Its been a week of firsts, lasts, and a lot of spilled milk; I only cried once.
Josie turned two.
We spent the morning at the zoo, where the sun was shining, and her dinosaur impression roaring. The baby sea lion made her giggle, as did the camel. James, generously and loudly, shared his knowledge that a “two hump camel makes a two hump poop,” thanks to books about potty training. Both James and Josie almost got kicked by a goat, and I was forced by the birthday girl to look at snakes and spiders. We had pizza and birthday cake at the playground, and Josie revelled in free access to the several half full water bottles the adults left within reach and un-capped. Happy Birthday, baby girl.
Rita ate hummus.
As I tried to put the groceries away within 5 minutes, I called on Josie for assistance. Sometimes (always) new two year olds drop things. Rita was thankful.
Josie figured out the microwave.
I noticed Josie’s preoccupation with her milk straw. It seemed like the perfect time to put Rita down for a nap and use the bathroom without a little one unrolling all of the toilet paper. It actually wasn’t a good time to do any of that. As I walked down the steps, I heard the beeping, and cursed the neat toilet paper roll. She stood on the chair, plastic toy spatula in one hand, the entire contents of the brand new bag of tortillas now covered in milk and half eaten in the other. “Cook,” she said. “With sauce,” the explanation continued as she pointed to the milk. I re-introduced her to the toy kitchen she received for her first birthday, and instead of blaming myself for being a bad chef and wondering why she thinks the microwave is a place for cooking and making sauce out of milk, I realized that the beeping microwave is a much better alternative to the gas stove.
I went to Marshalls with the girls while James was at school. I realized, quickly, that I was going to be able to buy nothing, because there is very little room in a shopping cart when two children are in it. I perused, and played imaginary retail therapy where I made a list of things in my head that would be nice to have and why it would be nice to have them. Interestingly, it was relatively effective for my psyche, and, it saved a lot of money. Maybe she was aided by Josie’s love of dinosaurs, or maybe imaginary retail therapy just doesn’t satisfy her need to repeatedly fold tiny pieces of paper into prehistoric origami figures. Whatever her reason, I found the box tucked away neatly in her car seat when I got home. I’m positive I did not pay for it, and even more positive that origami is a big fat frustrating waste of my time, but, thanks to Rita, not my money.
Rita is running on all fours.
Her crawl became a lot more serious this week. She’s got places to be, and hummus to eat.
I took Rita out of her baby carrier for preschool pickup.
I thought maybe it would be easier for my bicep, and I thought it was time for Rita to finally get out of that thing. It is, in fact, much harder to chase small, but, fast people in a parking lot with a still-sort-of- wobbly baby in my arms, and I’m sorry Rita, but you need to stay in it a little longer.
I left the candy unattended and within reach.
I couldn’t cope with knowing how many M&M’s she had managed to eat on the third shelf in the pantry in the dark and by herself in the time it took me to wipe his bum, so I decided not to look into the bag to discover its level of emptiness.
I kept talking on the phone when I knew it was too quiet.
Next time I’m tempted to continue talking to my sister who lives next door, on the phone, instead of checking on the kid who is being just a bit too quiet in the bathroom, I’ll remember that my plumbing bill is worth more than the conversation I’m having with the person I see most in my life.
I went upstairs to pee by myself because all of the toilets are broken downstairs.
See “Josie figured out the microwave” and “I kept talking when I knew it was too quiet.
I forgot to cut Josie’s nails.
Exhibit A: James’ very scratched and bloody arm. Three carseats across is a battle for everyone, and Josie has to defend herself, somehow.
I ran a half-marathon without training.
No one bought my bib, and I figured it couldn’t be worse than labor or crashing my bike on mile 3 of 25 during a very flat triathlon course. I was right, it was not worse, but next time, I’m training.
I didn’t immediately clean up the breakfast bowls.
See “a lot of spilled milk.”
Definitely not the last time:
I called Maria crying asking her to tell me that three- three and under is the hardest age combination there is. She said no such thing, but she did make me feel better.
The kids ran away from me in the parking lot.
An old man smiled at me and said “looks like you have your hands full.”
An old woman at the grocery store called Rita a “he” even when she was in the same exact dress at Josie.
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