Today marks the end of my self-imposed exile from both the home office (where my personal computer lives) and the gym. There was a mouse sighting in my office, which prompted my head to almost explode. I literally could not go down there for a week for fear of a mouse running across my bare feet. I just imagined the mouse having a mouse party with all its little mouse friends on my desk in the middle of the night. I was wondering where all the good wine from our wine rack had been pilfered off to. I had been blaming the babysitter, but now, I know better -- it was actually the rodent infestation drinking my 1992 Pinot. Ick.
To the best of my knowledge, there are no mice at the gym, but there are a lot of skinny people and sweating; both things I try my best to avoid during the month of December. I mean, why make yourself feel bad, on purpose? I went back today, totally overdid it and will probably be sore for at least two full weeks. On my way out, I saw an ambulance pull up, sirens blaring. Three stern paramedics bustled their way in and raced toward the cardio room, holding a stretcher. Apparently, I am not the only one who took a month off in lieu of eating nothing but potatoes and then decided to run fifteen miles on the treadmill, on setting nine. Mmm - potatoes. Mashed, buttered, fried, baked - I am the female equal of the Forrest Gump shrimper guy when it comes to the number of ways I *heart* potatoes. Alright, seriously for a second - I hope the person in need of medical attention is fine and it was just a pulled hamstring or something relatively benign like that. Heart failure is an unpleasant way to ring in the New Year.
Aside from going to the gym, my New Year got off to one wild and crazy start. We went to a fabulous, but low-key party, at our friends' home - thank you, W family! Basically, the parents drank in the kitchen and the preschoolers ran around in the basement, possibly huffing from aerosol cans, eating lead paint chips and sampling peach Schnapps from the wet bar. Whatever - they had fun!
Ethan was allowed to stay up until midnight, which thrilled him. When asked the best part of New Years, he replied enthusiastically, "Banging on the pots and pans outside!" Truth be told, that is a nightly practice at our house. At the stroke of midnight, we all run outside and bang with metal spoons on our cookware, just to make the sure the neighbors are not sleeping.
I awoke on New Year's Day sporting the customary and proper champagne headache, a plastic bead necklace, and smeared mascara from my attempted "smoky eye" look the night before (Note to self: Moms, as a general rule, should not attempt smoky eyes - it screams "trying too hard.") More notably, I awoke with not one - but TWO - guys in my bed. Alright, so one is more a guy-in-training and is related by blood. The other is legally bound to sleep next to me every night until we are parted by the cold, clammy hand of death or by arbitration and court-ordered dissolution, whichever comes first (KIDDING, J!).
Virtually, the one thing Jeff and I agreed on re: this whole parenting shebang was that we would not have our kid sleep in our bed. Period. No kid in bed. This means that, according to Murphy's Law of Parenting, Ethan has spent the better part of a month tucked soundly where - that's correct, studio audience! - right in the middle of our bed.
This process happens by default. He waits until we are snoring at 2 am before launching a full-scale bed assault - sprinting down the hall (it is important to be fast so as to outrun all the nighttime monsters), tattered blue blanket and Woofie the dog underarm, he then flings himself smack into the middle of our bed, somehow stealing MY pillow as he goes.
At this point, Jeff and I are too sleepy/groggy/lazy to march him back into his room, so he is rewarded by being allowed to sleep with us for the rest of the night. This is extra fun for me because: 1) as aforementioned, he steals my pillow and, usually, my part of the comforter and 2) Ethan enjoys sleeping with some angley, pokey body part wedged securely into the tender part of my lower spine. I only got a "B" in anatomy, but I would wager a bet that the bone-in-question is latin for "Triceratops horn."
As a result, I am now averaging approximately fourteen cups of coffee a day. Out of respect for my environmental footprint, I may just start snorting the dry coffee grounds and stop wasting all that water during the brewing process.
