While the rest of you write a frigging book this month, I've got more realistic goals.
I know you can't wait. An entry a day? Brace yourself for the most titillating details.
Like today, I gave the boy a really terrible haircut. If you thought we were keeping his hair long because we thought it was cool, you're wrong. It's because he won't sit still and I'd rather not poke his lovely eyes out. Long hair worked well enough when we lived up the windswept bluff from the killer swells, but once we moved to Austin, it became a sweaty, sticky mess, so we plopped the iPhone in his lap, had him turn his laser focus to a youTube video and crafted him a bowl cut. Except it grew out and I mis-remembered the initial haircut as being easy as pie (frozen crust, canned filling), so this morning, on three hours sleep and without my wingman, I attempted it on my own. No photo for you.
Three hours sleep? Because all I've done since moving back to Austin is party like a f**king rock star Mr. Pear is in Japan, and I thought it would therefore be the perfect time to night wean the boy. I am being strong, but D'anjou? He is also strong. Strong with the strength of ten men. Or at least the lungs of ten men. Thankfully the house next door is vacant.
I stumbled through the morning with snarls and apologies. So tired, I was trembly and weak of tummy. I counted the hours until we could reasonably head back to bed for a nap, but did he nap? He, who ostensibly got as little sleep as I did? Of course not! Well, not right away anyway. He waited until four o'clock this afternoon, while I was dutifully speed-walking the perimeter of Town lake, working off my Tres Leches birthday cake. Despite snacks, books, lumps, bumps and dogs and ducks to exclaim over, my boy nodded off in the stroller while I tired myself out even more.
Shall I save my vitriol against mosquitos for tomorrow? I might have to, because my girl and I have a date with Maude knows how many pounds of sugar, some eggwhites and a loaned sugar skull mold.
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