My friend Cami came to the rescue this morning just in time. I’d been awake with the baby since 5 AM, and already Marlo had tried to stick her head in the toilet. Twice. I guess maybe she thought that would take away her misery? Because nothing I do seems to soothe her, and she just wanders around moaning: Brains! BRAINS! And then suddenly her arm falls off.
So I indulged in a work out. I know, who the hell indulges in a workout? It’s like Cami showed up and I was all, PHEW! Now I finally have the time to strip down naked and beat myself with this leather, medieval bullwhip! And then jump into a bath of ice! WHEE!
But the gym is my church. My trainer is my bishop. Someone recently asked me what I do for fun, and I couldn’t wait to talk about the series of squats and lunges I do carrying thirty pound weights. I love the challenge, the sweat, the pain, the concentration it takes to do it for five more minutes. And this person was like, you know most people respond with going to the movies or something that is the exact opposite of a squat.
Yeah, well. I’m not most people. Have you seen my chin?
So I got back from the workout a few minutes before Marlo woke up from a nap, and when I took her pants off to change her diaper a handful of smashed goldfish crackers spilled out. And I was like, um, Cami? Were you aware that you put my child down for a nap with her snack in her clothes? And Cami pointed to my shirt and said, “Oh shut up, you’ve got sweaty tits. We’re even.”
That’s why I keep her around.