Who's more insulted?

In the dance of the smart people, sometimes the trump card is to say that you are insulted by something. This indicates that you are deeply feeling and sensitive and your radar for unsophisticated thought is highly refined. If you are on the receiving end of this comment, best to lay low. For if you admit that you don't see what's so insulting about X, then you confirm what your friend has always suspected; that you are an ignorant and uncivilized slug.

Mother's Day

It's my third, actually (and not my best, I dare say). This weekend my child showed the terribility of his two-ness. Usually this means one thing; he's sick. But he's been sick for the past 6 weeks or so. We are all ready for everyone in the house to be healthy for the first time in a long time. I really, really want this.

But I dread the alternative as well. Perhaps he is not sick. Perhaps there is no excuse beyond this phase (if I could make the word reverberate as you read, I would, because PHASE! has that kind of weight to it).

But, wait! There is more. Yesterday, my babydaddy (yes, I know I can't really pull that off) converted the crib into what the good people at Pottery Barn Kids described as a "toddler bed." Um, yeah, maybe if you're not fond of your toddler, apparently. The relatively simple conversion accomplished, we three stared at the new sleeping situation (cuz from here on out, I refuse to call that thing a toddler bed!) and wondered if without any barrier to hold toddler in, toddler would be falling out of toddler sleeping situation. We soon got our answer. Down for nap (with a little trepidation on all fronts) and not 45 mins later, ba-thud! Toddler down. He's fallen out 3 times so far. We have now installed a dining room chair against the edge of the toddler sleeping situation, making it look like a much uglier version of what existed there before yesterday -- a crib.

A bowl for voices

My iPod shuffled today to a song by Joseph Arthur called In the Sun. Its bridge is simultaneously ethereal and dark, brooding but with a flinty quality. I couldn't help but think that if purgatory had angels, they'd sound like this bit of harmony, like voices poured through a sieve.

This is why we can't have nice things

There's a permanent stoop to my back and a new texture to every plane in my house. We like earth tones now, because sooner or later all things will muddy. You might recognize the crud on my windows about two feet off the ground as the precious, sticky fingerprints of a toddler. Everything I own is marked indelibly with his whims, his snacks, and yes, his boogers. In his exploration of this world, he loves everything he sees...for a split second before it lands nowhere near where it started. He is one deranged interior decorator. His design sense is an alternate version of the universe we've tried to create.

Like a cross between Sisyphus and a fish with no memory, I circle through the rooms and sunken treasures of this tank with my cordless vac and my rags and sprays -- spraying, wiping, sweeping, disinfecting. Yesterday, I swept and mopped the kitchen floor. Today the floor mocks me with its crumbs and bright stains. Yesterday, I walked through the house to see it looking okay. Today, scores of tiny two-year old tracks have been made, crumbs have been spread like fairy dust off his sweet little piggies and every shiny bauble has been tossed without a care onto the floor. I write this post and let the whole thing go to hell.