No, I’m not just trying to get your attention. Well, maybe I am.
Our household has been beset by a plague of mucus. I’ve been feeling pretty worn out. It’s no fun tending to a sick baby when sick oneself. I can’t tell you the number of times when I’ve finally gotten Theo to settle down and then had to cough or sneeze, causing him to wake up and/or get riled up. Phoebe and John are both sick, too. We are a fun bunch.
The laundry situation recently became so dire that yesterday I found myself wearing an “outfit” that defies description. Let me describe it to you, and defy its description-defyingness.
Finding that all pants fitting my current size were sufficiently soiled with various baby-related fluids that even I wouldn’t wear them, I was pleased to discover that my maternity yoga pants actually fit moderately well, if rather differently than they did a few months ago. They are velour, in a very pretty dark plum color. (Yes, I’m saying I put on some fuzzy purple pants.) I next surveyed my shirt options. Because it’s freakin’ cold here, I like to wear a long-sleeved t-shirt layered under a sweater. The only such long-sleeved shirt remaining in my closet was my Halloween shirt. Orange. “Fuck it,” I said. (And I believe that’s an exact quote.) I grabbed the damn orange shirt, layered a blue hoodie on top, and next went on a quest for socks.
I have a gazillion socks in a pile. Almost none of which seem to match. The only pair I could muster were a sort of raspberry color, no doubt remaining only because I don’t generally willingly wear them. (I can’t remember what words I used when I made this discovery.)
I did find myself thinking, though, and for the second time in less than a week, “someday soon, I will embarrass my children.” (Now that I think about it, the other time was a sock-related incident, too. A public sock-related incident.)
It’s a glamorous life I lead.