A. and I are sitting on the couch, next to each other, watching television. A rare moment indeed.
Me: What's that on your arm?
Me: On your arm... are you wearing a sweatband on your wrist?
(sure enough, he is wearing a black Jaegermeister terrycloth elastic wristband on his left wrist.)
A: Oh, yeah. It's a Jaegermeister wristband.
Me: Been working hard? Need to wipe the sweat from your brow so it doesn't get in your eyes while you work your ass off watching television?
A: Yeah. I'm breaking a sweat.
Me: continue to give him shit about the wristband, ha ha, poke poke.
A: I found it in my jacket pocket (why? what? how?) today. It's nice because it keeps my forearm from rubbing up against my keyboard.
Me: Wait. You wore that to work?
Me: You wore a black Jaegermeister terrycloth elastic wristband around your office?
Me: (laughing uncontrollably) You're thirty!
A: *Blink* *Blink*
Me: And you wore a Jaegermeister terrycloth elastic wristband to work?
A: *Blink* *Blink*
I love him.
Yesterday I got a call from daycare that Birdy was quite upset and had been crying for several hours, taking no naps, refusing to eat. I left work early and picked her up, and sure enough, she was snuggled up to Boy Intern, whine-crying and clinging while he tried to do stuff with the other kids. And in her mouth? Two very threatening bicuspids peeping through the skin of her gums, and two more escalating threats lined up behind them. Poor Bird has a mouthful of sadness awaiting her.
I gave her some Tylenol and we snuggled up on the couch where she pretty quickly fell asleep and headed into a long and fitful three-hour nap. I hate that she felt so rotten, but I have to say I do love it when she's snuggly, when she's so relieved to get up close right under my chin and we hunker down and she sweats herself to sleep.
This morning we tried on the bunny costume again. Pictures to follow, but what a grouchy, grouchy bird.
And, in case you were wondering, I have no candy for trick or treaters and am not looking forward to the mayhem of the wild bumpus hounds every time an unsuspecting little dracula or hobo knocks on the door. Usually moms just stand on our porch in horror and usher their little ones down the steps as I look sheepishly out the storm door and kind of shrug.