As I prepare for my first adults-only trip in over a year with my husband, this is the last thing I want to see when I type “Bermuda Weather” into Google:
I don’t know much about weather in the tropics, but I’m pretty sure big white cones and flashing red dots on my computer screens with “warnings” is not indicative of warm, sunshine ahead.
I will brace myself to run for cover if things get bad, and hey, at least I’m not with the kid, right?
Maybe I should have picked Kokomo instead…
Every time my husband goes away on business I revert to my twelve-year-old self. The one where when my parents finally decided it was okay to leave me home alone for the night by myself, my mother decided to phony phone call me pretending she was the maniacal sender of a chain letter I received in the mail (remember the time before email forwards?) Needless to say, when my parents arrived home from their night out to find me cowering on their bed phone in hand, they felt bad for playing their prank, and my fear of staying home alone began.
Unfortunately, now I have to be a role model to a toddler, and I can’t react at every hiss, boom and whirr that I hear around the house.
That’s why last night, against all good reason, when my son woke up with what purportedly was a nightmare, I invited him into bed with me. I know the comfort of a parent’s (s’) bed when you’re scared. Even when it’s the same parents who play practical jokes on their tween. How could I deny my flesh and blood the same solace?
So we crawled into my king-sized bed and it was all I could do to unwrap his hot little body off of mine. Then there was the hand holding, his hand wrapped around my thumb like when he was a newborn. Sweet, yes, but every time I tried to roll over, I felt the sweaty hand searching for mine through the down covers. Which means I had no way of rolling over without contorting my arm into some ridiculous wrestler move.
Clearly I’m not cut out for co-sleeping.
I fell asleep sometime around 2 a.m. to the sounds of small blocked nasal passages snoring like a truck driver. I was awoken at the unholy hour of 5:15 a.m. by a pat on the back and an innocent question, “mommy, is it day?”
But even though I could barely read the DVR to find a good episode of “Wonder Pets” to put on so I could get a few more moments of shut eye, there was something so sweet and reassuring about waking up next to the younger man of my household and know I’m not totally alone in the middle of the night.
To know me and my blog is to know I love fashion. And I haven’t posted about fashion in awhile here, because, well, with all the weight gain and loss, frugalness and the grey of a very long winter, I just wasn’t feeling all that fashionable.
But, alas! Spring is in the air and the frugal ban was lifted in honor of me and Mother’s Day, and well, I did a lot a little shopping.
Heck, people, I AM going to the beach in a foreign country in a couple weeks.
But one of the items I procured was rather practical. A purchase to last me through the swollen feet of August.
FitFlops.
Otherwise known as the $40 PR-driven-wallet suck. (I got them 20% off.)
But seriously, these things are COMFY. And I found them in navy blue patent leather (couldn’t find the exact pair online and too lazy to photojournal them here.)
Consensus on the street (aside from my one friend) is that these are one FUGLY shoe. And you know I’d rather be caught dead than in ugly shoes. Especially ugly flip flops. Something is drawing me to this particular pair of shoes, however. The cushiony sole, the promise that it’ll tighten my ass on the way to the park.
But I don’t want to be caught being unstylish just in the name of comfort. That’d ruin my rep, ya know?
So… fit or fugly? Help me! I only have 10 days left to return them.
Tagged as:
FitFlop
I’ve been taking a poll lately with my friends about how they are spending their Mother’s Day. Because, I know how I’m spending mine: with a friend. Alone. No kids. Lunch at a new restaurant downtown and a little shopping for my adults-only trip to Bermuda at the end of the month.
My mom thought I was kind of crazy.
“Don’t you want to spend Mother’s Day with your husband?” she asked?
“I’m not his mother,” was my response.
I love my family, don’t get me wrong. But there’s really one day a year that I can milk it for whatever it’s worth.
And I vant to be alone.
Some of my friends made plans to be with their husbands (suckers!). Some got sucked into family gatherings. (This is the one and probably only benefit to having parents who live out of town.)
Not me.
This is my one day to be not frugal and just a *teensy* bit selfish (ok, that happens a lot of other days, but not as in your face.)
Isn’t that what the day about mom is all about? Me?
Tagged as:
Mother's Day
I’ve been back and forth writing and editing a post that I’m not sure I have the guts to publish, but in the meantime, I’ve not been totally silent.
If you’re not totally bored or grossed out by potty training stories, I’ve shared mine here at the Chicago Moms Blog.
If you live in NYC and want to hear the stories of some fabulously funny moms, then head out to the Comic Strip this Thursday to see Liz, Jen, and Tracy read their hilarious essays from Beth of RoleMommy’s new book, C://Mom Run: Sidesplitting Essays from the World’s Most Harried Blogging Moms.
I’m telling you this because OMG I’m actually going to be PUBLISHED in this book alongside these incredible writers and OMG maybe someone may be reading my essay to the audience on Thursday as well. I am bummed that I couldn’t be there in person, but I know it’ll be a great event if Beth has anything to do with it. Details are here.
Other than that, I’ve taken on a substantial load of writing (for me, at least) from Chicago Parent for the next few months, which alternatively excites and scares me, because I actually have commitments now and deadlines and stuff. But, I like to be busy, so I’ll take it.
And I’ll keep thinking about that post I’m working on. I hope I don’t chicken out.
