Nora: “Did God have swim lessons when he was little, like me?”
Nora: “Why not?”
Me: “Because God was little a long, long time ago.”
Nora: “Like how long ago?”
Me: “Billions and billions of years.”
Nora: “Oh. And they didn’t have swim lessons then?”
Me: “I spy, with my little eye, something orange.”
Frances: “The trees?”
Frances: “The grass?”
Frances: “The bushes?”
Me: “No, Frances. Those things are all green. Guess again.”
Me: “Frances. I like your new purse.”
Frances: “Pizza in dere.”
Me: “What? Your pizza’s in there?!”
Frances: (holds purse open so I can look inside) “Pizza in dere.”
Me: (horrified) “No, Frances, honey! Get that out of there. We don’t put pizza in purses!”
Only, apparently, we do.
Me: (extremely frustrated and cantankerous; at 2:30 a.m. at the start of breastfeeding session with Rowan, who was bumbling around like an animal trying unsuccessfully to latch) “What in the world? It’s not fucking rocket science! You’ve been doing this since the day you were born! Fucking eat!”
I asked my husband the following morning if he had overheard me cussing out our five-week-old in the middle of the night. He had. So ashamed.
Even though we have our moments, I sure do love the hell out of that little cuddle ball. Even when he forgets how to nurse and I’m dropping F-bombs on him left and right. I like to think of it as dropping F-bombs on the air, though. Not my boy. It’s just my way of venting. A necessity if I’m not going to lose my mind.