Home Office

Here I sit in my home office (aka my kitchen table), flanked by sticky plastic plates of cold scrambled egg chunks and bite-sized pieces of peanut butter and honey toast. My left arm aches from the flu shot I got this morning at the girls’ pediatrician’s office. We went for their two year old checkup. Both girls are extremely healthy and HUGE. Beenie is 37.25 inches tall and just about 30 lbs. Off the charts for height, and Mimi is a close second at 36.25 inches tall and almost 29 lbs. It is hard to believe they were once just 5.13&5 lbs. apiece. Both are already more than 50% of my height… AND THEY’RE ONLY TWO YEARS OLD!!! Yikes! At this rate, they will be 20 feet tall by the time they are ten!!! I know, that will most likely not happen. It is just a little mind blowing is all. Especially when one of them (thanks for nothing, Beenie) keeps you up all night for no apparent reason. Then everything seems extra freaky.

The search for the third daycare facility to visit is proving boring (we’ve seen one already, are scheduled to see one tomorrow, and want a third for proper triangulation). I just want to look at the place we have on the list to visit tomorrow and make a decision. It is close, it’s in the middle of a beautiful college campus, and local judges send their kids there. Can’t we just go with that one? I’m too tired to see more. They will really love it, I think, once they get used to going to a school-ish situation. They are far more intelligent and driven than I am at this point, and they deserve an educated staff to keep up with their intellectual needs, not some tired old lady such as myself. Ow, my arm hurts. Fucking shots. I yelled when the nurse poked my arm this morning, after the girls received far worse shots, flouride treatments and lead level testing which required their little thumbs to be poked and squeezed for their precious, bright red blood numerous times. “Who is the big baby?” they probably thought to themselves. Me. I’m the big baby. They actually got comfort from the fact that I was also suffering (barely). I hope that is not some kind of Jerry Springer-type trend in our mother-daughter relationships…