I fear skinny jeans and a Jessica Simpson pregnancy - or worse, those two unfortunates together - but I no longer fear being a mother to a boy. I confess this girly girl wondered before Master P was born - also yesterday - whether there was enough caffeine in the world for me to keep up with a whirlwind little boy & the disasters that tend to befall them - or him, more precisely.
|The wonder - everything is FASCINATING right now - nicely counterbalances the penchant for death-defying stunts.|
Thing is, every toddler boy terror I've been warned about, be it by those infernal baby books or you darling readers, has already come to pass. Master P is absolutely fine now but has, in chronological order:
- taken a swan dive off of our changing table, couch, and patio chairs;
- made his 1st ER appearance thanks to a head bonk at the neighborhood splashpad; and, as of last night,
- singed his digits on a hot oven door I'd opened while making dinner.
Boy Universe, you can't scare me anymore. You've thrown the damn baby book at me - and Master P has emerged unscathed, while I'm pretending to be ok while awaiting arrival of the World's Worst Mother Award. So nanny nanny boo boo to you - and, if you please, perhaps no more actual boo boos for the rest of this week, nor J. Simp. maternity lines*. Pretty please?
*I begrudgingly admit, however, that the girl makes a decent budget shoe; I may own a pair or two.