Yesterday, I told my husband that my cell phone kept shutting off. I was convinced I needed a new phone. Then sometime after dinner, I discovered I’d been pushing the wrong button. I kept turning it off every time I thought I was locking the keypad. I’ve had the cell phone for over a year and locked the phone countless times. Dude. No really. Dude.
I wonder if I can blame yesterday’s mental defect on cold medication. And if I was unable to operate a cell phone, should I be concerned about the freaky stuff I might have screwed up at work in my overmedicated haze? Not that I get overly concerned about doing freaky stuff at work but it’s good to have a humorous little anecdote ready to explain it. Whatever.
In other news, a certain someone who I’m coming to believe needs to be my new best friend because she's always so sweet and nice happened to notice that I finally referred to my son as “the 2 year old” in my last post. I had been calling him my 18 month old for pretty much a year now. Except he was born 27 months ago.
As much as I would like to continue to call him my 18 month old until the end of time, forces beyond my control have flushed that plan down the toilet. Allow me to illustrate. Here is my 18 month old the day before Easter:
He’s so cute I think I need 9 more babies. And here he is on the merry-go round the same day:
Just look at those precious little baby hands holding on. Seriously. Do you not want to eat him alive? You do. You know you do. Stop pretending he’s not the cutest baby in existence. How about this picture of him clomping around the kitchen wearing his sister’s dress shoes on the wrong feet:
I demand you acknowledge his overwhelming cuteness right now or prepare to duel.
Right. So now look at my baby three days after Easter:
Um, yeah. That kid’s 2. What is the haps, people. I mean the cheeks are still there. And the pretty little eyelashes. And he definitely hugs like my baby. But come on.
After his haircut, we took this mysterious little stranger to McDonald’s to play on the playground and he toddled off wearing little Nike athletic pants with a football jersey-ish looking shirt. I swear to you I glimpsed my future in that moment. I told my husband it was a vision of him as a broad shouldered linebacker. The truth is a little of it was the running off into the world leaving me behind thing. My little baby. Sigh.
No more haircuts. That’s all there is to it.