The man-person has returned, and is in need of repair. Having splatted himself sideways into a mud puddle on his motorcycle, then after misplacing his helmet on another island, he finally arrived home on Monday night wet and frozen to the bone with sticky-up hair and safety goggles adhered to his face. He had a day to thaw before I stuffed him in the car and drove him to town for a root canal. Thus I was set loose in the mall on a sunny Wednesday morning with a tot in a sling and a boy at my elbow. It was a day to hone my rationalization skills; why, I am in my last year of my 20s, I have just fit into my normal pants for the first time after having a baby, I have missed several years of opera and balls (the dancing sort - although many of the other kinds also, come to it) - and this all means that yes, of course I must spend $150 on a cocktail dress, I would be silly not to. And I should get my hair done. And probably fancy undercrackers are in order. When the dxfh had been ravaged by the dentist, I set him up in front of the dressing room in Macys to slur yay or nae at my dress selection, and was pleased as a pig in pantalooneys to trot away with a size 8 in tarty red. Ooer. And phwawr. The only fly in the whatsit is that I became giddy with tartliness and shortly thereafter let the man talk me into buying red hair dye. Harlot red hair dye + percocet = oh noes. More on that later.
Our new neighbors are the devil. They have been beneath us for two days, and it has been a violent onslaught of chain-smoking, loud crashing television past midnight, donkey sex noises and opera music at 5:30am, and attempts to insinuate their crap Riviera into our parking place. I am going to start lobbing cats at them.
Alone with the kiddos. I woke up this morning with Leif singing to me quietly and Gavin crumpled in a tangle of scrawny boy-limbs on the other side of the bed. We slid across the floors in our jammies and socks (hail the rainbow toe sock!) and welcomed in our last day of long weekend of decadent languor. Leif snuggled against my chest in his sling and watched me make fresh bread in the morning, and when he dozed off I slipped him in bed and rummaged through my stash for yarn to knit something special for our two new nephews-to-be. These golden days of babies and bread and home are numbered, but just think: they're here now, we get to enjoy them aaaaall day.
It's been a pleasant weekend with little to remark upon; Leif has started babbling and singing - and shockingly, he actually can sometimes match my bedtime tunes, and casts about yelling "DADADADA!" when he's lost his patience with me. I hesitate to proclaim him a genius, but... well, hello. My kid. Genius. ^_^
I'm back in the 140s, within 10 lbs of a happy weight, and most of my old pants fit now, except for the skinniest and tartiest of them. I still feel like a used stocking, but at least I can squash my bits into a deceptively youthful shape with creative rigging.
Minimal V-day shmoops, minimal "WHY DIDN'T HE LOOOVE ME" gnashings and hand-wringings, minimal chocolate gorging. There was only one bad part to the weekend, which I will document here for my future self:
We swung by the gallery to admire some artwork, and plunked pebbles in the koi pond for a while yesterday afternoon. Gavin decided he would see how long he could stay before I would force the issue, so ignored me when I said it was time to go, said "Just a moment" when I repeated myself, and ignored me again when I walked away and said I was leaving. I lingered behind the bushes for a bit with the baby in my arms, and stomped back a minute later when he refused to follow. The typical mom-kid argument ensued: "Do you WANT me to yell at you every time we need to go somewhere? Get OVER here!" He dragged his feet and grumped, "I SAID I'd come in a moment." "I GAVE you a moment, I asked you three times, you wouldn't come until I yelled and that makes me very frustrated and unhappy!" "Me too!" "Well why didn't you just listen the first time?!" "I don't know!" We grumped to the car, I buckled in the baby (who happily chewed on his teether), and got Gavin in the car. As I started up the engine, I asked, "Buckled up?" "Yep," he said. I looked back to double-check as I started backing up, and saw his hand clamped over his belt, holding it in place so it looked like it was buckled in. I hit the brakes. "You're not buckled up!" "I know." "Why did you lie to me? You could die! If I started driving and we got hit and you died, I would feel terrible for the rest of my life because I didn't make sure your were buckled up! Why would you do that?!" He buckled, then suddenly looked stricken, welled up, and started sobbing silently in distress, looking away to hide his face. "Baby, it's ok, you're buckled up now, talk to me. " "I don't want you to feel terrible for the rest of your life!" he creaked. My heart wrenched painfully, and I reached back and held his hand. Gawd, I don't want to be the mom who freaks my kid out with guilt. I don't want him to lie about seat belts or other serious safety things, either, though. We calmed down, we said we loved each other, and we drove home for a cold drink and a snack. It's a hard gig sometimes, I love this kid.
The good thing about parenting is that you only really screw up if you screw up every day; each morning you get another chance to do things right.
After watching Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist the other day, I picked out the book from our YA stacks and tore through it overnight, coming away slightly wounded. While the book was a pretty good read, I think this is the rare instance where the movie rather outshines it. This librarian recommends watching the movie and then reading the book. But for sure, do both. Especially if you've ever found yourself in a stranger's car at 3am in a big city, or made fun of Hoboken. But I will save you some trouble now with this warning: if you are reading the book at work and don't know who Johnny Castle is, don't google it. Especially don't image google it.
But now I'm torn between feeling nostalgic over our romps through New York as college kids, and feeling ripped off because I really thought we had something unique and young and glorious. That the boy at the end of my arm loved me innocently and completely. And I don't know when I'll be running through the city hand-in-hand again, unless I'm holding on to a couple of kids and trying to find a toilet. It could happen, I guess.
And this is what happens around V-Day. Heading down to the cakeshop of luuuurve, where everyone goes to press their noses against the glass and look at all the cupcakes with longing, regret, nostalgia, guilt, and anger. Stupid cupcakes.
This morning, in desperados over having no clean trousers, I yanked out a pair of old jeans from my skinny drawer and pulled them on. And they fit! Barely. I look a bit like "Jumbo Jessica" on the covers of all the trashy magazines this week, but I am still feeling validated after last weekend's Stepford disaster involving a size 10 vintage dress pattern that would fit a modern 8 year-old. (Evidently, in the 1950s they cultivated patio housewives.)
This weekend I'll be swinging the kids solo again - this time with bonus Alone on Valentines Day action. Actually, that may well be an improvement over years past. I haven't had any great Valentine's Days for as long as I've had boyfriends around to mangle them. As a kid, I used to painstakingly pick out all the best conversation hearts ("kiss me" and "my luv" - although sometimes "luv" seemed a bit strong and I'd opt for a cooler "hug me" instead) and go on stealth missions to get them into my crush's desk undetected. Preferably in a particular order that made sense when you read them all together. Then I'd covertly watch him as he discovered the candies and crunched them up, imagining how moved and intrigued he must be by his mysterious and poetic admirer. I'm sure he still thinks about me - whoever I am.
Hot on the heels of the Valentine of Loneliness is the start of Lent. This year I am, as always, giving up chocolates/sugars. And I will not buy crafty fibrous materials. And I will finish all dangling projects - a dress, a cardigan, and 3 books. By Easter I will be thin, wealthy, dressed, and literate! Yay, Lent!
This week is stupid. Stupidy stupid stupids. Bah. And harumph.
So far we have:
Monday: Fun with employee conflict Tuesday: Fun with lost keys Wednesday: Fun with interviewing snarky teenagers
And in between those bits, add in "fun with no hot water", and "fun with cable service". FUN FUN FUN. Funner than funny things on funny tablets.
ramblegarble...
To boot, my shantung arrived in the mail, but not the dress pattern. My "Purple Gogol Opera Dress" is in danger of incompletion if the Mail Gods don't get off their flippers and deliver the goods. I just can't go to the opera nekked. Again.
Also my scale broke. As it did, it told me I lost 10 lbs overnight, which had me prancing in front of the mirror in admiration - a bizarre thing, since I knew it was a lie, and if it had told me I had gained 10 lbs I would have been weeping into the mirror over my imaginary corpulence. Stupid scale.
Very happy to see the weekend coming into view, with payday sitting atop waving.
