Update from the latest doctor’s appointment. The Littlest Lifford, aka LL, seems just fine. I noticed right away that the heartbeat is slower than Violet’s was. In the opinion of today’s leading Old Wives, a slower heartbeat means a boy. The nurse said, “Well, it could just be a lazy little girl.” To which I replied, “Great! That’s what I’m hoping for this time. A lazy kid.” I’m not joking.
I was relieved to hear that all is well, considering I’ve been at the mercy of a Cold for the past few days. I long for the time when having a cold meant that you call in sick, stay in your PJs, huddle on the couch with tea and snooze while intermitently watching “The Price is Right” or “M.A.S.H.” reruns. But moms don’t get a sick day. There’s always someone who needs food right this second, needs help disentangling limbs from bracelets, needs first-aid after slicing a foot on a binder clip (yes, I’m the worst. mother. ever.) and so on and so forth. The best sick moms can do is turn on “Barney” and pray for 10 minutes in which they can close their eyes and stuff tissues up their noses.
So poor Rob comes home after a drama-filled day at the office and a horrible commute to find me nearly comatose on the sofa with Violet running around half naked, covered in crumbs and paint, and not even a glimmer of hope for a hot meal (in fact the kitchen can barely be found for the mountain of dishes and snot-rags). But we must rally to make it through the evening.
I am quite sure I didn’t appreciate my parents enough.
Meanwhile, today Violet started talking about a baby. (“baybeh!”) I asked her where the baby is. She said “Mommy!” (yes, she’s saying Mommy!) and then pointed at her belly. “So there’s a baby in mommy’s belly?” I clarified. She nodded excitedly and then ran over to me, lifted the hem of my shirt and kissed my belly.
GAH! Cuteness… too… much…