Twenty-five years ago today I was basking in the glory of having done it again; I was savoring those indescribable moments of bliss and gratitude that wash over any new mom blessed enough to welcome a healthy baby into her life. My son was less than twenty-four hours old and I spent the day cradling my nine and a half pound bundle close to my heart knowing that, yet again, there was another person in my life for whom I would throw myself in front of a speeding locomotive.
Flash forward to this morning. As I struggled to work off the effects of the paperback-size slab of lasagna and less-than-perfect cake I baked to celebrate said bundle of joy's birthday, I got a phone call. My darling baby boy was a tad hung over from his late-night celebration with his friends and was wondering if I might be willing to step in and relieve him at our mutual place of employment. (Damn. That sounded like such a good idea at the time.) As usual, he promised to do just about anything I asked for this one little, teensy-weensy favor (including cleaning my house - I've got to hand it to him, the kid does know his target audience) and, by the time I hung up the phone, I had been sweet-talked into giving up my day off.
I didn't give in without a fight. I told him no. . .twice. But somewhere between his lament about two hours of sleep and struggling to fight off a virus brought home by an under-the-weather girlfriend, I gave up. So, I'm going to slap on some clothes, gain a few "I've got the best mom in the world" brownie points, and go in and get some of my own work done in the process.
But he better feel a whole lot better tomorrow. That locomotive is nowhere in sight and he has a lot of cleaning to do.
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