I'd like to begin this post by saying it's official: I can't give either of my children a bath without ending up looking like I just left the front row of a Gallagher concert. TwoBert has learned how to kerplunk, and oh, how it gives him the ecstasy. He raises and drops his feet over and over, and the water flies everywhere, and out comes the machine-gun laugh that would be absolutely darling were he not soaking me through to the shorts.
There is at least solace in consistency, as I can now pretty much bank on spending the time between 8:00 and 8:30 every night sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing Great States Junior with a large towel draped across my lap.
I took the weekend off from posting, but not from writing. The noun-and-verb express is still steaming ahead, tap-tap-tapping its way toward what I hope will be a viable, salable bit of written work. I've never felt this motivated to complete something in all my years.
How bold have I become? I actually agreed to chaperone my parents and my kids to see the Rockefeller Center tree at a time when the entire nexus becomes a rat king of slow-moving tourists with shopping bags. Seasoned cityfolk like me normally wouldn't be caught dead getting all snarled up in that mess, but there I was, very much alive, navigating the stroller through hordes of inert gawkers with outstretched cameras.
The madness parenting has wrought upon me knows no bounds.