Whatever

One of the disadvantages of having evenings sans the dad figure is that when I tuck in to bed and turn on the tube for about an hour of viewing, I find myself watching the most horrific and sad programs. Basically, I cry myself to sleep. I bounce between shows about a little 3-year-old with dwarfism or some other form of deficiency to real-life jetliners about to crash or the disappearance of someone’s child. Pygmy families could be disputing in the rainforest and as soon as a child bursts in to tears, I follow suit. I didn’t used to be this way, all soft and mushy and venerable to the tube but I know it all started when I got pregnant. I remember crying at diaper commercials, touching highlight reels of families reuniting and forget about TLC. That channel made me a basketcase. These days I’m just a sensitive ponytail type (but mess with my kid and I will be Dante’s nine levels of hell wrapped in a tidy little package).

In the babyland department, I put moleskin on the metal edges of our bed frame to protect my child’s larger-than-average noggin from whacking it as he practices running on the carpet. He discovered the improvement yesterday and proceeded to test it out by purposefully taping his forehead on it over and over and over. Makes a mom proud.

Speaking of running, the dad is convinced that baby’s big toes that resemble thumbs are what allowed him to begin walking at 10 months. I’m sad to report that he has his mom’s feet. Wanna see?

The time I spend with W is so valuable to me especially since I work a full-time gig that becomes insanely busy every March. There are moments, however, when my parenting skills are lackluster and responses like “That’s not for baby.” degrade to “Whateverrrrrrr.” Since he can already say mou (mouse), kee kee (cat), mama, dada, and tree, I’m sure he’s on the verge of spouting “whateverrrrr” any minute. But that won’t be before he says “jackass,” my favorite curse word while driving.