Well, our house is finally officially up for sale and that means that maybe, just maybe, I can stop constantly using my time wisely and get back to frittering away life on the computer and come up with some blog posts. While I am glad not to be checking Celebrity Baby blog as frequently as usual, I am sorry that I am missing out on documenting some of the best months of my children's lives. And when I say best, I mean the ones that include finding seventeen pieces of gum in my two-year-old's throw up at the park. That kind of wonderful.
The other night I had a burst of euphoria looking at my sleeping girls next to me in bed. Their poor father was outside working on some interminable exterior project or another and granted, it was ten o'clock, they were both in our bed, having rejected their own, and I had just finishing uttering the words "Now lie down or so help me...," but then they both succumbed to Morpheus' embrace and, in an instant, I was overcome with such a sense of blessing.
That moment of joy was tempered by the low point of the weekend just a few days later. I found myself in the distinctly unenviable position of arbitrating who got to kick Frankie's stripped-off underpants around my parents' backyard. I sat there thinking that this, this right here is what my life has come to. I am saying "You get another thirty seconds" to not one, but TWO people, whose idea of fun it is to play soccer with a pair of dirty underpants. This is truly the nadir.
And those two instances, I think, pretty much sum up the vagaries of motherhood.