The other day I was so relieved that Keaton had finally come home from work to take my teething, fussy child off of my hands so I could--finally!--get the grocery shopping out of the way and fill up our very bare cupboards. I was so relieved, in fact, that I didn't want to give him a chance to change his mind or add something to the list or delay me in any way. I hurriedly grabbed my purse, grabbed my car keys, dashed out the door, looked down, and realized...
I forgot to put on any shoes. Halfway to the car before I even noticed.
And today--
(I cannot believe I'm posting this. But what is a blog for if you can't make your reader's eyes burn with a visual they could go their entire life without?)
So I really had to go to the bathroom. But Jamison has been very clingy and fussy while he's been running a fever in this weeks teething episode. I couldn't put him down a minute or he'd start into this tragic, broken-hearted cry which, of course, had me saying things like, "Of course I won't leave you, baby! I'm right here!" And I'd swoop him back up.
When I finally got him playing with some blocks on the living room floor I knew it was now or never and dashed to the bathroom, which is right off the living room and up seven stairs. I'd just barely plopped myself down when I heard an unmistakable da-da-da from outside the bathroom door. Too close outside the bathroom door. So what do I do?
I jump off the pot, hop to the door with my pants around my ankles, find my baby on the fourth step up, and lunge to catch him--dropped pants and all--as he tips backwards, losing his balance after the startle his mom gave him popping out of the bathroom like a crazy woman.
I managed to save Jamison, but there was no hope for my dignity. It was dead on the scene.
One of my old coworkers warned me that going through pregnancy and childbirth would rid you of every shred of dignity you possessed.
I beg to differ.
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