One of my co-workers has a sister who was in labor this morning. She came to the office announcing the imminent baby, periodically checking her phone for news. I smiled. Eight years ago today, I was at the hospital laboring myself.
A couple of nights ago, I got into bed, closed my eyes, and cuddled up next to my husband... who had eight more legs than I was expecting.
On Saturday, I was putting my hair up for ballet class when my seven-year old walked into the bathroom.
"You look very pretty in that suit you're wearing, Mommy. Are you going to a party?"
"Thank you, sweetie, but no, I'm going to ballet class."
I paused for a second to consider how my son might have gotten the idea that a leotard and tights constituted appropriate evening attire. "And also, it's possible that we're reading too many superhero comics."
"We're pretty good team," is what goes through my head. Weird thought to occur at 2 a.m. while you and your husband are managing a vomiting child, but perhaps every thought is weird at 2 a.m.
I hadn't been sleeping well that night. Neither of us had, I think, though there were no obvious outward signs of trouble brewing in the next room. I got up to use the bathroom and came back to find the light on in the kiddo's room. I altered course and found my husband speaking soothing words and holding a bowl for a puking child.
Rarely a dull moment around here.
My son decided fairly early this year that he was going to be a superhero of his own description for Halloween. That description itself continued to evolve/mutate with super speed, along with the various accoutrements which spanned from crowns to dragon tails to super symbols that "look like fire in the shape of bacon" (direct quote, that), but the idea itself stuck true.
It was late by the time we all trickled into the house this evening. With a take-and-bake pizza sitting in the oven and a text from my Dad about the start of the first A's playoff game, I hunted out the remote in search of the proper station.
"I'm not sure we'll get it here," Shawn calls from the kitchen. "Not on any TV station we get anyway."
He was right. Apparently the Oakland Athletics don't rate out here in the greater Sac-of-Tomatoes area.
Meanwhile, my six-year-old is listening to this exchange. "What's a TV station?"
"Mom, do you want to play with me?"
"What are we playing?"
"Legend of Zelda."
"On the computer or real life?"
"Alright." I turn around. The kid's wearing a robin hood hat and brandishing a wooden sword. "So, you would be Link then?"
"Yes, and you're Princess Zelda."
"Good. Where's my sword?"
Big sigh. "You're the princess. The princess doesn't have a sword."
"Yes, well, Mommy is not that kind of princess. Where's my sword?"
Getting ready to board the plane. My son is plastered to the window at the gate watching the planes taxi up and down. It's his first flight. I wasn't too much older than him when I was flying by myself. Short trips off to see a cousin on the other side of the state. I can't imagine putting this kid on a plane by himself. Is that because to a mother a child seems way smaller than she ever was? Or is it because the world has moved on?
I've had a lot on my plate lately. (That's an interesting expression, isn't it? I think it's a more apt metaphor to say that I've had a whole lot of people standing around with empty plates asking me to make them something to eat. And we all know I'm not that creative in the kitchen.)
I'm sitting there with the tutor who is explaining that my kid needs some physical action to help him work out his thought process while he's sitting still. Something repetitive, that he can do without even really thinking about it.
I look down at my fingers twirling themselves around imaginary yarn despite the fact that I've left my knitting in the car.
I have no idea where he gets this from...