up any book remotely connected the word, “baby,” for me to read for an agonizing amount of repetitions, but Pat-a-Cake puzzled me…I’ll blame it on fatigue…  I look at Little Man who is lifting up his fire truck jammie shirt and patting his belly whenever the rhyme mentioned, “baby.”  When I eventually caught on, he smiled, exposed my belly, and patted it.  Even at eighteen months it seems he can’t wait to meet his sister…

All’s Well that Ends Well…

I’m beginning this post with the end result because it is exciting for me and I fully haven’t exhausted innocent bystanders yet…You’re welcome…

My Department of Corrections literacy class application proposal approval has been up in the air since the summer.  For a long stretch the outcome was promising, then it wasn’t until this week when I learned that only a few administrative details needed adjusting before I would receive my final coveted signature.  In the meantime, I’ve been sitting in limbo soup that was left in the back of the fridge.  The same soup experience when after several moments of contemplation, the contents of the container are remembered.  The limbo was in part this class I desperately want to teach, but the other part is my role coordinating a tutoring preparatory program for a new and different high school equivalency exam.  Without the approval for the class I designed, I would funnel into coordinating and participating in this specific tutoring opportunity.  But, in true bureaucratic system fashion with new endeavors, the tutoring program generated by the DOC has been vague for months, leaving me to speculate on every aspect of the program and implementation.  Granted I was likely accurate with my ponderings, but no confirmation either way.

That was the back story; I hope sufficiently brief.  No information for months prompted a shortish notice of an orientation for the DOC education and vocation programs…It was two hours beginning at 6.30 and ending at 8.30…in theory…  My assumptions were confirmed regarding the rationale behind the uncertain path, as well as what would be necessary to coordinate such an endeavor.  Gotta say, I’m PSYCHED!  The general outcome from the months of toil is that I am designing a pilot program and supporting tutors that, if successful, will likely be implemented throughout DOC institutions…pretty cool.  I love this kind of stuff…plus I get to teach my dream class.  If only I were paid, I could support my chocolate and tea habit, and this would be perfect…

But, that is not how my day began…

Little man woke up in a fabulous mood in the morning.  We were having oodles of fun, but then I noticed he was beginning to look ill an hour or two before his nap.  Of course, I was in denial because he’s been sick twice in the last six weeks.  I aggressively tried to convince myself he just needed to sleep…And, I oh so desperately wanted to believe it…

Fortune, however, urinated in my Cheerios because Little Man woke up after an hour into his nap exhausted and in a terrible mood, and it was only one ‘o’ clock.  I was so, so foolishly hopeful he would sleep the two-and-a-half to three hours he had been for the last week.  Major bummer doesn’t even come close to my devastation when I heard the tell tale yelps of a grumpy Little Man waking from the monitor knowing full well he wouldn’t sleep again the rest of the day.

Thinking I had longer, I didn’t eat much, so I’m already hungry, and we aren’t talking normal hungry.  This is pregnant hungry, which takes on a demonic life of its own.  Do you know why all zombie movies are so similar?  It’s because most people have met a hungry pregnant lady by the time they’ve reached adulthood…not even an exaggeration…

Suffice it to say, I’m in a bad mood and pouting as I trudge up the stairs that leave me winded at the top because I’m harboring a parasite.  Once I’m finished wheezing, I brace myself for the mucusy onslaught I was all too familiar with, and I was still woefully unprepared.

To say cranky and needy really doesn’t quite capture the expanse of the hours until my husband arrived home from work, and I’m not even describing myself.  The highlight of the afternoon was forty-five back aching minutes I sat in an unsupported pike position singing off-key repetitions of Mary had a Little Lamb, bouncing my son as he rested on the expanse of my legs, looking up at me, and insisting that I rest my hands on his chest.  He held them there just to make sure I didn’t try anything funny.  So cute, right?  Sure it is.  I absolutely love a good cuddle monster, but not when I’m hungry and forced to continue like I’m single-handedly rowing a Grecian war ship.

My son had oozing, shrieking fits when I wasn’t holding him.  Eating did nothing to abate the needy torture I found myself entrenched in for hours.  He ate half of my hallowed everything bagel slim with butter, keeping me from eating my half because Little Man was determined to have me hug him tightly as he ate…so not cool…Every part of me wanted to punt my son across the room and steal back his half of the bagel and devour mine.  The kid seriously kept me hostage with bawling that escaped a glossy wet face in contorted expressions necessary to completely capture comprehensive misery of both of us until my husband appeared like the apparition of a holy angel designed to relieve the suffering of the natural world.

At that point, however, I was already running late.  I still needed to eat some semblance of a dinner; fortunately I had the foresight to stay in jammies until just before…I learned that lesson the hard way…  Nevertheless, I needed to change, and I had maybe fifteen minutes to do everything.

To top off the events, I was brushing my teeth in the downstairs bathroom, and even though I know Little Man must cause mischief and mayhem every time I enter this small closet of a room, I didn’t close the door behind me.  With a foamy mouth I learned that my son not only lifts up the toilet lid, but now has the desire to dabble his fingers in the water…lovely…Now try to picture a mom foaming at the mouth from a baking soda toothpaste and the initiation of a full freak-out as my son is dancing his fingers in our toilet bowl water like a creek insect.  I call for my husband…maybe shriek is more apt.  He enters, and highlights his frustrated ambitions as a comedian, “Hey, people pay good money for toilet water.”  So. Not. Funny.  But,  it’s his problem now.  I rinse and wipe my mouth, and head out the door hoping I didn’t forget anything in my mad last minute scramble to collect the items I’ll need for the orientation.

I’d like to say it was an easy drive.  It would have been if every pokey idiot wasn’t leading the way the entire route, but I arrived at a reasonable time.  By the end of the evening the preceding event traumas evaporated, but I can feel confident that new ones are just around the corner to give me comfort in my times of need.

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