And welcome to not-Monday.
I’m enjoying some coffee and quiet in my living room, aside from the babble of Theo attacking a new owl he received (thanks, cousins Shel and Adam!), and some Sara Bareilles.
It seems that ten weeks is the age at which my little guy can amuse himself, which is good, because I’m pretty sure I still haven’t mastered it.
It’s blurry because I can’t get him to stay still- something he does get from me.
Last week I took him to the doctor, where I was told that his penchant for ring-grabbing means he could start rolling over at any point.
My doctor, who wears a yarmulke and giant Cosby sweaters and is probably one of my favorite humans, looked at me over his glasses and warned me this means I can’t leave T anywhere safely.
Like a king-sized bed, he said, nodding in my direction.
I nodded back, sure he would say not to worry about an area that big.
I wouldn’t trust it, he said. Once he sees something he wants, he’ll roll until he gets it, and then looked at T like he might get up and walk away.
I nodded in agreement, thinking about all the places far smaller that I leave my now accident-prone son.
We don’t even own a bed that big.
Every day is an adventure, chickens.