Tales from La La Land

When I was pregnant with Harper (and had absolutely zero clue what the fuck was coming my way), I was all, “I’m totally going to be a hot mom who is basically un-phased by snot, poop and Cheerios.” I’m not kidding when I say my current life mission is to NOT have my life taken over by Cheerios. They symbolize the complete and total loss of pre-child life. Like, seriously, if you let them, Cheerios would fill your house, car, bed, bath tub, hair and towels.

But, of course, being a normal 20-month old, Harper loves Cheerios (Chee-O). It’s one of the words, along with chocolate (shadda), cookie (titty), treat (tweet), milk (muk), paci and MINE, that she has perfected. Of course being an anal bitch, I’m still determined to conquer Cheerios so I spend half my life picking them up off the floor and vacuuming them out of the car seat and telling Harper that Sanch does not like Cheerios. And then the other day, I pulled out a beach towel, and low and behold there was a year-old Cheerio crusted onto the towel.

I wept a little inside.

I’m totally not winning this game.

When you spend half your time picking up food or changing diapers or searching the Internet for the best chemical to remove the smell of puke, you simply aren’t left with tons of time to be the “hot mom” you always dreamed you’d be. When you add being almost 6 months pregnant into the mix, looking in the mirror at your super hot body and dark eye circles contradicts everything you visualize in your mind.

And you know what happens when you have a mid-pregnancy/raising a toddler at the same time crisis?

THIS:

I went to get my hair done, and I somehow came back with red streaks. Clearly, I am losing my mind if I thought red streaks = hot.

I just needed something.

Harper is my life. She kills me with how cute she is. Every phase we go through requires time and attention. We are currently in the transition phase from crib to bed. It takes no fewer than 1.5 hours for her to finally go to sleep. She loves the fact that she can get out of bed on her own. She gets up, knocks on her door and says, “Mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama” until someone comes to get her. We get her, put her back to bed, read Good Night Moon for the 600th time, sing twinkle twinkle, kiss Mickey, hug Minnie, tickle Mimi and hug Harper. This routine happens over and over and over until Harper finally gives in.

It. Is. Exhausting. And, even though it’s only 8 p.m. on a Friday when she falls asleep, and I technically could go for a jog or paint my nails to look pretty, I prefer to lay on the couch and eat Pretzel M&Ms while watching Real Housewives until I pass out at 8:45 p.m.

HOT. MAMA. HOT. HOT. HOT.

But then I look at her sleeping in her big girl bed and I feel like I want a gold star. I feel like Laef and I are winning. Like despite the fact that he’s gone completely bald and is already stressing about having two girls, which means one thing, and one thing only to him – TWO WEDDINGS – we’re doing this.

Despite the fact that my hair is completely fucked up and I’m trying to squeeze into non-maternity clothes for as long as possible so that Harper can go to gym class and swim lessons, we are pretty much winning this game.

Yes, on most days my feet and hands are totally sweaty (yay Pregnancy!), I’m out of breath from walking to the bathroom (double Yay pregnancy!), and I eat Tums for breakfast (HIP HIP HOORAY Pregnancy!).

BUT Harper sleeps in a bed!

And she’s so cute!

Aside from the occasional baby spit-up and two instances of projectile vomit when Harper was an infant, we have been super, super lucky in the puke department. I hate to even type that sentence because I’ve probably just assured some kind puke jinx.

But, I’m pretty sure this past Sunday night/Monday morning was our inauguration into for-real parenting. Like, the days of Harper’s bedroom smelling like freshly-bathed toddler and baby powder could be over. The days of our living room smelling like Cinnamon Yankee Candle and homemade pot roast  grilled cheese sandwiches could be done.

We hung out with some friends on Sunday evening. Harper went to sleep like normal when we got home. Then she woke up at midnight. As usual, Laef and I looked at each other, and rolled back over. I know what you’re thinking, that we are terrible people, but she normally puts herself back to sleep within 5 minutes. On this particular evening, however, 5 minutes became 15, and it was evident that something was amiss. Laef got up to check, came back and said, “She threw up. I need your help.”

The way he presented that statement, as if to say, “She peed her diaper, no big deal”, did not properly prepare me for what I was about to walk into.

I will spare you the details (there might have been whole blueberries stuck to Mickey), but we stripped the bed, changed her pajamas, threw everything in a plastic garbage bag. Her hair had barf in it. Her hands and face had barf. All of her stuffed animals were victims. There are simply zero words to describe the smell. Did I mention blueberries? I will NEVER eat blueberries in my life again.

I forgot to spare the details. Sorry.

Anyway, we cleaned her up, put new sheets on the bed, and got her into new pajamas. She didn’t have a fever, so we figured she just ate something that upset her stomach and that she would feel better. I rocked her back to sleep, but let me tell you, I was dry-heaving the whole time. Her hair didn’t have that sweet baby smell. Not even close. You never want to be dry-heaving while cuddling your child, but, I guess that’s the reality of parenthood, yo.

We all settled back into bed, and then about 10 minutes later, I heard it. It happened again. We did the whole drill again. And realized we were in for a long night.

She eventually fell asleep for a couple of hours, but by 7 a.m. she no longer wanted to kick it in her crib. I wonder why?

When she woke up, we decided to give her a small bottle of milk because she was hungry, but didn’t really want to eat her normal breakfast.

Milk. Was. A. Bad. Choice.

She immediately threw up all over the living room. When I say all over, that’s what I mean. Everywhere. Because of course we tried to pick her up and get to the bathroom, which did nothing other than assure that there was barf from the living room, to the hallway, to the bathroom. We put her in the bath tub, and she looked up, smiled, and said, “All done.”

So, now we had two garbage bags full of puke covered things.

Laef skipped off to work with nary a wave. I mean, I’m sure he wanted to hang back and bask in the new fragrance of our home, but my woeful eyes didn’t do much to persuade him. I really did not want to be stuck home alone with a projectile-vomitting toddler. I just don’t handle the vom well at all. I had to act quick, so I told Laef that we’d make his lunch and bring it to him at work. (This makes me sound like an awesome wife, but really I figured if I took her to Laef’s work, she could puke there instead.)

Thankfully, the milk incident was the last of the sickness. Harper went about her morning as though nothing had happened. We visited Laef at work, and she ran around playing, blowing kisses to his coworkers, fooling them all.

Later that afternoon when she went down for her nap, I put on my breathing mask, and made my way to the laundry room. I figured if anyone saw me, I could say I had allergies. Luckily no one was in the laundry room, because, let me tell you: THAT MASK WAS BUNK. When I opened the two garbage bags full of vomit-covered items, it was clear: THIS IS THE MASK I NEEDED. I was not prepared for what came out of those trash bags. I tried to throw everything into the washing machine as fast as I could and run away.

Just as I closed the lid to the washing machine, and removed my D-list mask, one of our neighbors rolled in. I don’t know how it came up, but he mentioned in conversation that his wife is pregnant, and the baby is due in May.

I am not sure if my face was the “this is so exciting you are going to love it, babies are amazing, life changing, wonderful things” or “omg, you poor motherfuckers, wait until you smell baby barf it is the worst thing, and I only slept two hours last night, enjoy every second until May see you later, bye!!!!!!!!”, but either way, I totally smiled and said Congratulations, you will love it.

HAHAHAHAHA.

But, seriously, freshly bathed, happy babies, really are THE best. xo

I got my bill for $107 from Hostmonster (the monster that hosts my blog) in December. For a few days I considered shutting it all down, closing up the blog and starting a new hobby. Said hobby being taking a nap.

That’s what being in the first trimester of pregnancy while raising a toddler and working full time will do to you. It will take you into this foggy place where you sleepwalk through the days counting the minutes until the second trimester.

Anyway, I paid the bill knowing that I could never abandon the blog, and that eventually I’d get back to it. After all, there are stories to share, and what is my life without making fun of my husband? And now that Harper is totally a toddler and not a baby, I can start making fun of her too. I mean, she got her first hair cut, and that warrants a blog post in and of itself (mommy is sorry. she has a problem with home hair cuts).

We called her Lloyd for a few weeks, but luckily it grew out OK before she started her new daycare. There is enough anxiety dropping your child off at daycare without being the parent of the kid with fucked up bangs and blue nails. By the way, I don’t choose her nail color. Anyone who has kids knows that they know exactly how to tell you what they want. And for some reason every time she digs through the basket of colors, she always picks out the same blue color. I’ve been trying to tell her that blue nail polish is so 2012, but she don’t care.

She’s learning and saying lots of words, which is exciting and petrifying all at once. My days of fuck are numbered, and I realized this the other day when Laef told me something exciting and I said, “NICE!” and Harper immediately followed with “Nith!”

I was super excited, and then super sad. She can not be the kid with jacked bangs, blue nail polish AND the one that says “fuck yeah!” when she gets her string cheese and goldfish for snack.

So, I’m working on my language. She can’t read yet, so the blog doesn’t count. Fuck yeah!

Now that I’m in week 14 (Sidenote: I am not nearly as diligent with counting the weeks of this pregnancy. I have the correct doctor appointments scheduled at the correct milestone weeks, so I’ll know as I go. I know a few things: I’m due July 5th. If my baby is born on the same day as that Kardashian OR has the same name, I’ll cry. If my baby is born on the same day as Princess Kate, OR has the same name, I can live with that.) I’m feeling much, much better. My marriage somehow survived even though my bitch level was like even higher than usual (“Just another Tuesday” – Laef) and I cried all the time. I knew shit was haywire when I was sobbing while watching an old episode of My So Called Life.

That was the point that I put on my running clothes and made myself get outside and get moving. Running and writing on the blog have always been my outlets.

Here’s to bringing them both back in 2013. And bringing in another family member. And to this little nugget being the cutest, most well-behaved girl at school.

So the other day I was telling someone how I’ve stopped writing on my blog because I’m scared of being attacked by all those perfect mommy types who describe motherhood with words like bliss, euphoria and sunshine.

Don’t get me wrong. Harper has lots of shining moments.

But, sometimes, um, you know, she is a TOTAL DICK. And, sometimes, I am an ASSHOLE of a parent. And, it’s all so confusing when you don’t know what the F you are doing from one day to the next.

Thankfully, Harper has finally started using some of her sign language so we can at least figure out some things. However, she has her signs crossed, and apparently clapping means more, and the sign for more means hungry, but whatever, we have a Morris system, and it works.

I had recently come to a nice point in our mother/first-child relationship where I wasn’t stressing over her every move. Like, I had finally stopped walking behind her to make sure she didn’t fall and break an eye. I had finally let Laef’s mantra – “She’s a toddler now. She’s going to have falls. She’s going to be OK” rule the house. I was comfortable with letting her be a walking, falling, knee-scratched, shin-bruised 14 month old.

Then one morning while we were doing our normal morning routine, there was a loud sound followed by a cry. This was a real cry. Not the bullshit cry Harper does when I tell her that she can’t eat the roll of toilet paper or Sanchez’ food. (Although, those cries do sound like the world is ending). Anyway, the reality was that her chair had fallen over with her strapped into the high chair. She hit her head, and for a few seconds her eyes rolled back in her head and she lost consciousness.

We spent the morning at the ER. There’s no sadder place to be. There are tears and fears. There are what-ifs and hows and whys.

It was a giant relief to learn that Harper was fine. She had a bump on her head. By the time we left the hospital, her and Laef were back to their old ways, happy to be home.

I was fine too. After I drank a bottle of wine in my bed under the covers. I was trying to erase the memory from my brain. Then Laef brought Harper into the bedroom to show me her new daily required attire.

I don’t always laugh at Laef’s jokes, but this helped. It took a couple of days, but the flashbacks eventually faded. Now it’s a story we can tell later.

By the way, when you share a parenting story like that, you get to hear other people’s horror stories.

“My brother ate a piece of acid when he was 1, and he was OK.” – Anon

“My daughter ate a cigarette butt at the playground once.” – Anon

I guess after hearing a few gems from other people, I figured I could get back to the blog.

As Harper approaches her 1-year birthday, a sad reality is dawning on me – she has one friend.

Maybe her daycare peeps are her friends, but because I’m not friends with their mommies or daddies, they aren’t really her friends.

Unfortunately, for Harper I need to be able to hang with the parents if she’s going to be able to hang with the kid.

Call me selfish, but I’m not hanging out with the guy who tells me, “Yeah, she’s in, like, the 150th percentile for height” when talking about his daughter. I’m also not hanging out with the mom who says, “Yeah, we’re looking into preschools, and OH. MAH. GAWD. It’s sooo competitive.”

This is how I feel about even saying the word daycare before a child is ready.

So for the most part, my friends have remained the same, and most of my friends don’t have babies.

Now that Harper is getting older, play dates would be nice. So I’m putting myself out there, and trying to meet some cool parents.

Because it is awkward as fuck scoping people out at the playground and trying to determine if they fit your criteria.

“What about them?”- Me

“Do you see what he is wearing? That’s his playground attire.” – Laef

“Oooh what about them?” – Me

“That’s the lady we met when we were out on a walk with Harper, and made that racist comment about the people who work at Ralphs.” – Laef

“The fuck?” – Me

There we sat on the grass, perusing all the parents, sizing them up as if we were trying to determine if they were hot enough for a foursome, when in reality all we need is to be able to tolerate them (with clothes on) for like an hour each Saturday and Sunday.

There was another couple sitting near us on the grass, and after talking myself up for 5 minutes, I nervously approached.

“How old is your son?”

“He’ll be 1 tomorrow.”

“Aww. Congrats!!!” (in my head: Fuck I hate myself right now. Am I really engaging in this conversation hoping she’ll think I’m cool enough for her, and potentially give me her number at the end of this bullshit conversation?)

We chatted a little more, and things were looking promising when the Dad said that his 3 year old is way cooler than his 1 year old, and that basically being a parent to a person under the age of 1 sucks, and anyone who says it’s bliss is a liar.

And then the mom got up, and walked to their stroller. A few minutes later the 3-year old came over and said, “Dad, we’re leaving.”

That is totally the parental version of “She’s Just Not That Into You.” Dumped by a 3-year-old.

And so the journey will continue, and I will approach random strangers in the produce aisle hoping to get lucky.

10 Months Old

Sometimes I think about how much money I would spend for free time.

When we were in Maui, Laef had Thanksgiving Day completely off. Just knowing that I’d have an extra set of hands to help made me beyond excited. And then Laef agreed to watch Harper for 1 hour so I could go to the pool. ALL BY MYSELF.

Then of course something happened with work, and he got called away seconds before I was to escape. I’m not kidding, I almost went Harper on his ass. I had to fight back a serious meltdown. I could taste that one hour, and it tasted like a Pina Coloda spiked with Banana Boat SPF 4.

In the end, he didn’t have to be gone very long, and when he came back I went to the pool.

And let’s be honest, I totally missed them both after 30 minutes. But since finding an hour seems impossible in real life, I forced myself to order another Corona and tough it out. It was so hard. Times were tough.

So, anyway, we came home from Hawaii on Friday. Laef had to work all day Saturday and Sunday. When he got home Sunday evening I handed Harper to him so that I could do a few things.

Laef: “OK, well, I need to poop first.”

Me: Side eye. “OK. I guess you can poop.”

10 minutes later I realize I am still on Harper duty.

Me: “Um, this is NOT one of those poops. This is not a “read the entire Week cover to cover poops.”

Laef: “What?”

Me” “NOW. If I can’t take a shower longer that 4 minutes, you certainly can NOT poop and enjoy a magazine for 10 minutes areyoufuckingkiddingme? Do you want me to cut you?”

I think it was at that very minute that Laef finally realized how valuable time is.

He was about as excited to sit on the toilet as I was to sit by the pool.

Because I work at a school, I figured the title was appropriate. Plus, I totally picked out my outfit last night, woke up before my alarm went off out of pure excitement, and I totally carry a back pack to work now.

It is so hard to describe all the feelings I have today. Harper has been in day care since Tuesday, but I stayed home her first two days so that no one would see my cry. Also, so I could go to the pool, get a manicure, clean the house, do laundry, and go grocery shopping.

On one hand, I am super excited to see people. Real live people who are taller than 21-inches. People who I can talk to about important things like what in the hell happened to Ali Lohan’s face. Not that I don’t love my conversations with Harper, but one can only assess poop and talk about how the penguin’s wings don’t help him fly because he plays in the water, not the sky.

Honestly, it came down to this: Me getting extremely excited that Harper could start mimicking my fart noises.

It is time to go back to work.

It is time to talk about other things. I often wondered if having a baby is what it feels like to be famous. Laef and I would get stopped a lot when we’d be out on walks with her. People want to ask all kinds of questions or tell you the stories of their baby. Or ask how much sleep you’re getting. Or what is her name. It’s hard to get from point A to point B without lots of baby talk. Which, is fine, until the woman at Bloomingdales told us that Harper was too young to be out in public, and that in her culture they don’t take babies out until they are 3 months old because they don’t want the spirits to get them.

This is a true story.

As is the story of the woman we met at Big 5 in Santa Monica who told us that if we have a boy next time we should seriously consider NOT having him circumsised. “My husband feels like he was amputated. It’s a form of amputation.”

Run. Away.

We also met a woman who stopped us to tell us how much she wanted a baby, but she is 40 and single, and her dog is her baby. She then showed us the “barrette that is for actual little girls” in the dogs hair, and told us that the dog has its own bedroom complete with children’s furniture. We were trying to abort the mission when she told us that she is a psychic and to stand there quiet (on the corner of San Vicente and Montana in Brentwood) so she could “see” if we were going to have a boy with our next baby.

So, there we stood looking at woman with her eyes closed in the middle of a busy intersection trying to tell us the fate of our next baby. We thought about running away and claiming we were just playing hide-n-seek if we got caught, but we figured we didn’t have much else to do so we’d see what she said. “I’m not seeing a boy.”

We met lots and lots of baby people with all kinds of stories. I was able to enjoy an entire summer with Harper. I was able to find out if the moms I see pushing strollers in the morning on my way to work had the life I wanted. I learned that those walks are often out of necessity, and sometimes not by choice. Tammy Taylor walked 5 miles in the blazing Texas heat on an episode of Friday Night Lights and people thought she was crazy. “Gotta keep the baby moving,” she said.

And, it’s true.

We spent so many days and nights walking Harper around just to keep her happy.

She is 12 weeks old today.

And she is a happy, happy baby.

Which makes  me proud and happy.

Now it’s time to work so that we can pay for her daycare, which might as well be called college because it costs almost as much.

There is one thing people who have been through the baby-raising stage of life will always tell you: It gets better.

I totally wanted to make a youtube video like this one, except with people like Angelina Jolie, Jennifer Garner, Pink, and Gwen Stefani telling me “It Gets Better”. But those bitches have a lot of money, so they probably have nannies. I would totally have a nanny if we could afford it. Like someone who is on nighttime duty.

But, anyway, I do believe it gets better. Then I saw a 2-year-old in Ralphs this morning LOSE HIS FUCKING MIND over gum. (Dude. That was totally me when I was little. And, by little I mean 9, and acting like a 2 -year-old STILL because we couldn’t get Capri Sun). To be fair to this kid, gum is like a really, really big deal when you are little. I don’t think there was anything I wanted more in life than a pack of gum when I was between the ages of 3-37.

While our lives have gotten easier in many ways, and we have managed to get on a routine, I am wondering if we will get better as parents.

Because we do some shit sometimes that I am thankful no one saw. For example, about 2 weeks ago, Laef was giving Harper her bath. He was getting ready to rinse her hair and I told him that I was starting to put some water on her face so that she would begin to get used to it for when we start going to the pool. What I meant was that I let some water slowly drip down her face. What Laef heard was, “Oh, you’re throwing water in her face as though she was being dunked in the pool.” So he threw a glass of water on her face. To his credit, he blew in her face first so she’d take a breath, and not drown.

Well, it didn’t work. She did not likey the water in the face. Mommy had a panic attack, daddy felt like shit, Sanch was like, “Whatever. I’ve been dealing with these two for years. This is just the beginning.”

OK, so she didn’t die, and nothing bad came of it, but Laef and I were like, “God Damn, I can’t believe people let us be in charge of a baby.”

A few days later, I put Harper in the Bjorn and we walked up to some friends house. When we got there, Laef casually pointed out that Harper’s leg was blue. This is because her leg was pinched a little in the Bjorn. But she never cried or anything so I didn’t know. Of course, when you see your baby’s leg blue and devoid of blood, your heart immediately drops to your stomach. We took her out, daddy did whatever you do to get the blood flowing. And we went on our day.

But, seriously. What are we doing???

Then two nights ago we forgot to turn on the monitor after putting Harper to bed. She is a saint when it comes bed time, and is down for the count by 7:45 p.m. We don’t usually hear from her until 6:30 a.m. But on the night we forgot to turn on the monitor, Laef had Tosh.0 on at a 43 volume and I was in the kitchen making dinner. And all of a sudden we heard Harper screaming. We go in and get her, and it seems as though she’s been crying for a bit because her face is very red and she has lots of tears.

Ugh. Nothing will kick you in the stomach harder than that.

So, yeah. We are still figuring this whole parenting thing out. And she has her ways of getting back at us: Sneezing with her diaper off, which leads to a rocket of poop flying all over the bedroom. Or pissing on me the minute I take her diaper off for bath time. Or throwing up on me right when I put on a fresh shirt.

I guess we’re all getting better at one-upping each other.

Today I took you to daycare for a trial run before you start full time next week.

I would be lying to you if I didn’t say that last week I was counting the days until today. Don’t get me wrong, we’ve had a great summer, but I was looking forward to having one day all by myself.

Then I woke up this morning with a pit in my stomach. Everything we’ve done for the past 2 months (including your epic meltdowns over … well, I’m not even sure sometimes what you’re crying about to be honest) whether hard or fun, we’ve done together. Some days you are in a better mood than other days, but just having you there while I’m cooking dinner or taking a nap or sneaking onto Facebook before you realize I have turned my attention away, has become a part of my life.

I’ve learned to live my life with you in it. I’ve learned how to do almost everything one-handed. I’ve learned to eat cereal and drink coffee in under 2 minutes. I’ve learned every street around Brentwood as you really, really like taking walks. I’ve learned that you prefer to take walks in the Bjorn so you can be close to someone and see everything there is to see. I have learned that we’ve got exactly 50 minutes in the stroller before you get really pissed. I’ve learned that sometimes when you cry really hard it’s because mommy forgot to burp you and you need to let out a man-sized belch. I’ve learned that you will nap for exactly 30 minutes 4 times a day, and not a minute longer. Therefore I know exactly what I can get done in 30 minutes or less, and Rachel Ray should watch her back because I am thinking of pitching a show about how many things a person can accomplish in 30 minutes or less. And it doesn’t involve EVOO for fucks sake (EAR MUFFS, sweetie).

I’ve learned that no matter how frustrated I get at times, one smile from you can make everything easier. You have the ability to take away all my worries and guilt that I might be doing something wrong.

When I dropped you off today, you started to cry a little and then Noushin (Nou-Nou as the other kids call her) took you and you just gazed at her with big eyes. She has that baby-whisperer thing, I think. Because I’ve never seen you have that look except with me or daddy (and that’s only on a good day). I think you are in good hands.

But I am counting the minutes until you come home and we do bath time and you scream your face off when I take you out of the water to dress you. I never thought I’d look forward to that part of my day.

I miss you, buddy.

XO

Mommy

Fuck.

I really need to go back to work.

Because right now I’m that lady I used to see everyday when I was driving to work. The one dressed in Lululemon from head to toe pushing a ridiculously overpriced stroller jaunting into Coffee Bean before making a quick stop at Whole Foods for a $12 gallon of milk. Then maybe on her way back she pops into Compartes for a selection of $2 truffles that are the size of a nickle. And, if time permits, and the baby is still happy, she might grab a quick Jamba Juice and two videos from RedBox.

(If Laef is reading this, that is totally some other Brentwood mom and not me).

If Laef is not reading this, fuck, that was totally me today.

Here’s the thing. Harper and I have spent the past few weeks walking around Brentwood killing time, being outside, hanging out together. We used to go to CVS  every day and make up shit to buy. Like hangers or something. If we were feeling really brave, we’d go to the post office and buy a book of stamps.

Harmless stuff.

Now I’m just 2 weeks away from going back to work and I can’t even think about it. Because while I am looking forward to being able to eat my lunch with two hands, I can’t even begin to think about not spending my days with Harps. I feel this clock ticking, and every moment I have with her is a memory created. (At least for me anyway).

I am going to miss out on so many hours with her. Even if it’s just watching her lips do funny things while she naps. Or picking lint out of her toes. By the way, how come no one ever talks about how much lint is between a baby’s toes? Or is that just my nasty baby?

OK, so not that Harper knows anything about $2 truffles, but when we’re outside on the perfect August day, it makes me want to do bad things. Things that don’t involve picking lint out of her toes or wiping shit off her neck. Some days I just look at her and say, “Ok, sweetie. We gotta get out of here! Let’s go buy something fun at Lululemon, and then grab some sushi!”

She has no idea what the hell we are doing, but she loves this idea because it means she can suck on the baby bjorn until it’s soaked.  I love the idea because I’ve never been home at 1 p.m. on a random summer day. I’ve only dreamed of being anywhere but at my desk. I’ve done so well until this point in avoiding the pitfalls of lunching with ladies or shopping or buying things I don’t need.

But we’re nearing the end of a long road. It’s been almost one year since I found out I was pregnant. My life changed completely for 9 months. Then it got really real for 6 weeks. The past 3 weeks have been like nothing I’ve ever known. This little peep has totally won me over.

Now I’ve got 2 weeks left before I go back to work and into my real world.

Excuse me if I’m avoiding reality by indulging in expensive chocolate.