I’ve realized I’m boring. Like so boring. I have no crazy stories anymore. No tales of drunken debauchery at 3AM. No more recounts of late night vomiting in the pizza shop bathroom after someone else’s birthday celebration. No more brunches with friends that actually started with us hanging out the night before. Nope.
My “crazy” stories now start with the words, “I put Nugget down at 6:30 and waited for her to wake up either one hour or three hours later.” It’s a gamble! Like playing slots at the nearby casino. Will I score the jackpot? Will I?! I tremble with anticipation. Yep. Or, “Yeah, let’s do lunch, but I have to schedule that between Nugget’s naps, so let’s tentatively say 1PM, but if she goes down for her nap late I’ll call you and we’ll push it back to…” OK? Do you see what children have done to me? I can’t commit to anything! I used to commit and be early for meetings. Now I’m always late and there’s even a chance for cancellation at the last minute. So I’m sorry friends. I’ve become that noncommittal pal we’ve always hated. My bad.
Not that I’m complaining about my kid. I love her like I like a good joke that makes me cry from laughing so hard. She’s pretty awesome. But my increased comfort level with poop and other bodily fluids is unhinging. Is there crap in my lap? No problem. Did you vomit near my face? Totally expected. Am I grossed out? No. Spit up on my beautiful, Italian leather, expertly constructed high heels? I WILL MAKE YOU PAY LITTLE PERSON! No toy for you! Bah, at least some things never change.