{Insomnia}

No, not me.  I have never had a problem sleeping.  I have been known to sleep until three in the afternoon only to wake up for dinner and head back to bed.  Don't judge.  Try it.  It is a bit of heaven wrapped up in total guilty pleasure.  Those days are long gone now though.  Apparently, they are now joined in the abyss of lost socks by my darling son's ability to sleep for more than an hour.  Read: I no longer sleep due to banshee screams.  I thought the newborn stage was supposed to be the worst.  Which brings me to the most important part of this post, I know I look tired.  Don't tell me.  If you must just say what you really mean because I'm way to tired to smile and nod at your "Damn, you look like shit!" coded fake interest.

In other OMG worthy news...my babe turns 6 months old tomorrow.  What the eff?  How did that happen.  More to come on my feelings on this tomorrow.  However, how sad is it that one of my first thoughts about his half b-day is "really, it's been six months and my abs still look like this". 

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I die....S.W.O.O.N

as in, my son is So Wildly, Obviously, Obscenely, Next to Godly perfect.  See evidence below.

From Spring Rowan

From Spring Rowan

From Spring Rowan

From Spring Rowan

From Spring Rowan

From Spring Rowan

From Spring Rowan

I know, pick your jaw up off the floor. He's destined for GQ.

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{Perfection}

I have always derived the utmost joy from ignoring the responsibilities and requirements of life and just existing.  You know lying in bed an extra hour on Saturday, wide awake but reading and listening to the bustle of everyone else filling the house with their discussions, distractions, and cleaning always cleaning...or cooking.  Lounging in the bathtub even though I know I should get out to write lesson plans or finally let E use the bathroom.  I value these opportunities as my me time, until now. 

Because now, there is R. 
And my me time is we time. 

And my we time is perfection. 

Serious, puppies dogs sliding down rainbows after a spring shower into a pot of gold, perfection.  Or, if you will, television stations magically aligning to allow for a whole day marathon of David Boreanaz, preferably filled with shirtlessness, perfection.

I love filling my me moments with him.  Sometimes I want to lock the two of us in a bubble so that I can just watch him and hold him but then I realize how much we would miss out on.  Splashing with our feet in a warm bubble bath.  Walking around the outdoor mall and screaming over the stroller at each person who passed.  Practicing talking to E only to prove that his preference of "heeeyyy" over hi, or hello, the preference which I instilled cannot be broken.  Pulling Jasper's hair, because if a soft pat is good and hard yank must be better.  Learning to give kisses and hugs.  Saying "momma" and using it correctly even if it was just a one in fifty occurrence.  So instead I settle, and long, for our Saturday mornings when it is just the two of us, our "Momma and RowRow" days.  I awake to giggles and squeals of delight to find R eating his toes or watching the birds out the window.  We cuddle over a bottle, share a few stories, and then lay down for our morning nap.  The fact that we have only been awake 45 minutes is ignored and we cuddle, he in the crook of my arm, sun streaming through the window, my face in his hair and his in my chest, and we sleep. 

Because now, there is R. 
And my me time is we time. 

And my we time is perfection.

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