No, seriously. That was my attempt at an entry yesterday. I sat down with the best of intentions and at least seven different topics rattling around in between and I did that dramatic arm-stretch-finger-wiggling thing and typed two whole letters. The? That? They? I don't even remember.
Despite officially taking his first tentative steps a couple months ago, Ezra -- driven by the urge to either keep up with Noah or avoid getting trampled by him -- still mostly crawled everywhere. Until, like, Monday. Now he really and truly walks, FrankenThriller-style, all over the place, shrieking gleefully at the top of his lungs. LOOK AT ME, he says, HOT SHIT COMING THROUGH.*
**Also, yeah, that's our recalled Maclaren lurking ominously in the background of those photos, still waiting for the replacement hinge cover doohickey things. I told Ezra if he touches the Christmas tree the stroller gets to eat his fingers.***
***OH, that wasn't funny at all, I know. And yet I am leaving it there, because I am a horrible person.
Since I spent my actual birthday in the car, in traffic, coming home from Pennsylvania, Jason decreed Tuesday to be my Birthday Celebration Day and made me a couple spa appointments (using a dusty old gift card I've had since last Mother's Day, such is the force of my procrastination). The highlight of this outing was me mistyping my locker code before closing it, a mistake I did not discover until I was done and relaxed and oily and awkwardly crouched in a too-big robe, cursing the tiniest keypad you've ever seen, trying every likely typo I could think of, while other women attempted to help. "DID YOU HIT THE C BUTTON? WHAT ABOUT THE ONE WITH THE LITTLE KEY ON IT? TRY THE NUMBERS NEXT TO THE NUMBERS YOU THOUGHT YOU TYPED. SEE, THAT'S WHY I JUST USE 1-2-3-4 FOR EVERYTHING NOW."
And as if the luxury of a massage and facial weren't enough, afterward I indulged in the ultimate in personal pampering: I did not go straight home, but instead went out for lunch and shopping all by myself. Which, before the sans-offspring among us get too excited, really just meant a burrito bowl at Chipotle followed by some halfhearted browsing of the clearance racks at Banana Republic and getting upsold on my moisturizer at Sephora because "this one has anti-aging benefits!"
But still. No stroller. No diaper bag. No looking down at your only half-finished stone cold burrito bowl because you've just spent 20 minutes keeping your toddler's hands out of the sour cream and imploring your preschooler to just eat the tortilla shell already, you PROMISE that brown part is just part of it and not a microscopic trace of salsa or black beans okay fine I'll just tear it off completely there ARE YOU HAPPY NOW. No pleading in the dressing room to no stay here stay here don't touch that don't crawl there, oh Jesus, I'm sorry, Very Shocked Lady In The Stall Next To Us Of Who Probably Didn't Need My Son's Input On Those Pants.
And yet. No kids. No babies. Another mom apologizes for her screeching two-year-old in line at The Gap and I immediately rush to over-explain that Oh! I understand! I have been there! I am like you! One of us! I just don't have them with me right now, but hey! This stain on my jeans? Totally very likely barf. God, I miss those little mutants.