I woke up yesterday craving sweet tea vodka and an ice cream Drumstick. It was a wrestling match.
Crazy self saying go for it. Less crazy self grabbing a sleeve of crackers instead while settling on job hunting for the day on the couch in plaid cotton jammies.
Even with the understanding that when it happens I will be nearly fifty years old, I am waiting for the baby to turn eight. He’ll be able to hold his own spoon and, God willing, wipe his own butt. When it’s bedtime, I will not have to rock a 20 lb bowling ball back and forth that is screaming in my ear and throwing pacifiers across the room. I’m thinking there will be less chance of spoiled milk cultures growing in the folds of his neck.
I’ll miss the baby hugs and kisses, though. And the love looks. The purity that comes with never having lied to me about taking his bath or who spilled the Cheerios. Maybe eight is too old. Let’s do four. While we’re at it, let’s make me 30 again.
Your favorite breakfast drink in comments…
