At Least I THINK It Was Mud...

Note: After re-reading my last post, I find once again that I am happy my mother cannot locate the power button on the computer in her den. My bitterness at having no time alone with my husband may have seeped out a little. Despite the fact that my mom will likely never know of my immaturity, I offer my apologies. After all, I could always hire a babysitter, right? Sorry mom. Please do not cut me out of the will.

Noah is now mobile to the point of no longer falling down (often), which allows me a scant bit of freedom. I have spent the majority of the past four months following his toddling little butt around attempting to save him from harrowing near-injuries and accidents. Responsibility such as this is a lot like being put in charge of one's alcoholic sister-in-law on New Year's Eve-- only instead of one night of constant vigilance, it's four entire months of scrambling around wild-eyed and hissing, "What is in your mouth?? Spit it out! I said spit-it-out!!"

Not that my sister-in-law is an alcoholic. (*cough* *cough*)

(Yet Another) Bitter Digression Alert: Speaking of said (allegedly) drunken sister-in-law, she is leveraging my in-laws's friendship with a gazillionaire to borrow his cabin in Michigan this summer...and she has yet to invite me along, despite my many hints. ("Invite me." "No." "Come on. Invite me." "No." "You know what would be cool? Inviting me!" "No.") Two words for you, Mr. Gazillionaire: Fire Insurance. Between my sister-in-law's love of wine and my brother-in-law's love of roasting meat over an open fire, I see the potential for things going *boom*. However, if you insist that my family accompany said (allegedly) alcoholic and (allegedly) pyromaniacal in-laws, I can assure you that I will personally see to it that Michelle does not get shit-faced and burn your place down. So, if you want to make my attendance a mandatory condition of the cabin borrowing, by all means do so.

Which brings me back to running around after Noah. I offer for your reading pleasure a list of things Noah has gotten his tiny little hands upon this week that has caused me near-heart attacks:

• a $120 pitcher from Williams Sonoma painted with the likeness of a rooster (Um, Williams Sonoma? No one is going to pay that much for a rooster pitcher. EVER. This is likely why you place these pitchers six inches from the floor-- in hopes that a toddler will knock one over resulting in a penitant parent paying full price for the rooster monstrosity. But you didn't count on me being able to move that fast, did you?? Who's laughing now Rooster Pitcher Purveyor? Who's laughing now??)
• a mini-Lego from his brother's Indiana Jones Lego set
• a feminine product from my purse (while I shopped through the grocery store blissfully unaware for many, many minutes assuming that people were simply staring at my son because he is so adorable)
• daddy's electric razor
• my glasses
• an errant staple
• a glass ornament
• an ornament hook
• a dead bug
• a clump of mud right inside the doors at Target (I think it was mud....)

I am constantly sprinting to remove items from Noah's tiny grip moments before disaster occurs. Clearly, toddlers are nature's way of getting moms to lose the last of their post-pregnancy weight. Still, even with having to guard against what Noah gets his hands on, I am finding a little bit of time for me because he is more stable on his feet. This gives me more time to write...and harass my sister-in-law. Heh, heh, heh....