Father’s Day – Day of Tub Floaties and More
Posted on June 17, 2013
In truth it has been difficult to blog recently. I’d love to use my usual excuse, the every-popular, “How can I write, I have a screaming, pooping ankle biter running around!” But, the truth is, I could find time during the baby’s naps or on the (few and far between) evenings when Hubby is home. There is nothing I enjoy more than sticking him with the baby as I say “Your sperm and stupidity made this, now parent damn you.” He never complains, in fact he usually smiles and says to a wriggling Jo in his arms, “Ah, hello my son, your mom is crazy. Let’s continue your education, say … Yo-da. Yo-Daaaa.” At this point once Jeff is distracted with trying to get our son’s first real words to be death star, or warp drive, I’m headed straight for the tub. Or the coffee shop. Whichever. Frankly, even the tub isn’t safe these days because one, it’s full of nasty, butt-poking baby bath toys … blasted things have lodged themselves up my butt several times … or two, I am in the tub two minutes before the door is busted open and a grinning Jonah is being dumped on my lap before I can launch into “Nooooooo!” And then, to top that treat off, I get tub “floaties” – whatever it was he had for dinner – I’ve bathed with everything from macaroni to green peas. Sometimes it feels more like a tub o’ soup rather than bath water. Honestly it’s a trial. It is all a trial. So there you have my problem. What to blog about? Macaroni and pea bath time or just the old standby, the incoherent my kid is a ridiculously cute little imp update? Neither of these sound appealing to me, I would worry about how you would feel on the receiving end of either one of those no doubt horrendously uncomfortable entries. So? I’ve retreated into the blogosphere, silently stalking other blogs and contributing nothing new to my own. But for a writer not to write is little bit like being forced not to breathe. It doesn’t feel good and sooner or later I’ll probably pass out under duress.
In any case, turns out you’re not off the hook because I am back blogging and already have written 350 words of absolute crap. Ah, classic me.
It is Father’s Day today. I didn’t do one single thing for my Hubby. I feel like having his kid is the gift I will give to him every year. Cut to a few years down the road: “Wake up, Hubby. Happy Father’s day. See that kid wearing the storm trooper costume? Yeah. I made that for you. It’s your gift. Again. Now, may the Force be with you while you get me a huge fucking coffee.” Ah love. Isn’t it beautiful?
That’s about all I’ll say about that, this Father’s day. My Hubby is pretty stellar and he knows this. It’s the reason why I stick around, give him free sex and take care of him post wisdom teeth surgery. To give him a card on Father’s Day would be overkill. And, who wants that? I am the queen of subtle, after all.
I am sounding like a bitter old crone but other than the bits of random ground beef mingling with my expensive bath soap during bath time, I have no real reason to be such a stick in the mud. I continue to be the mother of one beautiful, intoxicatingly happy little boy. My Hubby was home for the past four days resting up from his dental procedure and the number of times he or I said, “Oh I love him. So smiley!” in regards to our son was damn near unprecedented. Another sick display in a myriad of sick displays of the last ten and a half months. Soon, he will be a year old and I personally am so in love I can already see it coming. What’s that, I hear all of you lovely readers ask. Well, that would be serious discussions of baby number two. Jonah’s cuteness, this I know, is totally manipulating me. But god help us, Hubby and I are already discussing names for little baby girls. So? Who is in camp “Trillian” and who is in camp “Luna”? Opinions?