Starting tomorrow we will begin the 100 Day Countdown to when we'll meet baby number three. It's eerily like the celebration of 100 Days to Graduation in college except without the exorbitant alcohol consumption. You know, even though it fell on a Wednesday and you had to wake up at the butt crack of dawn the following morning to take care of patients in nursing clinical, you made it a point to don that overpriced dorm t-shirt with an inappropriate saying and rally at the bar with your nearest and dearest. Well, even though tomorrow's celebration may not include copious amounts of alcohol and indecent behavior, you can bet your bottom dollar I won't be sleeping alone in my bed. After all, we still share a bed with our 18 month old, duh.
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Speaking of baby number three, he still remains nameless and it's beginning to drive me Britney-crazy. It's no secret boy names are hard and even harder when you've already used up your four favorite boy names on your previous two children but throw in a husband who refuses to talk names until you're particularly fat and hormonal and it's just nothing short of a natural disaster.
Over breakfast this morning I told my him to be prepared for a little Baby Naming Pow-Wow this weekend- we've only got one name on our list (and maybe one name up my sleeve) so I'm hoping that this pow-wow is short and sweet. I get it- men will never understand the dire necessity to name a baby earlier than necessary but when said baby is residing within your own body consistently punching you in the hoo-ha, it's hard to think of anything else than giving that sweet right hook a name.
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The other day while standing in the kitchen, my 18 month old kept pointing to a wine rack full of empty favorites that hangs on our wall, proclaiming, "Daddy! Daddy!" At first, I hadn't given it second thought- for the longest while he was referring even to myself as "Daddy" and I assumed it was a term of endearment for a myriad of things. That all changed when, after watching the boys continuously empty and restock the wine fridge that sits in the playroom, I asked them what they were doing and my 3 year old cheerily replied, "We're playing Daddy!"
I could do nothing but laugh and then immediately text my husband and tell him that our boys think he's a wino. Put that one in the Rockstar Parenting book, my friends. Mmm... wine. Did I say it was a 100 Days to Baby countdown? I meant, 100 Days To Wine Drinking.
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Even though I'm damn near certain that age 3.5 is shaving years off of my life, it does have it's redeeming moments in which I think there could be nothing sweeter. It's during the hellish moments, the moments where my 3.5 year old is one floor tantrum shy of being left outside on the deck (you know I would never) that I remind myself of these sweet moments and decide that yes, we are in fact, going to survive. Just the other night he took notice of the moon hanging in the sky and he was so in awe, he couldn't stop talking about it. When I asked him if it was a circle moon he saw, he responded, "Nope, it's a banana moon, Mom!" A banana moon. I mean, come on! I could have squeezed him until his eye popped out of his head.
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So, there you have it, 100 Days until Baby. Our kids think my husband is a wino, I'll be damned if by Sunday this baby doesn't have a name for himself and the 3.5 year old lives to see another episode of that god-awful Sid The Science Kid.
Not too shabby, my friends, not too shabby. Have a great weekend!