On Monday, the boy finally got to ride on a school bus. (I say “finally,” even though he’s only three, because since he really started talking, riding a yellow school bus has been one of the top three things he babbles about.) Though he was excited in the abstract, I expected a screaming tantrum when he saw that his sister and I would not be going to school with him. I mean, I’d told him we wouldn’t about a thousand times in the week prior to his stepping onto the bus, but he’s three, and I wasn’t sure he’d been listening. Continue reading “Back to Preschool”
My baby is due in twenty-nine days. That means:
I am the size of a manatee and keep getting bigger.
My son is doing all he can to take advantage of me as I waddle around with a child’s feet wedged into my lungs, too tired to take away the granola bar he just stole off the counter or find an alternate activity when he wants to watch yet another episode of Daniel Tiger.
My dog runs through my house with muddy feet every time she comes inside because I can’t catch her to wipe them down.
My husband is getting yelled at almost every day.
All I want to do is eat but everything I eat gives me heartburn. Even water.
Every day I wish the baby would just come already, and then I feel guilty for wishing that because she needs every moment she can get in utero until her due date.
I’m getting ahead on Christmas shopping because I’ll have a newborn for a huge chunk of the holiday season.
I have no problem with businesses decorating early this year, because I figure I’ll probably miss most of the festivities.
Then I feel sorry for myself because being so pregnant means I won’t get to travel for Thanksgiving and no one is coming here, plus I’ll be bleeding and achy and leaking milk through Christmastime, and my son hates Halloween so I missed that, too.
Then I watch Christmas specials though it’s November and my son protests the whole time unless there’s a dog or a truck on the screen.
And, of course, I feel guilty because those partially watched Christmas specials still count as screen time and I’m turning my kid into a TV addict.
In fact, he’s watching me type this and that counts as screen time, too.
So he’s going to grow up to be not a doctor or lawyer or teddy bear salesman, but a zombie.
So I do my best to get him out of the house and active and having fun in the real world, even if it’s raining, even if I feel like a giant slug.
So I cried this morning because I couldn’t get my son’s boots on but he remained calm and we got it done.
So, I am now officially less reasonable than a two-year-old.