August 13, 2007
I wrote this sign as a reminder for the window guys, who are here today to finally install our long-awaited new and non-crap windows, but I'm finding it extremely helpful for myself, as I keep walking into the bathroom, noticing the sign and making a panicked run up the stairs, cursing the terrible inconvenience of not being able to use the toilet closest to my body at all times, and finally remembering how I used to live with just one toilet that was on a different floor about 99% of the time, even while pregnant, and I wonder: where the fuck was my medal?
In other news, did I mention the new windows? The team descended on our house about an hour ago and I am surrounded by a literal symphony of destruction as they smash and destroy the old (chipped peeling drafty non-stay-upping) windows and there is no better sound in the world. I'm tempted to ask them to leave one behind for me to take a baseball bat to, Office-Space style, in the backyard.
Jason and I had a little anniversary thing last week -- nine damn years, he's been putting up with my nonsense -- so we celebrated this weekend by pawning Noah off on the in-laws and heading downtown to a hotel. I believe there was supposed to be some romantic connotation to that, but all I could focus on was I GET TO SLEEP IN! I GET TO SLEEP IN!
Jason had champagne waiting in our room to set the mood, while I blew past it and collected every extra decorative pillow in the room to block the half-inch of natural light that could potentially poke through the bottom of the curtains and wake us up in the morning. Jason awoke in tomb-like pitch-blackness around, oh, 11 am, while I woke up every hour on the hour from 3 am on because nobody tells you that you are physically unable to sleep through the night after giving birth because somewhere, out there, your child might need you to change his pants or get his foot unstuck from the crib slats or check to make sure he's still breathing.
After checkout we went over to visit some friends in the hospital who just had a baby, and I held that tiny squeaky little boy for as long as I could, nuzzling his delicious little head and assuring my friend that seriously, this is the best thing ever and you are going to have so much fun.
I didn't tell her about the sleep thing though. What's the point? She'll learn and then one day withhold that very information from another friend who is debating having children, and instead tell her that this is the best thing ever and she is going to have so much fun, and that's how the human race has existed all these years.
On Friday Noah started calling things HOT, complete with a jazz-hand-like STOP! gesture and a slobbery attempt at blowing. The sun poking through the (crappy crappy soon-to-be-gone) windows is HOT. His morning toaster waffle is HOT. My coffee cup is HOT. If I ask him to find something HOT in Goodnight Moon he immediately points at the fireplace.
One of his little friends has been saying HOT for months now, and I know I've read about other people's toddlers doing the same thing.
But I can't help it. Noah says HOT. Our first non-noun. Our first concept, our first adjective and our first word without the "a" sound in front of it.
I'm so proud of him. And it's the best thing ever.