banana apocalypse

Wow, so did not pull off the working mom balance this week. Had two nights of four hours sleep, one fever, one baby with runny nose, two missed meetings (thought they were on Thursday, when they were on Wednesday), one future planning session regarding my parents (bringing up realizations of parental mortality that were unwelcome and had a psychic cost), one black cardigan with white spit-up and ripped hole in arm pit, one week since I did the dishes, one week since I folded laundry, three nights of sharing my zombie company with in-laws in town. It’s all fine now, but dude, by Wednesday, I told Husband, ” I am so not pulling it off this week.” When previously lost baby bottle was found at daycare, where I had forgotten it, I told him, “Yeah, that’s just part of me batting a thousand.”

But now, it’s Friday, it’s over. I’m going to sleep till 6 a.m. when Baby needs me next (Par-tay!) and am unwinding with white wine in a glass that smells like…spaghetti sauce.

Banana apocalypse is just what we call the mess on Baby’s bib after he’s had solids. It’s like banana genocide, a banana that died for all our sins. I am like banana apocalypse this week.

Oh, and today, I told my friend Becca that Baby has started to thin out (nothing to be alarmed about, just normal baby growing), and that it’s really putting the pressure on, since I still haven’t.

Thank you.

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