Twenty Five

My son is almost officially six months old. And yesterday I turned, as my husband liked to playfully call it, a quarter of a century old. My precious child must have known it was my birthday.

He woke up yesterday morning around four, which is typical, nursed for a few minutes, and then went back to sleep without ant fussing. I was even able to get out of bed and go take a shower. (Normally at even the hint of me taking a shower, he wakes up immediately and begins wailing like I am skinning him alive). I was able to take a complete shower without any rushing at all.

When I got out, I thought it was too good to be true, and that maybe I just hadn’t heard him crying over the water. But…nope. He was still wonderfully and peacefully asleep. I went out to the living room to pump before work. This is also something that will typically alarm him. He hears the machine “taking away” his milk, and suddenly the crying ensues. But not yesterday! He stayed asleep for that entire session.

At this point I am excited. I get a whole morning to myself?! Heck yes! So I figure, what the heck! I might as well make the most of this. I go to the kitchen and get a breakfast sandwich out of the freezer and into the microwave. If I have time I might as well eat some food that also isn’t rushed for once.

I get my sandwich out of the microwave, and start basically pirouetting back to the couch. I leap over baby toys, piles of laundry, abandoned shoes, you name it! The mess doesn’t bother me, I’ll clean that up later. For now, it’s my birthday and my morning and nothing can stop me!

And in my excited leaping, I leap directly on top of a nice juicy pile of cat vomit.

…I guess my son isn’t the only one who left me a present for the day.

 

But, wet kibble chunks and all, being a quarter of a century old isn’t too bad. Right now I’ll just be grateful that it’s not my son’s vomit I’m squelching my toes into yet.

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