Oh my gah. Rowan decided to up the ante on the whole ear infection thing and get two ear infections and pneumonia. Pneufreakingmonia. We were supposed to leave for a trip to DC on Friday night, but Thursday we ended up back at the pediatrician’s office for the second time that week when he cried for 12 hours straight. He had O2 sats in the low 90s, and after two rounds of nebulizer was still crackly, though his saturation was better.
Kids don’t care if you spend a week on Pinterest searching for the most clever ways to make a party look like it came straight from Willy Wonka’s brain. They don’t give a shit about themes. Kids want to know where the cake is and what they can climb without getting in trouble. They don’t want specific complicated crafts and games, they want a bunch of misc supplies to supplement their imagination.
The internet is full of criticisms for mom groups, and I will admit to laughing far too hard at the recent Ten Little Monkeys parody that has been making the rounds. I know those moms; the helpful advice couched in disapproval, the condescension and impractical suggestions. I know the moms who look for a fight, who rage quit at every opportunity and who have turned hypocrisy into an art form. The moms who publicly attack their peers for transgressions in the organic food aisle, and then hit up the drive through on the way home.
The past seven years have grown my tribe exponentially. I’ve met so many great people who have given birth to so many great kids. But first… first there was Qais. After years of living on opposite sides of the country and then the world, my friend Charlotte had moved back to the same town as me. And while other friends had had babies by that point, this was the first tiny tribesbaby who I could visit anytime I wanted.
I’ve heard there is an important game of sportsball on today. Rowan says #keeppounding. I don’t even know what that means. His middle name is a tribute to my best friend Steven, who, in a complete and reckless disregard for gay stereotypes is a huge Panthers fan.
I can only assume that the person who designed the house was drunk. Or made a Sims house into reality. That would explain the lock on the outside of my bedroom door, the better to watch me starve with increasingly panicked thought bubbles floating above my head.
Our first Christmas living off campus, Steven, Anelle, and I bought a Christmas tree. Like real adults. And we probably drank hot chocolate spiked with rum while we decorated it. Like real adults. Maybe it snowed. It was super Norman Rockwellian. Our only ornaments were whatever was on clearance at Lowe’s and things we made, but it was our tree and we were proud of it.