Eating My Words

I knew that when I became a parent I'd have to eat my words from time to time.

Like how I said I'd never leave the house with a dirty kid. Well sometimes I'll wash Des's face after a meal and he looks just fine and clean inside the house, but then in the sunlight I notice a definite orange hue to his mouth and there's a crust of sweet potatoes around his nose. But he's already bundled up and strapped into the car seat and... oh eff it. Nobody's gonna notice. And if they do, frankly I just don't care.

Then I lick my thumb and rub his face. Yes, I really do that. It's a mommy cliche for a reason.

Oh and that time I said I'd never let my house look like it's a daycare center. And then this happened:



Sigh.

For what it's worth I never actually said these things out loud. But I thought them. So here I go, happily eating my thoughts. Tastes like chicken.


At least my baby's got a cell mate.