Nico turns two tomorrow. And so I am blowing up balloons so we can surprise her with them in the morning. I had forgotten how much your cheeks hurt when you blow up like ten balloons in a row and, around my sixth, I had this thought:
this is my life now.
Anyone who has followed this blog knows I am a (somewhat) reluctant parent. Not that I don’t love the gal, but I also love(d) my single free life that included few to no evenings spent blowing up balloons, or afternoons spent shimming shit off of cloth diapers, or mornings spent pretending that a stuffed dinosaur wants to eat my child’s fruit so my child will eat her fruit at a slightly normal pace so that we can get her out the door and to daycare so that we can then have a few hours to ourselves to, well, work.
But in the past few months, probably since Nico’s started to really talk, I have (almost) settled into this whole mother thing. There is a certain charm to blowing up twenty balloons, while drinking a beer, while reading an article on my computer about Tampa, my hometown, picking Jameis Winston for its football team (well, ok, that’s not happy news).
It’s not quite the same thing as sewing strange costumes with your roommates and then putting them on and going to the gay bar to sing karaoke show tunes late into the night because you know you can crash later and sleep for hours and no one will wake you up.
But motherhood has it charms. Like today. We went out to get supplies for the small birthday party we’re going to throw for Nico on Sat (a piñata, paper plates, temporary tattoos, lots of booze) and on the way home she started to sing:
“Shake Shake Booty! Shake Shake Booty!”
It was a variation on the KC and the Sunshine Band’s “Shake Shake Shake Shake Your Booty” that I had just been singing to her. And I tell you, not to get all sentimental here, but hearing a two year old say “booty” kind of breaks your heart. For real.
In other news, Nico’s daycare has put pictures of all the toddlers in her room on a bulletin board and included two descriptor words for each child. Some children have “Investigator” and “Animal Lover” others “Greeter” and “Reader.”
Her’s were “Nurturer” and “Accessory lover.”
It was enough to make me give up parenthood on the spot. How in the hell, I wondered, did a child of mine, at two years no less, become an accessory lover?
This is how (photo is blurry, sorry, but the child moves so much now it’s hard to get her to stay still)