10 years ago today, don’t fuck with me.
In other kid news, Ry’s Big 10 birthday party is tomorrow. There will be a ginormous chocolate vanilla swirl from-a-box cake, featuring pirates on horseback (her theme choice this year) in buttercream frosting, three kinds of ice cream, snacks that will include the obligatory healthy items that will go untouched, and in the big backyard, an epic food fight. Weapons include oatmeal, spaghetti, mashed potatoes and jello.
At this time ten years ago the baby had finally been turned from jackknife breech to deliverable vertex, I had had to quit working because hauling old Kirby vacuums up and down stairs was simply no longer physically possible, I could eat apples only, and I felt like I must have my own gravitational pull. Also, when Melissa wouldn’t call the neighbors about their mini schnauzer’s constant, ear-piercing yapping, I stomped in a rage to the door, slammed it open, braced my feet on the porch, feeling the trick board sagging under the huge weight of my own body, and shouted “SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!” at the top of my lungs.