Monday, May 08, 2017
Saturday, February 11, 2017
In summary, I have been very busy getting stupider. I just caught up on a couple of old blog friends from my blogroll there. Damn, I miss you all, and the too-short blogging heyday. That was a good run.
Miss Thang is seven. SEVEN. Fuck me, that went fast. (Well, the first year didn't. The first year was slow as fuck, what with all the colic and reflux and INABILITY TO SLEEP.) Fortunately, I adore her with the core of my being, even while I annoy the very core of her being. She is going to be an excellent teenager. I am upping my wine game even as we speak. (Falsehoods. I suck at drinking these days. BUT I HAVE AMBITIONS TO IMPROVE.) Point is, Miss Thang is fabulous, smart, savvy, highly sensitive, and kind.
Cupcake is about to be three. She is a pile of cuteness, rolled into a ball of skeelz. She is competent, and competent at kindly manipulating everyone to her will. She says it all with a sweet smile, and a bat of her unfairly long lashes, and then she's like, "Please can you get my water?" referring to the bottle that's LITERALLY touching her toe while you are in the process of cleaning up cat pee upstairs, wearing nothing but a towel, because why would you ever get to finish a shower peacefully?
I still don't get enough sleep, and it is still the bane of my existence. I mostly enjoy being a stay-at-home mom, and while it's a lot of work, it's also a lot more trips to the farm than I ever took as a non-kid-having adult, and you know, I love the farm. They have goats there. (That's still a thing! So, you know. Continuity! Plus, I don't really think you have to have an exceptional IQ for goat herding.)
The Funasaurus is pulling a weird Benjamin Button thing, lost a bunch of weight and runs a 5K once a week, and works out other days, started wearing nice clothes made this decade, and looks hot AF. Which is great for me. I am on the regular trajectory with time, and body-after-babies, and so maybe I occasionally feel a little intimidated, but mostly I am enjoying having a hot husband, and occasionally make him take me out on a date into the real world where he converses quite smoothly, what with it being the world he works in, while I attempt to totter around in shoes that are not fuzzy slipper boots, and wear non yoga-pants and talk about not-poop things. (Poop's still a thing, too.)
All that to say, I still don't have much to say. But I am going to write about it more.