First, how precious is my little nephew? I will meet him in less than two weeks, and though getting out of town for my longest-ever trip away from the boys feels both Herculean and vaguely unsettling, this nugget is waiting for me on the other side.
Friends and the interwebs
Yesterday, I was at school picking the boys up when I saw a friend, P. Each time we run into each other, I leave feeling like I wish I knew her better. She is funny and sweet, but the five children we have between us never cross paths due to different grades, activities and the like. Last year, Oliver became fixated on P's youngest son's winter hat because it had a pull-cord which moved the top. Or something like that. I was hopeful the hat-covet would facilitate coffee or a playdate, and it nearly did. But then... winter. And eleven snow days or some such nonsense.
Anyway, yesterday we ended up having another hilarious conversation -the kind after which you think, "Just how did we get there?"- about online shopping for fashionable things, and I admitted that perusing Gilt after a glass of wine was a dangerous vice of mine and thank god for returns.
P replied, "Oh, when I broke my leg last year, I shopped while on Vicodin. A few days into things, a pair of thigh-high, brown velour stockings arrived at my house."
"What on earth would you do with those?" I inquired.
"I don't know, but what really bothered me was that I'd not bought them in black."
I snorted. Fair enough.
We parted ways, laughing and probably newly jazzed about all that awaited us out there on the interwebs, and I felt grateful for carpool because we do see each other there.
The 'always a bummer' category
I finally got dressed earlier this evening, because I'd been in exercise clothes all day, needed to take J somewhere and really wanted to experience real clothes on this fine Wednesday. You can tell that fall is hanging on by a thread. Winter is a'comin' and I wanted to take advantage of a coatless afternoon. When we returned home, I hurried upstairs to change (because really, once home, if you don't change out of nice clothes, all you're really doing is taking bets with whether you'll go to the dry cleaner tomorrow or the next day), slipped one silver flat off, returned it to its spot, slipped the other one off and wondered, "Hmm, why is that slimy?"
People, dog poo is why. Dog poo. I feel that moms should be exempt from stepping in dog poo and then putting their hand directly in it.
Speaking of moms and exemptions, this. Yesterday, I had a babysitter for a couple hours so went out to AROMO to get some work done. It had not been the easiest of afternoons so I went out there with hot tea, glee and my computer. I deserve this space. I deserve for it to be quiet. I do deserve solitude at times. And what happened within the hour? One of my sons came outside, stood behind AROMO and repeatedly elbowed the very wall at which I sat. I demanded to know just what he was doing, and he replied, "I want to be by myself."
Puh-lease. If being alone is what he wanted, try his room or at least the other side of the yard.
Not twenty minutes later, number 2 is outside, rustling around AROMO and then I hear a familiar sounding whizz. Yes, he is peeing behind or against MY WALL. For a very long time might I add.
"What are you doing?"
"This is one of our pee spots, Mom."