this post, in which there is a run-in with a bowl, or this one, in which I am rueful, or possibly this one, in which I yell at Ali MacGraw.Editor's note: I can't even with this post, but I have an overdeveloped sense of historical accuracy, and cannot bring myself to take it down, or the next 300 or so posts that are about such scintillating subjects as - oh, I dunno - cleaning out my fridge (!), making my own baby food (!!), how much I spent at the grocery store on any given day (!!!), and cloth diapering my children (there just aren't enough exclamation points). I forgive you if you want to skip right over the next year and a half to something halfway entertaining, like
I've been putting off writing my first post for The Mrs because, you know, it's The. First. Post.
Crippling, I know.
So instead, something completely mundane about last night: The Christmas tree is up, and we got home from grocery shopping at quarter to five...which in the civilized parts of the world is still part of the afternoon, but here in Winter is already the middle of the night. Boo.
Back to the Christmas tree being up (thought it was apropos of nothing, didn't you?) - dinner in front of the couch is usually marked "fail" in big red letters in my book of self-criticism, but with the tree glowing in the corner and the aforementioned middle of the night peeking in through the windows, we ate garlic roast beef sandwiches and watched The Santa Clause and were generally cozy. Cozier still when we put Miss and Junior in their fleecy footie pjs and snuggled beside each other after the food was all gone (I encouraged Miss not to finish all her dinner because I wanted it, how terrible is that? But it was soooo good).
And then when it was over (or rather, when we picked a likely spot about halfway through and said it was over and how nice that they all lived at the North Pole now), Miss lay down on the couch and said in her little two year old voice "I'm going to sleep riiight here onna couch".
I almost cried it was so sweet.
It was one of those perfect moments, the ones that I worry maybe I made up when I try to bring the feeling back at, say, quarter to twelve on a Tuesday morning when Miss and Jr are ravenously grumpy and I look up from the kitchen sink or stove or computer and realize that I've accomplished nothing so far that week and Mr is due home for lunch and we'll all be eating No Name perogies from the freezer. Again.
But it happened, and I know it. And now you do too.
And she didn't sleep on the couch.