Right now the blackboard of shame says 8 days, and my record is 11.5.
No one at day care ever so much as batted an eyelash about the train undies.
The neighbors finally took down their Christmas wreaths around the first of June.
I run at least twice a week these days, and my pelvis hardly makes that snapping sound at all anymore.
Ingrid has asked about nail polish two more times, and each time my wimpy ostrichlike vague response has somehow satisfied her.
The nipple healed after one day of pumping and one day of acrobatic new nursing positions. It turned out the cause of the weird nursing was not teething but coxsackie virus; both girls had it, with the sores on their tongues, fevers, and crankiness. All better now.
The day care decision is pending. The at-home day care lady swears she’s only taken one sick day in the past year. I’m leaning toward that, but waffling.
The little car is great. We never miss the old one. Well, we haven’t sold the old one yet, but we never drive it and never feel the need.
Speaking of cars, I’ve now gone a whole seven days without anything flying off the roof of my car, but I did drive all the way to the fabric store today with the trunk open.