I had a cute post planned for today. It was not to be.
This morning I overheard people I know talking about how you shouldn't have kids in your twenties. You know, because you aren't mature enough. And you just want to party. Um, ahem. I can hear you. Also you know me. Also I'm a pretty good mom so far. So obviously I did the mature thing.
Sat in my office, cheeks burning, and drank a margarita.
I jest. But it was that kind of day.
I was pooped on at work. I was peed on as I took Cruz out of the tub.
I'm still in some of those same clothes because for the first time, I feel like I can't keep up with the laundry.
Instead of the pasta from Pioneer Woman that I've been drooling over in my cook's heart, I am cooking a hamburger for dinner. Which is actually a step up from the bowl of cereal I contemplated eating earlier.
I thought I had put my hair up in a high, sexy bun. You know, something that said, I'm so cute I don't even need to try. I looked at myself in the mirror. I look like a Who from Whoville. A Who wearing clothes that may or may not be covered in dirty bath water, spit up and baby urine.
Hey! Look at the time. Are you trying to mosey on out of here or something?
Will I convince you to stay if I tell you that Cruz found his toes today? He can curl himself into a delightful ball of baby. Been rocking back and forth all evening, grabbing onto those pups. I've already called Cirque du Soleil to let them know about my Wonder Boy.
As a parting gift, I leave you with some Chub du Cruz.