The Goodship Lollipop

What happened to my dignity? Did I ever have any? Probably not, but still. I'm sitting here in a red plastic fireperson's hat in a scroungy smoothie and spit-up splotched t and a pair of my husband's shorts, now too big for him but quite comfy for me. (My how things have changed. Yet another role reversal in our consistently mixed up little family.) But the XM loft station do lend a bit-o-class to what would otherwise be a sinking ship (the goodship lollipop goes down like a bucket of blocks).

There was a day, not so long ago, that books lined my bookshelves. Said books did not sport teethmarks (other than the old meditation book my former dog ate the corner off of) or drool stains. There is a lovely carpet that my husband and I found on sale and spent too much on. You can't see it for the toys that I'm just too lazy? what? something (insert derogatory descriptor here) to pick up. My dining room table, a sort of zen-y vintage set that we found in St. Augustine and drove home in our old pick up, is decorated with play doh. Instead of cleaning or working or writing, I've been reading blogs all night. I'm just starting to get the whole thing, I think. Until I found blogs like Phantom Scribbler, The Clutter Museum, Sweetney.com and such - I've lost control, moving blog to blog with mindbending rapidity, not that it takes much to bend my mind these sleepless days/nights, whatever - I didn't see the point.

Anyway, I used to think of myself as quite capable. Not anymore. I have been known to spend an entire day (or so) in my nightie (sounds way cuter than it is). Should anyone be so cruel as to ask what I've accomplished at the end of the day, I'd usually be hard pressed to say. Laundry? Loaded the dishwasher? Hardly big accomplishments. I can't help feeling, rather often, that somehow I'm just not doing it right. Other mothers seem so much more capable than I am.

But I do have my moments. Like tonight. When Scott came home and I told him about it, I actually cried in the telling. (Yes, I'm a mushball, I know.) I preempted my 2 year old's water sports in the bathroom sink at about 9:45 for bed. Chaos followed. Wailing, gnashing of teeth and waking of baby, followed by more wailing, now in tandem. After time out to keep it from becoming a threesome, and because there should be at least some consequence for this most grievous offense (waking of the 8 month old), all of us went to bed. Because I thought I would be putting the baby in the carseat (don't ask, this story is long enough already), floppy little thing, I laid down with her between me and the 2 year old to nurse her back into submission. When she finished nursing, she rolled over and faced Maryn and reached out, so gently, and started to pet Maryn's arm. Now Conner is an active squirmy baby, she never holds still, but she laid there, almost immobile and obviously content, just petting Maryn for minutes - I don't know how many - until with a big sigh, she fell asleep. And Maryn not only let her - she pet Conner back! After Conner fell asleep, Maryn and I had a little talk.
"Conner sure does love you," I said.
"Yeah! She really does!" My daughter said this with absolute wonder in her voice. She has just figured out what it means to be worshipped. Addictive. She may as well get used to it. I'm sure there will be a lot more to come, lovely little thing.