My son, current nickname Dirtbaby, is 14 months old. He has been walking for three months and no longer holds his arms in front of him like a zombie. He says "thank you" and "book" and "ball" and "hello" and "bye-bye."
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In the middle of January, my dad came to stay with us for two weeks. During a Skype conversation last fall, when it appeared both my parents had had too much to drink, my mother gaily volunteered to send my dad to California, and my father gaily agreed.
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I started off Sunday morning cupping my hand so my son could vomit into it.
A few minutes later, back in fine spirits, he gazed at his father in the kitchen whisking batter for crepes.
"It's a high-whisk activity," SJ confided to him. "I like whisk-y business."
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These are the last days of my maternity leave. The weather has turned cold, so in the predawn we turn on the heat, which makes a satisfying boom and then slowly seeps up through the floor vents and smells like a different toxin in each room.
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Since I had a baby, I've started a lot of lists. I LIKE LISTS. But I don't finish many because baby.
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It's been quite the transition to motherhood or, as I like to call it, Mom Eats Last. Some days it feels like SJ and I are killing it: We get enough sleep, we eat, we shower, the house gets cleaned, the bills get paid, and we leave the house and return to it, all without killing the baby.
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On Thursday, April 20, SJ and I got married. That day I worked until 2 p.m., threw on my wedding dress in the building's bathroom, and took a Lyft to City Hall.
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Something weird has been happening: Strangers are noticing my body and reacting to it, and I don't like it. WHAT ARE YOU SMILING AT.
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I am running on fumes. FUMES, I TELL YOU. In addition to having a full-time job, a part-time job, and a daily commute, this is what I've been doing instead of blogging about millennials, bonding with the heirloom tomato in my uterus, and getting my head around the fact that IN TWENTY-ONE WEEKS I WILL HAVE A SON.
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I arrive at O'Hare late Wednesday night after 10 hours of travel from San Francisco. Dad picks me up at baggage claim. His first topic of conversation, after greeting me, is everything he's posted recently on Facebook.
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And just like that, I'm in the last week of my first trimester.
No more nausea, no more exhaustion. And last week I got great news: The baby is at low risk for major chromosomal defects (which means the baby is at low risk for ABORTION -- lucky baby!), and ... it's a boy!
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This is what I was doing when I found out I was pregnant: DRINKING WINE. This is why: I like wine.
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I got my eyes checked last week. Dr. Jue said I have the worst vision of any of his current patients.
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For the past four months, Strong Jawline, my current provider of intercourse, has been telling me I'm pretty.
I've never been accused of such a thing. In 39 years I've been called "striking," "Mediterranean," and "similar to Peter Sellers."
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So I got fucking snookered into another three months on Match.com because I forgot it automatically resubscribes you and charges your credit card. So I signed in ... with the wrong email address and discovered my OLD MATCH.COM ACCOUNT FROM THREE YEARS AGO WHAT.
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Mom and Dad discussed my blog. Mom said they decided for revenge they're going to backpack across Italy and talk about where, when, and how 74-year-olds have sex. (I think this idea is AMAZING.)
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There's only one thing better than being single and childless at 39: having your novel rejected by one of the biggest agents in New York (AGAIN. AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN).
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