So I got a couple emails from readers during my little blogging vacation, and they all started with the same thing: I'm sure you're getting millions of emails like this, but...
And I wrote back to say thank you, but actually! I have gotten three! And yours is four! So, thank you, four people! You are the real heroes.
And then I got a little paranoid. I always get so many emails! Where are all my emails? Obviously I wasn't expecting millions of emails from people begging me to come back! come back! but...a couple, maybe? Would be nice?
But no, y'all called my bluff on the whole "unplugging from the Internet to spend quality time with my child, reconnecting with the simple joys of blowing dandelion seeds across a grassy field while the sunset bathes us in an amber 70s-type glow" thing. So I was forced to step away from the computer and go to Gymboree simply because I had no emails to read and had already beaten all the secret levels of Diner Dash. Damn it!
Then yesterday I realized that I'd accidentally removed my email address from my about page, in a breathtaking misuse of shift-down-arrow action, when all I'd meant to delete was my PO Box. Oh, and you know WHY I needed to delete my PO Box?
Hint: It's totally not because I no longer live two blocks from that post office, but because EVEN THOUGH I LIVED TWO BLOCKS FROM THAT POST OFFICE, I never remembered to go check the damn box and missed the notice informing me that I needed to renew the rental agreement. I realized this the last time I went to collect my mail* and discovered that the lock had been changed. I didn't pay the bill, so now I no longer have a PO Box, and somebody else out there may be in possession of my mail, wondering who the hell "amalah.com" or "CURRENT ONLINE BUSINESS OWNER" is and why nobody sends it naked pictures.** Because what kind of lame ass web site doesn't have naked pictures?
And now this is two entries in a row that allude to the Paris Hilton's storage unit scandal without even trying.
* I use the term "my mail" very loosely, as the vast majority of stuff
I received was for the box's previous renter, and God, that was
depressing, because it was all AARP membership renewal reminders and
funeral home brochures.
** I sincerely hope none of y'all sent naked pictures to my PO Box.
Speaking of Gymboree (no, really, I did mention it. this is a completely appropriate seque!) Noah started Level 4 (16 - 22 months) this week. I certainly didn't think this would be a big deal, although I was relieved to get away from the Bilingual Sign Language Genius Child's mother (I actually find BSLGChild to be adorable and delightful, but I want to throttle her mother on a weekly basis. THROT. TULE.).
BSLGChild moved up to Level 4 a couple weeks ago (OF COURSE) and I found out they were doing a Thursday class. So my friend Julie and I decided to preview a Wednesday class.
I pulled into the parking garage and noticed a mother and her son walking away from their car. The kid was holding her hand and walking.
Hmm, I thought.
As I was waiting for the elevator a father and his daughter walked up. And the little girl went over and pushed the elevator button. "Up!" she said.
Shit, I thought.
I waited outside Gymboree for Julie and hissed that THIS WAS WRONG. THIS WAS NOT THE CLASS FOR US. These are kids! Human kids! We still have babies! Babies who cannot walk across parking lots and don't know the up button from the ashtray and these kids DO NOT HAVE FAT BELLIES.
We went inside anyway. "Parachute!" said one little boy.
"Oh, fuck no." said Julie.
Noah freaking LOVED the class. He's been refusing to participate in any of the activities for a few weeks now, but Wednesday? With the big kids? Oh my hell, I could barely get him to wait his turn. He climbed and dropped balls on cue and went down slides and got stepped on by big boys and loved every minute of it. I looked at all those big boys and tried to wrap my mind around the fact that I will have one of those soon, even without baby signs and foreign language classes and tiny tot quantum mechanics or whatever the hell. And I kind of understand why Jason refuses to cut Noah's hair. ("It's his ORIGINAL HAIR," he says, like we're going to sell him on eBay as a NEW IN BOX BABY! Mint condition with original hair! Certificate of authenticity included!)
It's just all happening so goddamned fast.
Julie's son is about a month too young for the class. I sadly told her that we'd have to arrange more non-Gymboree playdates, because clearly, it was time for Noah to move up.
She nodded, looking a little nostalgic herself. Then she called me a whore and made the sign for duck.
(One of our very first Gymboree classes, back when Noah was fuzzy-haired and chubby-wristed.)
(Not pictured: Bilingual Sign Language Genius Child's Mother, because I cropped her ass out. Get off my fucking parachute, bitch.)