- Things kick off like any good party should: with fairies and pirates.
- I consider requesting a paternity test from Fidel Castro.
- I see Spamalot, and yearn to sing, sing, SING.
- My fears of narcissism and bees are revealed.
- The children, though constantly antagonizing each other, are sometimes kinda, sorta cute.
- I take and display cemetery photos, instantly alienating my Romanian peasant readership.
- A rousing game of "Is It Food?" is played.
- Though I hate potty training...
- ...I love food.
- My daughter breaks up with me, I think.
- Two words: Crouton Lung.
- Thanks are given, and spinach is creamed.
- I slag on bananas, Babar, and baby socks.
- Martha and I teach Poufing 101.
- Free stuff! (Not too late to enter, by the way!)
Moreover, while combing through those thirty posts, I had a definite sense of time: I know exactly where it went and how we passed it this November, and that is, somehow, intensely comforting. So many of my days here at home just seem to roll into the next, a rhythmic blur of schedules and routines and wiping, wiping, wiping and bedtime exhaustion. This month I have been more mindful, more deliberate, and, in my estimation, in need of fifty-four hours of additional catch-up sleep.
I learned. I grew. Now, who wants a hug?
(Oh, and P.S.: That OTHER chestnut about doing something for twenty days and it becomes habit? Apparently true. Which is why I'll be doing this. Lawsy!)