Well heavens to Betsy, I think this is the first time I've sat down with five minutes to myself since Thursday. Please note that I have gotten roughly eight hours of sleep total over the past week, which may lead to being totally incomprehensible and also to throwing out exclamatory statements last in vogue a century ago. Let's catch up, shall we?
On Friday, my mom and I took the kids to a local farm to see the animals. Except that it was hotter than hell so we let Mia wander around for a few minutes and then bribed her with a popsicle so we could all go sit in the shade. We soon retreated to Target where my mom allowed Mia to choose any toy she wanted for herself, which is how I came to share my house with a really horrifying animatronic baby doll, since named Polly. (Hey, Firefox spell check doesn't recognize "animatronic." Seriously, spell check. It also wants me to capitalize "popsicle." I think spell check is fucking with me.)
Before we bolted the farm, however, I ran into an old friend who I haven't seen or spoken to in a year or so. It used to be that when a year passed you would catch up by finding out who had changed jobs or gotten a new girlfriend. But not it's more "hey, good to see you, and oh, I spawned again." Weird.
After Target, my mom watched the kids (I know, she's the best) while I went on a lightning round shopping expedition to find a bathing suit for the beach and some clothes for my bottom half that I wasn't too embarrassed to wear in public. And I am nearly impossible to embarrass, especially when it comes to anything to do with fashion because I just don't care, so the fact that I hated leaving the house in anything I owned is just an indication that literally every pair of summery pants or shorts in my possession had large holes, usually concentrated in the ass area.
Shopping is a very different experience after the kids arrive. I used to be very picky, sometimes even leaving something I liked in the store and going back to visit it again wearing different shoes. But on Friday, I just hauled piles of clothes into the fitting room and if I could button it, I bought it. Tried it all on again at home and lots of it is going back, but I ended up with two pairs of shorts and two pairs of capris, and frankly that is more than I need since we all know I will wear the same pair of pants continuously until somebody pukes on them. ("Capris" is also beyond the scope of my spell check. Am beginning to think my spell check needs an intervention.)
I did find a bathing suit. It has a skirt. I am officially unredeemably uncool now, aren't I?
Saturday disappeared into that time-sucking void that opens in the middle of your living room when you reproduce, lots of laundry and a trip to the pool, as I recall.
Then yesterday, my mom took me to see Mamma Mia (the stage show, not the imminent movie) (told you Mom's the best) and left both children in care of my husband for five hours. And nobody died. Nobody was even crying when I got home (I knew the kids would be fine, but half expected to find Chris in tears). It is so much nicer to come home and hear that everything was fine than to hear that Owen screamed for three hours straight. The show was lots of fun, but reawakened the part of me that has always wanted to do that. What? You didn't know that in my heart of hearts I really want to be singing and dancing in front of a couple thousand people? It seems a little silly to still be considering that as a possible career move as a 33 year old mother of two, but there it is.
And huh, yup, it seems that I am even boring myself here, so let's wrap up and I will explain later why there is no Mia Monday today, or last week, or next week, or anymore. Well, here's the short version: my little girl, she is growing up.
And, um, whatever. Kisses.