- My living room is apocaplyptic. The baby has taken to developing sudden, frantic desires for random, unrelated objects, so strewn about on the floor are the shredded last issue of the New York Review of Books (desperately thrown to him to stop him from shredding the current issue), two nonworking cell phones, various remote controls, one empty bottle of my husband's cologne, one full bottle of my perfume, and a volume of Patricia Highsmith short stories. There are also toys and board books littered everywhere - a squeaky giraffe, Los colores de los animales, a bumpy ball, a dinosaur mask, a rolling ladybug, Good Night New York City. A(nother) new snack container hosts one forlorn, browning chunk of avocado and a spoon stolen from Japan Airlines. The little potty is filled with blocks rather than pee, while the rug is dotted with cloth diapers sopping up pee puddles. (The baby, dead set against being put on the potty, has been squatting here and there all morning, leaking pee while thinking about perhaps a poop. Don't worry: I caught the poop itself in the potty, slick mommy that I am, HA! And look, sneer away while the sneering's good, because when you have a child, you will talk about poop all the time too, becoming yourself a sneering target for any childless person within earshot.) Dead center on the rug is an especially large wet spot, the result of my bizarre notion earlier this morning that the baby was somehow mature enough to handle a mug full of water. The mug itself is now lying on its side in the corner, stuffed with a jingletoy. This scene of insanity is enhanced by a soundtrack of scrofulous top-40 songs; for some reason, our television has a radio setting that is permanently fixed to a scrofulous top-40 station, and the baby loves to turn it on, bobbing his head happily to the scrofulous sounds.
- I only wrote two blog postings in February.
- I have a lot of tests to grade.
- The baby is nearing a quarter of my weight, and I am finding it almost impossible to carry him in a front carry for any extended period of time, and the mechanics of coats makes it nearly impossible to put him in a back carry. Are my babywearing days over? Forever? Or only until Spring, when I can resume with back carries? Or am I too small and is he too heavy for that, too? Does this mean that, from now until the baby can locomote reliably, every single outing will be an exhausting slog, whether with carrier or stroller?
- I want to buy a new skirt and a new pair of jeans and a few copies of Good Night New York City to give to my clients at our postnatal meetings, but I don't have enough money for any of these things.
On the up side:
- I am wearing jeans, having taken off my stretch pants in a panic after realizing that I WAS WEARING STRETCH PANTS.