We're having one of those days. One of those "as fun as a root canal are you sure it's not Monday and are you kidding me it's only noon?" type days. It was set into motion just an hour into the day when A woke up in teething pain at 1am. It continued (for me) long after he returned to sleep, as I laid awake in bed worrying about a ridiculous array of things over which I have no control (an anthrax attack a la the latest episode of Criminal Minds, missing the tight connection on our trip in June that isn't even officially booked yet, why not one single person in Austin wants to come see our aggressively priced and pretty much like new house, if all my teeth will fall out someday, etc.) And on and on it's gone. Poor A's whiny and restless and in pain, refusing even Puffs for lunch after making it clear my homemade mac n cheese was the most disgusting thing he'd ever encountered on the end of his spoon. I was even nice enough to leave the broccoli out of the recipe. No matter, he wasn't having it, a total waste of 35 minutes and a block of organic cheese that probably cost about $45 a pound. Out of Baby Tylenol and in need of medication for my pancake sized canker sore that's making it painful to eat but somehow hasn't stopped me from eating three chocolate chip cookies today, we trudged out to the store. But before I had A fully buckled in, he puked. Not spit up- this was chunky and smelled so rancid that I thought I might puke too. Back out of the seat, back into the house, change of clothes for A, wet wash clothe to wipe down the seat, scrub seat with fussing baby on one hip in the 96 degree garage, buckle the poor kid back into the seat, back out of the driveway. Only then did I realize he'd managed to shoot a bit of the puke onto my shirt. Which I was absolutely not taking the time to go change if we were ever going to actually make it out of the neighborhood for our much needed drugs for our respective ailments. Thank you Jesus for baby wipes, and I sincerely do mean that. As a nice finishing touch, we emerged from the store to find that a bird had shat down the side of my freshly washed vehicle. Roof to door handle.
Considering all this fun and fortune and A's out of whack nap schedule, I decided we weren't going to make today's Gymboree class. Which is probably okay, because this is how impressed Anderson was with last weeks' class:
These were taken shortly before he had a screaming, kicking meltdown during parachute time, causing all the other parents to stare with a mix of disdain and 'thank goodness that's not my kid' relief. Whatever. Save your disdain for the mom showing her boobies at Gymoboree. (Not for feeding purposes.) (See photo #1.) (Unless you're a guy, because then you already noticed.)
Oh, since I'm on a roll here with all my sparkling sunshine, this is what J and I wake up to each morning on our bedroom wall:
The work of a "stager" brought in by our (otherwise very sane, seemingly very capable Realtor). What I failed to realize is that by "staging" she meant "make your bedroom look like an roadside Holiday Inn last updated in 1986". I mean, seriously. Have you ever seen something LESS my style? Gold? Mauve? BIRDS? I think they're going to have to come down. They're giving J nightmares.
And finally, to cap this hodge podge of a Thursday posting with something actually pretty cute, FakeRalph strikes again.
"Pssst...hey, dude...everything okay? You're awfully quiet. And you don't smell at all like dead bunnies."