As Her Bad Mother knows, sometimes the blog subjects get backed up. I keep thinking, “oh I can write about that” but then I don’t get here.
I could write about clipping off the tip of Bun’s finger when I was clipping her nails. That was fun. Any idea how many blood vessels are in the tip of a finger? LOTS. And they don’t make little wee bandaids for infants. And if you do manage to get one on your infant, your older daughter will need one, too, stat. Especially if Dora is on it.
I could write about hosting Easter Bunch, but it went so well, I guess it wouldn’t be worth it. Then the next weekend I could write about the baptism (of my nephew) and the (semi) interesting conversation with the priest, who is a childhood friend of my brother. Maybe I’ll get back to that one.
Or, how my sister and her Boston Terrier stayed here for a four-day visit, and just about every word out of Monkey was about the dog. “Where’s Buddy?” “What’s Buddy doing?” “Get out of there Buddy.” “Down Buddy.” And back to “Where’s Buddy?” “There’s Buddy!” And how when I put (poor, exhausted) Buddy to “bed” one night in the guest room, how my daughter lay down weeping in the hallway outside the door with a blanket. “I’m very, very sad,” she informed me. “I want to go to bed.” Uh, okay!
How about I finally thought about three more reasons I can’t stand Dora!
8. Is it necessary that sometimes Dora shows little midriff? I mean, she’s supposed to be five years old or something, isn’t she? Is she going to grow up to be the Hispanic Britney Spears?
9. A tie between the giggling stars (or estrellas) and Backpack: things and knick-knacks, too. Both make me cranky.
10. See, I should have written them down, because now I forget. It’ll come back to me.
Lastly, and I will probably write more about this (on a night that Lost isn’t on): I am contemplating going back to work full-time. Actually, doing a little more than contemplating. Planning for it. Reluctantly. But I have to be realistic about our life and our finances. And I have to do something since DearDR can’t until he gets his license. Which is still about two months away.
And oh, boy, could I write about that.