Well, here it is, Friday afternoon. I’ve promised He that I would make an entry over the weekend, and this may be my only opportunity to do so, given that I usually spend my waking hours at home chasing after the little one, who is tremendously enjoying showing off his new walking skills (which, when mixed with his drawer and shelf “reorganization” skills, make me a busy Mommy indeed). What brought about this little window of freedom, you ask? Simple. When the Husband mentioned that he had to go to a work-related social gathering, I casually recommended that he take the little one along, and he agreed (as I knew he would). So, here I am, blogging instead of doing what I’d really like to be doing – either showering (it’s just really hot and gross here today!) or napping. Aah well, I suppose I’ll have other chances to do both, though perhaps not in the near future.
I’m also wasting precious weekend newspaper-reading time. I’m a news junkie, which doesn’t always mesh with my parental responsibilities. Once upon a time, before the little one came along, Fridays meant one thing – sitting for hours at a time, going through the weekend papers as if my life depended on it. Rare was the Friday that I went to bed before I’d finished reading. These days, I’m lucky if I’ll have today’s paper read before next Friday’s paper comes out. And, if I can’t get it done on the weekend, I’m usually left to resort to sad tactics like leaving one section in the bathroom, another one in my bag to read on the way to and from work. You get the picture. It takes me three months to read a book, because my only reading time is on the train (20 minutes each way, plus station waiting time), and I’m often forced to cast the book aside in order to finish the newspaper. The system usually works pretty well, until a magazine unexpectedly pops up and thoroughly gums up the works. Last week, I was unexpectedly handed a magazine, and though I was pleased (hey, it was Mad Magazine! who wouldn’t be pleased?!), I started to panic, knowing that I would fall behind. Then I started to panic even more, when I realized that I’m turning into my father (minus the obvious gender differences, of course, given that I am She). I’ve decided to assume that it’s genetic, thus shifting all responsibility for this demented little mindset from myself onto my paternal ancestor.
I love the little one. I love him to bits. He’s my pride and joy, and I treasure nearly every moment we spend together (could do with a few less moments during the middle of the night). I’m even doing my very best to pass on my love of reading to him, and so far, it seems to be working. I just wish he’d be more agreeable to having the newspaper read to him (meaning, not trying to shred it into tiny, bite-sized pieces) instead of books that require me to moo, bark, meow, etc. at regular intervals, over, and over, and over again.
