I haven't showered. My hair needs to be dyed; my roots are out of control and revealing my age. I did some of the things on my to do list, but not all of them. The majority are left undone and may never get done. I've eaten too much, as usual, because I felt all day as though I hadn't had time to eat.
There are toys everywhere.
My bedtime is creeping later and later, but wake-up time this morning was exactly the same as usual. I'm so tired.
He cried every time I had to put him in his crib while I peed. He's still wearing his pajamas from this morning. He banged his face on the coffee table because crawling isn't safer than walking.
I found ants on his high chair. And the carpet. And on him.
But that's not the kind of day it was.
This evening, after I'd surrendered the remainder of my to-do list and my shower, he sat on my lap, buzzing his lips like an engine because he was holding one of his trucks. In a flash, I realized how precious that moment was. I tucked my face into his cheek and closed my eyes and tried to memorize his weight, his warmth, his constant expenditure of energy, his smell-- that unbathed baby smell. That's what kind of day it was: one that had a perfect moment. And then he leaned his head back far enough to look me in the eye, grabbed the too-short hair on the back of my head, patted my shoulder with his other fat little hand and gave me a wet baby kiss.
I guess he wanted to remember it forever, too.