Today was a glorious day, yet that seems like such a weak description for the sunshine and angel hailing trumpets blessing the morning’s events.
Sure, my son is still cute and loving, maintaining a healthy consistency of affection throughout the day with nary a hint of fussing. Yes, the Warrior Queen at 19-weeks is still ambitiously maintaining her existence in my belly. My volunteering and writing are still running strong. I even managed to continue the crochet project that, until recently, had been steadfastly keeping our shelves company for so many months. All of this quite true, but none are attributed to the magnitude of what a fabulous day it’s been.
In fact, this day could only be better if the tenacious smell reminiscent of Seinfeld’s “entity” taking up residence in the room that harbors our generic version of the Diaper Jeanie would dissipate. But, even thinking of that kind of perfection is just plain crazy talk.
I took Mr. Man to my town’s library for storytime this morning. The plan was to meet a friend for the program and go to a local restaurant for an early lunch afterward. We were early, so I was chatting with a couple of other mothers in between my son’s exalted dashes to another room, beckoning me to follow and thereby interrupting any coherent conversation. In a brief exchange two mothers commented that I was tiny, and, in fact, one of the mothers described that I was one of those pregnant women she hates. I’ve never been a “one of those” type of woman, but I blessed both of them for hating me and charged after Little Man who was already hovering at the top of the stairs impatiently urging me to help him down.