|This is what we had for dinner tonight. It was decidedly school lunch, circa 1983.|
As a couple, we always go lamps on, overhead off. The Norwegian Wonder goes overhead on, lamps off. I have a deep dark: I think I prefer the overhead. It casts a warm-n-cozy. When I come home and the Norwegian Wonder has them on, I leave it that way for a while. But, since Chuck is about to come home from work in a few minutes, I just switched to the laps to maintain a united front on this v. important topic. (Obviously I'm feeling very confessional today.)
All day I have imagined that at some point I would sneak in a workout. I just need 28 minutes of burn so that I can listen to a podcast featuring Joyce Carol Oates reading a short story by Cynthia Ozick and the subsequent convo between Joyce and the New Yorker fiction editor. But here I sit, wrapped in this blanket, lying about which light fixtures I prefer.
"Just do 15 minutes," Fannie recommended via iMessage.
I was careful with my response. I didn't want to say for sure I was going to do it, so I responded "good idea" which it was. Then I mentioned something vague about having to put on a bra first.
Honestly, my whole day has been thrown off course. The time I usually get to sprawl on the bed and stare at the ceiling was eaten into by a vicious, tantruming toddler and her out-of-character refusal to go to sleep. She usually loves going to sleep, but tonight she showed a preference for crying so hard that I didn't know where the tears ended and the snot began.
So we spent a lot of time in her room, sorting through the issue. It all ended with her head propped on my shoulder, her staring at me for an uncomfortably long time while I rubbed her back and sang an a capella version of "The Diarrhea Song" in my prettiest voice. Actually, it didn't end there. There was another whole chapter. At one point she took her tiny man-hands and pinched my nipple so hard that I yelped. Anyway.
I wrapped prezzies.
I cleaned the kitchen.
I put away a floor's worth of plastic thisses and stuffed thats.
I found someone to take on mounds of slightly used baby goods. Victory.
Speaking of prezzies: Last week at Baby School a mom told everyone that her birthday is coming up on Thursday and that she is going to be, wince, 28. Chuck announced that his birthday is Friday.
"He's going to be 29," I told the roomful of ladies.
Then he and I cackled.
"I'm going to be 42," he told the Birthday Mom.
"Let me tell you all a little something about Advanced Maternal Age," I began.
At that point the instructor cut me off. I don't think she wanted us to scare anyone. But not before the Birthday Mom told Chuck that her dad was 45.
Meanwhile, I'm writing a tome about why being Advanced Maternal Age has its benefits. So get ready to be convinced to dust off those eggs, ladies.**
* No fooling. I really did cry when I read "The Beast." I've never been so mad at Jodi in my life. You'll know what I'm talking about when you read her novel.
**I'm not really doing this.
The "It's (fill in the blank day) and I'm Boring" series is something Jodi and I do to pay homage to the beauty of old-school blogging. Diggit.