Unfit, or maybe just ill-fitting

SCENE ONE
Erin has just arrived home from work. On her lunch break she stopped by Forever 21 since now, at age almost-26, she finally looks old enough to shop there.

ERIN (modeling new black dress): And this is my new black dress.

NOAH: Very nice.

(Erin leaves, then returns wearing a long lightweight knitted tunic.)

ERIN (doing model poses): And this is my new light-weight tunic. If I was a celebrity, I would wear this as a dress, like so.

(She indicates the fact that she's not wearing pants, then leaves.)

NOAH: And what's the last thing?

ERIN (returns, wearing long gray and black vest): And this is my vest. Although it is neither a shirt nor a dress, if I were a celebrity, I would wear it as either.

(She indicates the fact that she is wearing a long vest with no pants or shirt.)

NOAH: I wish you could blog photos of yourself like this. That'd be really funny.

ERIN: No can do. I run a family-friendly site.

(Erin leaves, accidentally flashes butt cheeks a la celebrities who wear shirts and vests as whole outfits.)

* * *

SCENE TWO
Erin drives home from work for lunch. She, Noah and baby Ethan sit around the dining table eating, and discussing whether or not they should take Ethan to Water Babies that evening.

ERIN: I don't want to give up on him.

(She hands Ethan a bit of ice cream sandwich, which he claims is "hot.")

NOAH: We're not giving up on him. He clearly doesn't like it.

(He wipes Ethan's ice creamey fingers.)

ERIN: But you've told me that you wish your parents had encouraged you not to give up the French horn!

(She hands Ethan a cracker, which he throws on the ground.)

NOAH: But I didn't cry every time I played the French horn.

(Ethan sticks his finger in the pecan-crusted cream-cheese-chicken ball on the table, licks it, then announces "Num-a-num-a-num.")

ERIN: Touche.

Exeunt

Photo Ops

Perhaps my visions of Ethan as a future swim star were premature.

Because I didn't have a chance to see his soccer skills until today:



But. Anything to discourage his interest in law enforcement, which is marked...

In other news, I got a new haircut:

Which...isn't all that different from my old hair cut. But patience! Layers must grow.

Desperation

It turns out my hairdresser was on her high school swim team, so she was able to give me some pointers for the triathlon.

But that's not really what I want to talk about. What I want to talk about is how I'm pissed off by pieces of weird chicken that make me gag and have to spit out a bite of my lunch. And also, I'm pissed that although Noah and I both work full time, we don't have a Nest Egg. I mean, we do have a little nest egg—like a hummingbird nest egg. But what I really want is an ostrich nest egg.

Actually that's not what I really want. What I really want is to still have my income tax refund at the same time as having everything we bought with it: our truck, my new bike, my triathlon clothes, a renovated bathroom. You know, the having cake and eating it thing.

Speaking of cake, I probably shouldn't have eaten that cupcake last night. The one with the cream cheese frosting. The one with the cream cheese frosting that had been sitting out unrefrigerated for like four days. Not that anything bad happened, but I swear to you the moment I swallowed the last bite I could feel a slight burning sensation in my esophagus that I just knew indicated that the cupcake, despite appearances, was rancid. Owing to the fact that I didn't wake up to the horrible but all-too-familiar urge to power vomit (something I've perfected in these last two years of child bearing and rearing), I can tell that the cupcake wasn't rancid, but deep down inside I still can't help but worry.

Which brings me back to the chicken. I would be a vegetarian if I didn't like so many dishes that have meat in them. And in fact I was a vegetarian for Lent. But every time I get too comfortable and quit inspecting my food closely before each bite, that's exactly the moment when The Weird Bits attack, like that weird bit of chicken on my BBQ chicken pizza at lunch.

And while we're talking about it, let me just say this: it's BARBECUE not BBQ. And not even barbeque, although I sometimes wish it was.

Swimming

In preparation for my sprint triathlon, which is in preparation for my Hadrian's Walk, I have joined the YWCA and started swimming several times a week. I've also got a swim cap (Brand: Tyr, so that if I start turning in Olympic speeds that'll be one less bit of equipment to buy with the added bonus of a built-in corporate sponsorship). Can I just say, the swim cap has really put me over the edge. Every time I plunge forth, with my head down and in its laser-beam position (thanks, Total Immersion), I feel as though I'm sliding through the water, graceful as a dolphin, sputtering and coughing notwithstanding.

I've also partook of that most sacred parental right: Testing Your Child's Genius By Enrolling Him In Classes At A Very Young Age. That is to say, I signed us up for a Water Babies class.

I thought Ethan would be swimming laps around the other babies within seconds, seeing as every evening at bathtime he turns into a young, pre-ganja Michael Phelps. I mean, really. I've programmed taught him to begin kicking his legs furiously whenever I shout "Waterbabieswaterbabies!" Then at the end of the workout we exchange high-fives.

Much to my dismay, Ethan has partook of that most annoying offspring trick: Making Your Parents Look Like Fools In Front Of Other Adults. That is to say, he wants nothing to do with the Water Babies class. Of all the babies (ranging in age from 7 months to 3 years), he has been the most combative. I will say that this evening's class, the second, was far worse than the first. Noah and I practically performed a waterbound Cirque du Soleil to try and get him to stop crying and show off his skills, but Ethan would have none of it.

To top off the humiliation, the instructor (an older, bearded man I have come to despise, his very presence a constant reminder of my stage-parent failures) forces us to sing ring around the rosies at the beginning of class. Which basically translates into a bunch of adults awkwardly bouncing and singing a nursery rhyme (off-pitch) while our children cling to us in terror.

After 15 minutes tonight, we gave up, I did my workout in the lap pool while Noah followed Ethan around the perimeter as he gleefully pointed at the flags and swimmers. At least he looks adorable in his swimming trunks pants.

They're both quite sensitive

This is what has happened every time Ethan has cried in the past 17 months. I live in a mad house.



Please forgive the unvacuumed floor, the chair covered in the gray sheet (my great-grandmother's, which I have yet to refurbish), and the dirty laundry on the closet floor. Actually, no. Don't forgive. Just...understand, and commiserate.

One of only a few things that I am Not The Best At

I've been on airplanes frequently from the time I was two and we moved to Ireland. You'd think I'd be good about it, but on thinking back, I'm actually not very. Our upcoming trip to California is, well, coming up, and of course we're concerned about taking Ethan on a cross-country flight without tranquilizing him. Because I mean, wouldn't it be easier to take toddlers on trips if you could knock them out and place them in an easy-to-manage carrier? Like a well-padded duffel bag? (Oh come on, I wouldn't zip it up. Or check it, either. What kind of a mother do you take me for?)

Ethan has by all accounts done rather well on the plane rides he's already taken in his life, including the time we covertly changed his about-to-burst pee diaper in-flight. But if I'm going to be skeptical of him, it's only fair that I share with you some of my own in-flight, uh, dramas:

• I once saw this huge glowing thing in the sky that I for serious began to worry was an approaching UFO. After a while I realized it was the moon. Have you seen that thing from a plane? It's HUGE.
• I once had to have the flight attendant bring me a full glass of orange juice to spike my blood sugar and keep me from passing out on a trans-Atlantic flight while watching the surprisingly faint-inducing Sense & Sensibility.
• I once almost passed out while in a descent during my pregnancy, and I'm not really sure why.
• I once might have clung to my brother in that united-by-trauma style often seen in films during a lightning storm on a flight to New Mexico.
  

With that in mind, Noah probably would prefer if I could be tranquilized and stuffed into a duffel bag for the journey. In fact, the only real hang-up keeping him from doing it is the fact that I'd be too big to fit in the overhead compartment.

Into everything

To see larger versions of these caught-on-camera moments, just click on them.