Yesterday, I asked Zoë a crazy question. Something many might not consider putting in the hands of a child still immature enough to decide that she will not go to the bathroom because she just doesn’t wanna.
“Instead of a big birthday party in July, do you want to save up our money and go on a trip in August?”
I have this wild idea. It might be slightly controversial, in fact, but it’s on my mind.
Since I want to travel more, and I want her to travel, and I want to see the Museum of Modern Art, Times Square and many of you, I’m thinking of packing us up for BlogHer.
I wouldn’t attend much, if any, of the conference. I probably wouldn’t be able to dance the night away, or stay up all night with any of my fellow insomniacs like I did last year, but I could see you and hug you and show Zoë a new part of the world, for what looks like under two grand. We could see New York during the day, for two days, and then come home and try to get back to normal.
That might be doable. It might be the chance of a lifetime. All that weighs on it is financial responsibility, scouting for sponsors and Zoë’s interest.
One of those is taken care of already – I just had to say plane, hotel sleepover and Mr Lady.
But what about you? Does anyone wanna hang out with me and Zoë in New York?
Today was a momentous day. A day to be celebrated, during which angels’ horns trumpeted, every chocolate manufacturer decided to make a vegan, slave-free product, and women having trouble conceiving got knocked up. Today is a day that will go down as infamous.
To me.
Today, Zoë took her first shower.
There’s been nothing but baths – most of them requiring (expensive, perfume-free, excessively frothy) bubbles. Baths timed just right, so as to not equate to her getting immediately dirty or sweaty again, or hyper (no bedtime baths in this apartment, that’s sleeping suicide). Three and a half years of the perfect bath – not too warm, not too cold; not too shallow, not deep at all; with 26 pieces of flair bath toys – towards the end of which I’d have to go through the same arguments and repetitive dialogue and soap in the eyes.
Baths suck balls.
Especially when you factor in my OCD, and the necessity of cleaning the tub before and afterwards.
Today, I announced that Zoë would be taking a shower before preschool and she was having no fucking part of it. Until I suggested that it could be like playing in the rain.
Turns out weather’s all it takes.
She was surprised when I started getting naked, too. There was no way I was letting her go it alone, with her drunken hand-to-eye coordination and tendency to fall off of her feet for no reason.
Some background: I’ve gotten real lazy lately with my own, uh, grooming. If you’d asked me a month ago if the drapes matched the carpet, I’d say, wittily, “I’ve got hardwoods installed.” Today, the response would be something closer to, “The area rug matches the valance, that’s for damn sure.”
But she didn’t know that, because the last time I took a bath with her was at least six months ago, and she’s used to the laminate.
So, I got in the tub first – safety’s important – and made sure the water was fine, and then gave her the go-ahead to climb in, too. Then she fell on the floor of the tub, giggling, pointing and laughing, saying, “Mama, you look like a man. I can’t see no vagina!”
